Blood Brothers (34 page)

Being mayor of a small burg like Benedict
wasn’t like holding the same office in Chicago or New York, but in
a small town sometimes it was worth missing out on the high salary
and just taking the plunge. Because when it was all said and done,
good old folks feared a man much more when he didn’t sit up in an
ivory tower. Nope, when the man could walk into your shop or drop
by your home, when he could call you by your first name and still
influence the laws of the land, that was real power.

All Dale really needed to win the election
almost five years ago, were two things. The first was money, which
Michael Cole had in abundance. Second, and just as prized as
wealth, was the ability to influence people. And not the type of
influence a public service announcement would project.

It District Attorney Wegmann had fostered a
relationship with a pretty young girl named Cathy. A blue-eyed
beauty whose only flaw was she just hadn’t reached her eighteenth
birthday. Not a big problem in this day and age, since
Mississippi’s lowered its age of consent to sixteen. But at that
time, the age was two years greater. That, in itself, shouldn’t
cause a great deal of grief. But, considering that DA Wegmann was a
married man and his own teenage daughter was very good friends with
young Cathy, though not yet in her age group, complications, shall
we say, arose.

Michael Cole would, in no way, have lowered
himself to use such greasy tactics necessary to handle this
complicated situation. But, being in his business, handling
accounts worth millions that would suffer considerably by the
merest hint of an embarrassing situation, Michael had made a few
connections. So, by the time Dale had come calling, Michael was
more than willing to lend a helping hand, with a few concessions,
of course.

Today, within five minutes, he was about to
see how strong a commitment the mayor had made.

It would have been nice to pick up the phone
now, call in a henchman and have Jerry Garrett taken care of. It
was nowhere near that easy, though. Michael needed official help.
Not the work of shadows. Even if Garrett disappeared from the face
of the earth, there would still be all those bodies. And too many
arrows pointing at Cole.

Mayor Wegmann was well-known as a workaholic.
Now that Michael thought about it, many of the city’s officials
were known to keep long hours. That’s why the town hall was
virtually always open. There was little difference, he supposed,
between the public and private sectors. Well, unless you took the
salaries into account.

Michael was banking on Wegmann being at his
desk. There was little time for him to drive to his residence.

The reception area was empty. A wooden door
with a brass plaque proclaiming Mayor, was the office of Dale
Wegmann—former bully and almost child molester. Michael
knocked.

“Just a minute,” a gruff voice said from
inside.

In less than a fraction of that time, Dale
was opening the door. The shock at seeing Michael was evident.

“Michael, Michael Cole.”

“Dale. Sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but
I really need your help.” The words just gushed from Michael. As he
spoke, the mayor slowly eased the door open. Back near Wegmann’s
door, a uniformed man stood from a chair and turned to face
Michael. It was a man that Cole knew well.

“That’s…that’s fine. I…uh…think you know
Chief Streeter.”

Michael struggled to find words, but he
couldn’t. It wasn’t the sight of the Benedict Chief of Police that
stole his voice, but it was the movement, oh so subtle, of Streeter
reaching for his gun and popping the safety snap of his holster as
he stepped towards the door.

The world froze.

Something, Michael’s mind screamed, had gone
very, very wrong.

* * *

Stephanie Cole had never been a big believer
in the power of the mind. Fitting, actually, since she spent so
much of her time trying to dull her neural pathways, trying to fade
real life away. There was a lot to be said about being
medicinally-removed from reality.

But, neither was she a stupid woman.

If she’d taken the lithium, she’d have doomed
herself.

As it stood, she’d placed the tablets back
into the bottle, then, thinking better of it, she’d emptied the
entirety into the commode. It would have been an even better idea
to make sure the bathroom had water. The toilet was bone dry.
Still, the action served its purpose. She wouldn’t be putting her
hand down in that nasty thing.

But sadly, that was as far as she’d gotten on
plans for saving herself from this predicament. Oh, she’d tried. Of
course she had. Her knuckles were busted and the skin peeled from
most of them where she’d beaten and banged on the door, even on the
walls. But the door didn’t give, neither did the walls.

