Blood Trade: A Sean Coleman Thriller (27 page)

He listened intently for what he hoped would be the sound of rapid footsteps from
the other side of the freezer door. He heard none. The thought occurred to him that
perhaps whoever was watching him had stepped away from the camera for a bit. He also
considered that maybe it just didn’t matter to the person what he was doing. He hoped
neither was the case.

He tied the opposite end of the cord around the pipe securely, eliminating any excess
slack. He stood there for a moment, listening. He still heard nothing.

It was a grim feeling—not just from the tribulation of his current situation—but
also from the sense of familiarity that jetted up and down his spine. During the
darkest days of his drinking and the alienation of the people who knew him best,
Sean would have been lying if he’d claimed never to have thought about taking his
own life. At best, it would have lifted the burden he’d become to his family and
those who once felt something for him. At worst, no one would have cared. The same
torment now stewed in his gut as he awkwardly stood in the dark on a bucket in a
basement freezer, feeling painfully alone while waiting for someone to stop him.

Maybe they suspected that he knew they were watching. Maybe they were calling his
bluff. Many uncertainties taunted the wisdom of Sean’s scheme, but he had long ago
stopped caring about doubts directed at him. It was time to make something happen.

“No reward without risk,” he muttered to himself, reciting a line he’d heard from
an old episode of
The Rockford Files
. He suspected the quote originated elsewhere.

He bent his knees and lowered his body an inch or two, until he felt his own weight
mostly supported by the cord looped under his chin. He snarled and kicked the bucket
out from under himself.

His eyes immediately bulged as he dangled in the air, the cord digging into his flesh.
He flexed his neck and squared his jaw, keeping his body stiff and tight, and fighting
back the urge to panic. Though he had been careful not to position the cord around
his throat, he was quickly finding it difficult to breathe. His body trembled from
the tension.

The pipe above him cried and seemed to bend slightly from his weight, but it remained
attached to the ceiling. He imagined that if he could see himself in a mirror, his
face would be beet-red with every vein in his forehead protruding like ropes wrapped
around a rock.

With a toothy grimace across his face, drool began to slide from his mouth and the
unbearable pressure under his chin nearly forced him try to grab onto the cord or
pipe above to alleviate it. He disciplined himself not to, even as he felt his loose
pants slide down from his waist.

He suddenly felt his body drop an inch or two. The cord was now under his throat,
and his breath was cut off. The pipe had buckled.

He gasped for air but found none. He realized immediately that the game was nearing
an end. If he didn’t do something fast, he’d choke to death. He raised his hands
and frantically forced his fingers between his throat and the cord, just as his pants
slid down his legs.

The room was suddenly illuminated by the bright ceiling light.

It nearly blinded Sean as his flailing body twisted in the direction of the freezer
door. Through the brilliance of the fluorescent bulbs and distress that punished
his body, he saw an almost equally panicked face glaring back at him through the
porthole window.

It was the same bespectacled man who had come in earlier. Seeing through the camera
what Sean was doing, he now took a closer look to confirm that the act was genuine.

As torturous as it was, Sean understood he needed to further sell a situation that
had already turned deadly serious. He let his hands fall to his side and his eyes
roll up to the top of his head. Mere seconds seemed like agonizing minutes as he
hung in the air.

The thought that the end might be near taunted his soul.
I’m gonna check out, hanging
from a pipe with my pants around my ankles.

The man disappeared from the window. The loud sound of the metal latch unsnapping
echoed. Sean immediately raised his hands and wedged the tips of his fingers in between
his throat and the cord again. He lifted his head as best he could toward the ceiling
and pried at the cord with all of his might, frantically bucking his legs and hips.

The door swung open. The desperate-looking man sprinted inside, but only managed
to take about two quick steps before his feet slid on the large puddle of water that
Sean had created at the doorway from the bottles that had been left for him. The
man’s momentum sent him crashing forward to his knees. Sean yanked the cord up to
his chin and then out from under it.

