Never Again, Seriously Page 17

  Malcolm scurried to the front of the house, stuffing his pistol into the back of his waistband, still yelling. A shiny black sedan rounded a corner in his direction, so he stopped yelling and slowed to walk the remaining few steps to the car.

  Malcolm gritted his teeth and shook his head. Got to get in control—can’t talk to anyone when I’m like this. He slid into the BMW and chucked the gun into the glove compartment. Backing out of the driveway, he lurched across the grass and over a curb into the road, tires squealing when they hit the pavement. The sedan fell in behind, keeping up with him but maintaining a steady distance. No lights or siren. Malcolm studied the driver’s movements and decided he was talking on a radio.

  Out on the highway, three sheriff’s police cars, with lights flashing and sirens on, followed Malcolm, the black sedan bringing up the rear. The procession continued for ten minutes at forty-five miles per hour, while vehicles stacked up behind them. Finally, the sedan turned on its flasher and slowed to a stop, parking his car across the two lanes in front of the traffic. Malcolm slowed to thirty-five, then twenty-five, and stopped. While he waited, the police cars pulled up at his flanks, angled so they each had a direct line of sight. The officers got out behind their doors with weapons drawn. Malcolm opened his car door and dropped to the pavement when a loud voice came over a megaphone. “On the ground! Now!”

  Lying on his stomach, he yelled, “There’s a weapon in the glove box. I have a carry permit. I’m sorry. What’s happening?”

  An officer handcuffed him and pulled him to his feet, then checked his ID and patted him down.

  Malcolm blubbered, “I really don’t know what’s going on. I misplaced my medications a few days ago, but I thought I was doing okay. Can you help me?” He cut his eyes sideways to gauge the effect this had on the officer and suppressed a smirk. “I guess I need some help.” Head down, he peered from under his brow.

  The deputy introduced himself as Officer Amable, read him his rights, then turned to a man in a suit. “You’re Detective Skaffe, right?” The man nodded.

  Amable said, “This is Detective Skaffe with the Lake Creed Police. They’ve been watching the house where we found you.”

  “What were you doing there?” Skaffe said.

  “I came to talk to them about the situation with the power lines. That’s the home of the power company vice president.”

  “What situation?”

  “The radio waves they transmit into our brains.”

  Skaffe’s phone rang. He walked away as he spoke, but Malcolm could hear him telling someone not to worry. Skaffe came back, frowning. “As far as I know, no one from the power company has ever lived in that house, or even in this neighborhood. Officer Amable, I don’t think the Lake Creed Police Department has any special interest here.”

  Skaffe walked back to his car.

  “Okay,” Amable said. “You were waving a gun around back there.”

  “I’m sorry, Officer. That’s just not so.”

  “Mr. Weaver, you obviously need to go to the hospital. If you were waving a gun, that’s a law violation, but unfortunately, the caller didn’t identify himself. Unless we can get a witness report from someone, I’m not going to charge you—as long as you come along peacefully to the hospital.”

  Malcom hadn’t felt so calm in a long time. He sat with his hospital bed raised at a forty-five-degree angle, his eyes fixed on a TV screen. He wasn’t watching, wasn’t thinking about anything. He started when the door clicked open, and a middle-aged nurse in a starched uniform entered.

  “Mr. Weaver, how are you today?”

  “No ‘how are we doing today’?”

  She gave him a piercing stare, eyes glistening, and lower lip pushed out.

  He held his hands up. “Sorry—I’m okay. How long have I been here?”

  “You were admitted yesterday afternoon. They gave you something to relax you, and you’ve slept pretty much ever since.

  “Here, drink your orange juice. You have an appointment with Dr. Colley now.”

  “He’s not a vet, is he?”

  The nurse looked confused, then scowled. “Dr. Colley. A vet. Everyone’s a comedian. C’mon, let’s go.”