It was the suspense that was driving her
crazy. The sick anticipation seemed to grow, replicating itself
with every passing minute, but nothing happened. Every second that
passed meant that son of a bitch was a second closer to
returning.

This time she would fight. Fight like a demon
let loose from its fiery prison onto the world. Even if she
couldn’t win, she would take him with her.

The thought of not winning broke her resolve.
Broke her, actually. Tears formed anew in the corners of her eyes
and before she knew it, she was sobbing uncontrollably.

“Hello…” the voice was weak and if Stephanie
hadn’t been between shuddering wretches, she would have missed it
completely. She fell silent, making her body cease its ragged
breathing. A few seconds passed and the voice didn’t come again,
the call not repeating.

And then, there it was again. Hesitant, weak
and coming from—the ceiling? Stephanie jumped to her feet looking
around the top portion of the tiny lavatory. A vent, above the sink
counter. Rusted and old, an air vent.

“I hear you,” she said, not shouting, but
loud enough to hurry. If her abductor was in the house, she didn’t
think he’d been the source of the voice, so she didn’t want anyone
but whoever was calling her to hear.

“Are you with the bad man?” The voice was a
bit stronger this time, but still weak, fragile: the voice of a
child. A very familiar child’s voice, at that.

“Christal?” The name seemed to drag itself
from her throat, pulling itself over her lips.

“Mommy?” It came back immediately. “Is…is
that you?”

“Oh baby, oh sweetie, how did you get
here.”

“The bad man came and got me. He hurt Mrs.
Wylder. Hurt her bad! Might have killed her.” The words came like
machine gunfire until ending in a breathless crash.

“Did he hurt you?”

Sniffling, Christal answered. “He put a knife
on my face. He cut me, but just a little.”

“Shh, shh, sweetie,” Stephanie soothed. “It’s
okay. Mommy’s here. We’ll get out of here. I promise.” And that,
she thought to herself, was a real promise; one that she would not
break. Stephanie Cole had resigned herself that this day, after
whatever her kidnapper had in store for her, she would die. She
would not, however, resign her daughter to the same fate. No matter
what it took, no matter what she had to do, Christal would get away
from him. And soon, before that deranged crazy bastard could lay
another finger on her baby.

“Listen. Baby, calm down.” Stephanie’s mind
was racing, trying to think. As she scoured the room one more time,
she saw the toilet and thought of just how close she’d come to
taking the lithium. If she’d done that she’d be useless right now.
Totally, absolutely useless. She wasn’t better off right now, but
every little bit helped at the moment.

“Look, baby. Look around where you are. Tell
me what kind of room you’re in.”

“I’m in a bedroom Mommy. But it’s really
dirty, dust everywhere. And the door’s locked.”

“Is there a window.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Such a polite child even in
such dire circumstances. Stephanie’s chest swelled with pride.
Somehow, she and Michael had raised a very wonderful little
girl.

“Good. Now go look and tell me if you can
climb out? See if you can touch the ground. Okay?”

“Okay, Mommy. Hang on.”

Time stretched on and on.

“Mommy,” Christal called, excited.

“Did you find something?”

“Yeah. Kinda. Outside the window, there’s a
roof.”

A roof? Either the window was a doghouse
opening to the roof or Christal was looking down at a covered porch
or the like. Not good. That’s really not what Stephanie had wanted
to hear. She’d hoped they’d been on a ground floor. But it would
have to do. It would just have to. “Can you open the window,
Christal?”

“Hang on.” Again, time expanded. This time,
she didn’t think her daughter would return.

“No, it’s stuck. I tried. I really tried.”
She started to cry. Even through the vent, Stephanie could hear
her.

“Baby, it’s okay. It’s alright. This is an
old house. Bound to have some things broken. But don’t worry about
it. Look around the room. Can you find something to break the
glass?”

“I see a lamp. That would work. Wouldn’t
it?”

“Yes, Christal, baby, that’s great. Go get
it.”