He fell to his feet, nearly losing his balance from the wave of lightheadedness that
beat against his skull. He had enough presence of mind to recognize that the gun
had fallen from the man’s hand. He lunged for it, grabbed the man’s arm instead,
and tackled him onto his back.

The physical savagery picked up where it had left off at Sean’s house, with him quickly
overpowering the smaller man who squirmed and fought like a trapped animal. A wheezing
sound poured out from Sean’s swollen throat as he fought, but he bottled up the impulse
to erupt into a coughing fit to clear his windpipe.

He jerked his pants back up to his waist over his boxer shorts. He straddled the
man’s body and twisted his wrist at a sick angle until
the gun fell from his shaking
fingers to the floor. He latched onto the man’s collar and yanked him away from the
gun before sliding his hands up to his throat.

The man’s eyes turned to the size of golf balls under his glasses. He grabbed onto
Sean’s wrists and pried at them unsuccessfully, his legs kicking erratically along
the floor.

Sean held up the pressure—he’d promised the man that he’d no longer be breathing
if they tangled again.

Though raw anger was fueling Sean’s desire to keep his word—something that his uncle
had always said built character—the agony and helplessness in the man’s eyes made
him rethink his promise. He knew that even with everything that had happened, he
couldn’t take the man’s life—not after the man had just tried to save him from killing
himself.

He let go of the man’s neck. He ripped his glasses from his face and immediately
sent a devastating right-cross to the side of his head. The man’s head snapped to
the side and his body went limp. His glassy eyes peered off in a random direction.
Sean could tell by his snort-like breathing that he was out cold. He tossed the glasses
to one side.

He dismounted the man and reached for the fallen revolver. He quickly checked its
action. A loud, delayed coughing fit left his throat as he taught himself to breathe
again.

The man had to have been the only one who was watching through the camera as Sean
pulled his stunt, otherwise others would have rushed into the room to assist. He
searched the man’s pockets and found nothing of use. He didn’t even have a wallet,
thus no identification.

Sean crawled over to the thin mattress that lay on the floor. He grabbed it and draped
it over the man’s body at an angle, hoping it looked on camera like the original
captive was merely tired and seeking warmth.

He left through the open freezer door and found himself in a
small, unfinished room.
The concrete floor had a couple of round drain-grates embedded in it. Raw sheet rock
dressed the walls. An old clothes washer and dryer sat in a corner, as did some cleaning
supplies and food boxes that had probably been moved out of the freezer. At the very
top of the opposite wall was a small window about three feet wide and one foot in
height. There was no way he could escape through it. The outside of the window was
completely covered with snow.

When he turned to close the freezer door, he found a large padlock lying on the floor
beside it. A key with three others attached to a small D-shaped ring was still inside
of the lock. He closed the door, snapped on the padlock, and slid the keys in his
pocket. He turned off the freezer light and swiveled his head toward the staircase
he had eyed earlier.

Chapter 23

L
umbergh could have radioed Redick and asked that he come back. He also could have
pled with the sheriff to have his deputy pull over to the side of the road and wait
for him until he got there. Lumbergh knew, however, that the sheriff would not have
complied.

Redick viewed the chief as a liability to the successful prosecution of Alex Martinez—a
man facing two attempted murder charges, including one for a police officer. It was
a good case to have on a resume, as Lumbergh understood all too well from his career
in Chicago. It was one of the things he’d noted quickly rising up the hierarchical
ladder. If Redick knew the chief was coming, he would have his deputy alter his route
back to County to avoid a confrontation.

Large, thick flakes of snow slapped up against the windshield of the cruiser, narrowing
Lumbergh’s visibility tremendously. Some snow had even managed to work its way through
the bullet holes in the glass and onto the dashboard where the warmth of the automobile’s
defroster turned it to slush. Loud, forceful gusts of wind pressed against the driver’s
side of the car, keeping Lumbergh’s hand clamped tightly to the steering wheel.

The storm had arrived.