  In a small, austere office, Malcom sat with hands folded across from an effete young man in a white coat. He looked twenty-one years old—too young to be a doctor. Like that old TV character from years ago, Doogie Howser. With slow, precise movements, the doctor closed a reference book he had been reading and opened the folder before him. Doogie spoke in a practiced, formal voice that went perfectly with his rimless glasses. “I’m Dr. Colley. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I’m not sure. Memory’s a little patchy.”

  The doctor inspected a chart, then pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Have you been on psychotropic medication?”

  “I guess that’s what it is. Risperdale or something like that. I thought I was doing fine, so I stopped taking it.”

  “I’m sure you were told not to stop on your own. Your behavior described in the police report, and what you just told me, make me think you may have been diagnosed as bipolar. Have you?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “I think that’s what they called it.”

  “Maybe bipolar and something else as well,” Dr. Colley said, “given what you were taking. You may have been in a fugue state. Do you remember everything that happened in the last few days?”

  Malcolm hesitated, looked about the room. “Kind of, I guess.”

  Dr. Colley eyed him with what might have been suspicion or uncertainty. “Have you ever had a seizure?”

  “No.”

  “You shouldn’t stop your medication abruptly. That affects different people in different ways.”

  “But it’s no big deal. I’ve gone off the pills before.”

  “Well, that’s what patients do sometimes, and the results can be bad. You stop the meds because they make you feel sluggish, and you do feel better for a time. You don’t notice any ill effect until it’s too late. Do you have a regular psychiatrist?”

  Malcolm shifted in his chair. “Yeah, it’s Dr. Francisco Ruiz in Miami.”

  “I want you to see him as soon as you can.”

  “I’ll check in with him right away. By the way, Doctor, what’s a fugue state?”

  Colley massaged his brow and blinked. “I’m not willing to say that’s what it was. It doesn’t usually include such odd behavior, but with the abrupt cessation of Risperdal … You might call a fugue state one of altered consciousness. Often the person will wander or travel atypically.”

  “Doctor, really, I’ve been fine until whatever just happened.”

  Dr. Colley leaned back and studied Malcolm’s face. He sighed. “You’re lucid now … tell you what. We’re going to run some tests, and I’ll need to interview you in depth when they’re done. If the tests come back negative, as I think they will, I might let you go with a thirty-day supply of something to keep you calm. If so, I’ll want your promise to take it as prescribed and see Dr. Ruiz in the next thirty days. I’ll call him to make sure. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.” Malcolm held his peaceful smile until he was back in his room, when the smile turned smug. Fugue state, my ass, he thought. If he wants to think that, fine. Those pills are going in the garbage as soon as I’m clear of this place.

  Malcolm’s first stop after his discharge was Dinardo Towing. His taxi let him out at a sunbaked white concrete-block building situated on a sandy lot, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Inside, the air from a clattering window air conditioner smelled so putrid Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose.

  An obese, latte-skinned man smiled at him from behind his metal desk. “Can I do for you?”

  Malcolm handed over his ID and showed a business card the officer had given him. “I believe you’ve got my car. BMW 7 Series.�
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  “Oh, yeah. The BMW. Sweet.” The man stepped through a doorway to a room full of file cabinets and disappeared. When he returned, he had a sheaf of papers. “The cops had us tow this, but it’s not impounded, so you can take it. Four hundred.”

  “Four hundred dollars? That’s ridiculous. This is just a parking lot.”

  “I’ll break it down for you. One hundred fifteen for the tow, sixty dollars for mileage, and $120 for storage at twenty dollars per day—”

  Malcolm broke in. “That’s five days, not six.”

  “We charge for the first day and the last day, so it’s six days, five nights. Like a cruise.” The man laughed quietly. “Our administration fee is $105, so that’s an even $400.”

  Malcolm opened his wallet and took out four one-hundred-dollar bills. “Bastards.” He looked up at Dinardo, who stared at him with blue-green eyes. “Okay,” he said, holding the money out. “Please bring it around.”