Silence. Much too long. “Christal,” Stephanie
finally called. “Are you there?”

“Mommy, I’m scared.”

“I know, sugar. Me, too.”

“Real scared.”

“Me, too, baby.”

“I want Daddy.”

“Me, too, honey,” she said before realizing
it. And it was true. Michael Cole, despite everything, would be a
very welcome sight right now.

More silence.

“Christal, we have to be brave. Okay? You’re
a brave girl, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I guess.” There was still a whine in
her voice, but Stephanie knew she couldn’t expect anything
different. She was scared stiff; she couldn’t imagine what her
little eight-year-old daughter was feeling.

“Good. Now, listen to Mama and do exactly as
I say.”

“Okay, Mommy. I’m listening.”

* * *

If the Porsche had never been worth its money
before, it was proving its worth now. Michael Cole didn’t even know
he could run as fast as he did away from Mayor Wegmann’s office. He
heard both Dale and Streeter call out after him, but he was sure it
was for more than a nice little talk about the latest sports
scores.

The car shot around slow moving traffic and
carried Michael further and further away from town hall but he was
basically driving blind. He didn’t have anywhere to go. There was
no place for him to hide. And it wouldn’t take the chief a minute
to radio in and give his position and direction. Michael didn’t
have any clue how many cops were on duty. If he had to bet, even
the off-duty police were on today because of Carrie’s suicide.

He didn’t understand why he was wanted
already. It didn’t make any sense. Certainly it couldn’t be simply
because of his presence at his lover’s suicide. That wouldn’t make
Streeter go for his gun. Would it?

Surely not. Jessie Streeter was as straight
an arrow as they came to chief of police. The first black man to
hold that office in the town’s history had no known enemies. He was
a good old boy who worked hard and hunted deer whenever the season
was open, almost to an obsession. No, Streeter wouldn’t have
reacted the way he did without provocation. Neither would
Wegmann.

They knew something; Michael just didn’t know
what.

As it turned out, he just needed to wait.

Michael took a sharp curve, knocking into an
oncoming Nissan minivan at an intersection. The crash rocked his
world, but he wasn’t going to let a tiny thing like an auto
accident stop him now. Instead of stopping, or even slowing, to see
if the driver of the Nissan was injured, he pressed the accelerator
down to the floor as he speed-shifted through the gears.

He checked his rearview as he hit a
straightaway. There were no flashing lights to be seen.

His cell sounded in the seat next to him. He
ignored it. It continued on for several rings and went to
voicemail. It started again. This went three more times before the
sound of the ringing wore him down. There was something
psychologically powerful about an unanswered phone, something that
no matter what the situation, it egged at you until you either
answered it or threw the phone down and smashed it into a million
pieces. Well, in his current situation, Michael had both feet busy
so he plucked it from the seat and checked the caller ID display.
Another blocked call.

Jerry!

Michael clicked to answer the phone and
brought it to his ear. “Cole.”

“Hey buddy, how’s tricks?”

“You son of a bitch! What in God’s name do
you think you’re doing? What have you done?”

“Shut up. Listen to me.” A pause. Not to see
if his instructions were followed, just to prepare his words.
“Perhaps you’re already aware, the local authorities have received
an anonymous tip that you, the renowned Michael Cole, the local
version of Henry Ford, self-made millionaire, is not only
responsible for the deaths of your wife, daughter and two
neighbors, but also of a unidentified female of Barbados
descent—”

“You mother—”

“I said shut up. Didn’t I? I could just hang
up and fade away. That would be great for me, very bad for you. No
worries, old pal, your tight-assed, pill-popping wife and sweet
little daughter are still among the living…for now. You see, if I
had killed them, well, how would I get you to play our game?”

Michael wanted to hang up, throw the phone
out the window. But Jerry was right. If he disappeared and he did,
in fact, know the whereabouts of Stephanie and Christal, what would
happen to them? Damn! They should have been his very first
responsibility. What was he thinking?

Himself.

That’s exactly what he’d been thinking about.
Himself, no one else. Not even his wife, not even his child.