The wiper blades were working like mad by the time he reached Interstate 70. It was
the stretch of road where he believed he could catch up to Redick. He flipped on
the flashers and sirens and sped his way down the mountain.

The traffic was fairly light in the eastbound lanes. Most people who’d come up to
ski that day were surely either planning on staying the night or had already made
their way back toward Denver that afternoon to beat the blizzard. The sporadic clusters
of cars that did occupy the road were meandering along cautiously. Whenever Lumbergh
came upon them, they’d slowly pull over to the shoulder to let him whizz by.

Lumbergh knew he was driving faster than what was safe, but if he didn’t get to Martinez
by the time he was processed and behind bars again, he knew he’d
never
get anything
out of him.

Whenever a pair of taillights came into view through the net of whiteness in front
of him, he’d pump the brakes and examine the car’s make. After a dozen or so hopefuls,
he finally spotted the sheriff ’s car winding a sharp turn in the right-hand lane
ahead. Lumbergh turned off his siren but kept his flashers on.

The back of Martinez’s head lit up in the backseat when Lumbergh moved in behind
the cruiser and repeatedly flashed his high beams.

“Richard, it’s Gary Lumbergh behind you,” he spoke into his radio, hugging the steering
wheel steady with his thighs. “I need you to pull over.”

Even through the falling snow, Lumbergh’s headlights revealed Redick’s angry eyes
glaring back at him through the cruiser’s steel dividing grill. Martinez seemed completely
uninterested in what was happening, not bothering to even turn around.

“What do you want, Gary?” Redick’s irritated voice came over the radio.

“Martinez knows more than we thought. He knows where Sean is. I’m sure of it!”

“We’ve already been through this, Gary. If he knows anything, we’ll get it from him
at County with his lawyer present.”

Lumbergh cursed and angrily slammed down his radio, letting it bounce off the floorboard.
He took a deep breath, tightening his
jaw and pressing down on the gas pedal. When
he passed the county cruiser on the left, he could imagine the panic-riddled face
of the deputy, whose driving suddenly became erratic as he pumped his brakes and
swerved, unsure what the sheriff aimed to do.

Lumbergh continued pulling ahead of the other lawmen until the back bumper of his
car was cattycorner to their front bumper. He then edged his way steadily to the
right, forcing them to slow down or risk being nudged into the guardrail on the other
side of them.

Once both cars came to a stop, Lumbergh threw his in park and swung open his door.
He stepped outside and was nearly toppled over by the powerful blast of bitterly
cold wind. The thick flakes that whisked by him were painted multiple colors by the
bright, rotating flashers, almost drowning out the roadside area as they swung through
the sky like volcanic ash.

The deputy opened his door and stepped out, his chest bloated with indignation. Lumbergh
sidestepped him and went straight for the rear side-window. He beat his clamped fist
against the glass to get the attention of Martinez who sat under the dome light.
The intern wasn’t responding, his blank gaze only directed at the windshield.

“The red fox’s den!” Lumbergh shouted. “You saw where they took Sean! You followed
them, didn’t you?”

He watched for any kind of reaction in Martinez’s face. There wasn’t one at first,
but then a snide grin slowly began to form. He leisurely turned his head to meet
Lumbergh’s eyes, expressing an overdue hint of clarity. His lips began moving, saying
something to Lumbergh.

Lumbergh couldn’t hear it through the whistling of the wind. “What?” he yelled, using
his hand as a visor to try and shield out the noise.

“He said that even a man with tunnel vision has his outside curiosities!” The loud
voice came from Redick who had just climbed out of the passenger’s seat.

No longer wearing his hat, the wind against Redick’s tightly curled hair made his
head look like a thick bush with a small animal trapped inside it working to find
its way out.

Lumbergh’s eyes narrowed as flakes of snow pelted his face.

“It doesn’t matter, Gary. He asked for a lawyer. We can’t ask him any more questions!”

Lumbergh shouted back, “Sean was looking into the Andrew Carson case! The missing
man from Greeley! Presumed dead. I think he found the person responsible for it and
that’s who took him!”