  “Here’s the key. You get it.”

  Around back in the fenced lot, Malcolm stood between two security cameras mounted under the eaves. He started the car and drove around the corner, where he stopped. The gun was still in the glove compartment, and the hardhat and bandanna were in the passenger seat. He looked in the trunk under the spare tire, and his stash of money was still there. This could have been much worse, he thought. Wonder what a fugue state is. Sounds like it might be fun. Poor ole Doogie. Malcolm doubled over laughing before he got back in the car and had to force himself to stop before he attracted attention.

  He had only a thread of information to work with. How was he going to find the crooks? Sharon had told him she was from Ray City, Georgia. Had a sister up there, some kind of trouble, visited her often. Rachel? Something like that. Maybe she has the same last name, Scott. If not, Sharon said it’s a small town; the sister can be found. Then it’s just a matter of time before Sharon shows up. Hopefully.

  Malcolm Googled the town and decided to take a state road over to I-75. The pastoral scenery relaxed him, orange groves in neat rows and green pastures dotted with healthy-looking cows. After passing through several small towns, he found I-75 and headed north. As he accelerated up the on-ramp, he noticed a motorcycle with a slim rider in the rearview mirror, gaining on him. One of them.

  He grabbed the foil-covered bandanna beside him, placing it so it covered his temples and the back of his head. On top of that, he put the yellow hard hat. Ten minutes later, he stopped at a gas station, where he got out of the car bareheaded.

  Malcolm topped up the tank before donning his headgear and going back to the highway. Merging back in the flow, he passed a motorcycle on the side of the road, its rider tinkering with something. Leaning on its kickstand with the rider bent over it, the bike might or might not have been the same kind that had followed him earlier. Same guy? He had a black helmet too, but that didn’t mean anything. The man looked up as he went by. Malcolm checked his mirrors for several miles, and just about the time he began to think he wasn’t being followed, he spotted a motorcycle similar to the one before. It sped through traffic, weaving back and forth through the lanes. As the motorcycle moved up closer to the BMW, an old sedan cut in front of it, and the rider hit the brakes, tires skidding and smoking.

  Fighting the bike into an upright position, the motorcyclist accelerated again, riding the lane marker between a large pickup on his left and the sedan on his right. As he came alongside, he kicked out at the car’s door, causing the bike to swerve. He slowed and brought it back under control. The sedan swung left, too late in its attempt to pin the slowing bike against the truck and instead hit the truck. The sedan driver overcorrected and spun across the empty right lane into the guardrail. Malcolm couldn’t see clearly from his angle, but the biker might have ridden slowly by, aiming a gun at the car, a puff of smoke coming from its barrel.

  Now that was crazy, Malcolm thought. This biker is just another Florida nut case, nothing to do with me. If he were working for the brain spies, he wouldn’t do something so stupid, would he?

  A few miles down the road, in light traffic, he checked his mirrors. No sign of the motorcyclist.

  He checked again a half hour later. Still no bike, so he stopped fretting about it.

  Chapter 23

  Shivani tapped an unrecognizable rhythm on the wheel. No one had spoken for an hour, all in deep thought.

  Sharon turned to Jake, who leaned forward to hear. “The sun’s gone down, and the light is fading. It’ll be dark when we get here.”

  She sighed, worried about what was going on with her sister, afraid someone may be stalking her. When she picked up her phone to call Rachel, it rang before she could touch the screen. “Yes, Rachel …” She gasped. “Wait, who is this? I don’t know you … Hold on. I need to put the speaker on. I’m driving,” she lied.

  Shivani touched the car’s display twice. He pointed at Sharon’s phone and mouthed the words, “Turn on your Bluetooth.”

  A tinny, cartoon-character voice came through the speakers. “I found your sister. She’s high, said it’s heroin. Who else is there with you?”

  A voice in her head cautioned her, Don’t say anything about Shivani. “It’s just me and Jake.”

  “Jake Foster? Yeah, I knew he had to be involved in this.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Enough about me,” the voice snapped. “This is about the money. I want it, all $3 million, or poor Rachel here gets hurt—badly.” A scream of pain from near the phone reinforced this threat.

  The voice said, aside, “Shut up.” They heard a whimper in the background. “Is the money with you?”

  “No,” Sharon said, her voice trembling.

  “Bring it by nine a.m.”

  Jake leaned toward the overhead microphone. “It’s in a safe-deposit box. The bank doesn’t open until ten tomorrow.”

  After a pause, the voice spoke again, “If you’re here by four tomorrow with the money, Rachel will be fine. If not, you’ll regret it. And so, of course, will she. Make the reasonable judgment call and do as you’re told. No police if you want her back alive. Phone me at this number when you’re on the way, and I’ll tell you what to do.”

  Panic rose in Sharon’s chest. “She might go into withdrawal and get sick. Don’t let my sister die. Please.”

  “Withdrawal from opiates is unlikely to kill you, as far as I know. But you’ve given me an idea.” A husky laugh filled the vehicle. “We’ll obtain some on the street. Then I can keep Rachel here in the house, properly sedated to keep her from trying to escape.” The caller spoke away from the phone in a muffled voice, first harshly, then in a soothing tone. “I think that’s going to work.” The call ended.

  Shivani tapped the screen. “I believe that was a man, even though he used a device to disguise his voice. Did either of you recognize a speech pattern or any characteristic words or phrases?”

  “Even with the distortion, it did sound like someone I’ve spoken with before,” Jake said.

  “I asked because he spoke formally when most people might use informal words—‘police’ for ‘cops,’ ‘reasonable judgment call’ instead of ‘right call,’ ‘obtain’ instead of ‘get.’

  “I know what you mean.” Jake squinted and rubbed behind his ear. “But I’m not coming up with anything.”

  Shivani stroked his chin. “He’s willing to risk keeping her in the house rather than take her away. He may think it’s not kidnapping if the restraint is chemical. He’s wrong.”

  “God, please. He’s threatening Rachel.” Sharon breathed in short, ragged gasps.

  Jake reached forward and clasped her shoulder. “Breathe deep and slow … that’s right. We’ll do what we have to. Rachel will be okay.”

  Shivani nodded. “Cautious sort, trying to avoid taking her away. Possibly not a career criminal. He obviously knows what you’ve done, so—”

  “T
his is useless speculation,” Jake said.

  Tears ran down Sharon’s cheeks. She’d always kept a protective watch over her sister, and now Rachel was in jeopardy, through no fault of her own. She should have known better than to do something illicit again.

  Shivani said, “I’d like to point something out. It seems this may be someone from the company, someone who knows you both and knows how much money is missing. But how did he find out about your sister?”

  Sharon brushed her cheeks with a tissue. “Maybe next of kin was in some paperwork I filled out for the company. I don’t remember. Or it could be they got it from the bank.”

  “We just passed a sign saying it’s four miles to Ray City,” Shivani said. “Leave me here, and I’ll do what I can while you go back for the money.”

  “Here?” Jake sounded flabbergasted.

  Shivani glanced back at Jake. “No, I mean somewhere near the center of town. I’ll need some cash to buy transportation tomorrow. I’ll be fine on my own.”

  As Jake drove Shivani’s Camry down I-75 toward Lake Creed, Sharon stared out the window, seeing nothing. Panic clenched her soul.

  “I’m scared. This man sounds like he doesn’t care if he hurts my sister. My baby s—”

  She choked up and shook her head. “Can’t we do something?”

  “We’re doing all we can. If we come back with the money, he’ll let her go. I’m sure of it. All he wants is the money and to get away clean.”

  Sharon looked at her shaking hands and sighed. Jake was showing confidence, trying to make her feel better. “Please, God, I hope that’s right.”