Killertrust (11 page)

Ricky propelled Streak around the
final curve on Highway 177 before the road snaked to the top of the hill
overlooking the Mississippi River. The city of Cape Girardeau, originally
settled by French-Canadian immigrants, sits in a large bend in the Mississippi,
framed by massive limestone bluffs overlooking the wide river. Ricky stole a
glance at Rhetta. “Do you think your father really will be at the impound
yard?”

Rhetta shrugged. “I presume
so. If all of this is so unbelievably important, I figure he’ll stay at least
long enough to make sure I’m going to show up. Or not.” She pulled her .38 from
her purse.

“Dear God, Rhetta, don’t be
waving that thing around.” Ricky nearly drove off the side of the road when she
spotted Rhetta’s gun. “Why do you need that? Who are you going to shoot?”

“I don’t plan on shooting
anyone. He said to come armed just in case. So I grabbed my .38.”

“Oh, God, Rhetta, now what
are we getting into?” Ricky immediately began chewing her fingernails. They
were already as short as humanly possible, so she began gnawing on her
cuticles. “Dang, now I’m bleeding.” She had gnawed too close.

“I seriously doubt everything
he tells me. I have a conceal-and-carry permit. I know how to shoot. I didn’t
want to take any chances.”

“I know you’re a good shot,
but you know I don’t like it when we go somewhere and need a gun. That’s never
good.”

Ricky rolled to a stop in
front of the locked gates of the impound yard. Inside, all was quiet, no one
moving about. No sign of Eddie Wellston, the owner. The lot contained several
vehicles, some wrecked, some waiting to go to auction. Eddie picked up
repossessed cars as well as wrecks. An eight-foot tall chain link fence topped
by razor wire extended from the back of the rectangular metal shop
building-cum-garage with a small wood-sided addition, which served as the
office, enclosing the lot and yard. Eddie owned a large private junk yard
behind the impound lot that was also fully enclosed.

“Stay here, and keep the
motor running. We may have to leave in a hurry.” Rhetta tucked the gun into her
purse, swung open the passenger door and strode toward the gates. A black and
tan German shepherd the size of a pony lunged at the fence when she approached.
He slammed into the chain link, growling and barking, biting at the chain link,
sending spittle flying in a five-foot arc around his swinging head. Rhetta’s
heart felt like it could explode until she realized the dog was also enclosed.
She nearly let loose her bladder. She jumped back from the fence. The shepherd
crouched at her retreat, but continued growling, curling his lip and baring
very long teeth.

Rhetta returned to the safety
of the Trailblazer and tried to get her hyperventilating under control. “Crap.
That dog nearly scared the pee out of me. I think we need to get the blazes out
of here and go home. I don’t see any sign of Frank.” She had a hard time
calling him her father.

Rhetta buckled in and studied
the side mirror as Ricky threw Streak into reverse and began backing away.
“When in God’s name did Eddie get a killer dog?” She tried to resume breathing
normally. She clutched her hand to her chest, praying her heart would slow down
before she had a heart attack.

From the corner of her eye,
she caught a slight movement off to the side of the lot. She shouted, “Stop!”
Ricky slammed on the brakes.

“I just saw him.” Rhetta
twisted around and stared out the back windows, but there was no one there. “I
swear I just saw him.”

Ricky followed her gaze. “You
did. There he is.” She pointed to a man standing at the edge of the lot,
camouflaged by scrub trees and brush.

“Drive over there.” Ricky
made a Y-turn and drove across the parking lot, stopping at the edge, near the
woods that surrounded the property.

A figure stepped out from the
camouflage of the trees and approached Rhetta’s side of Streak. She powered
down the window.

Frank swiveled his head,
apparently scoping out the area, then reached in to the interior pocket of his
worn leather coat and pulled out a thick brown envelope tied with heavy string.
He handed it to Rhetta. She felt something cylindrical shaped inside the
envelope. Could it be the cylinder she saw in the video? She turned the
envelope over in her hands before settling it on the seat next to her.

“What is this?”

Frank straightened up and
peered around before answering. Then he leaned in close, pointing to the
package. “There’s information in there about what you saw on the video. About
the trust. What’s important to realize now is that I’m the last one, Rhetta. I
guess I was supposed to already be dead.” He coughed so deeply Rhetta wondered
if he would ever take another breath. Finally, he did, and continued, wheezing
loudly. “In fact, the bank sent me notice that someone claiming to be George
Erickson tried to claim it already.” He coughed hard, and struggled to breathe.
When he managed to catch his breath, he continued. “Not sure, but I think it
was just after he was killed. I believe his murderer is after the trust money.
He must’ve thought I was already dead. There have been lots of rumors about my
death, but they were greatly exaggerated.” A quick smile crossed his face.
“Once I’m gone, it’s all yours, Rhetta. You’re my only child, and as my
survivor, you get it all.” He pulled an inhaler from a coat pocket and tried
taking a deep puff of the medicine. The effort only produced more coughing.

“Get all of what? What is
this?”

He cleared his throat. “Read
it carefully. It’s all in there. And remember the name Garibaldi.
G-A-R-I-B-A-L-D-I. Repeat that back to me.”

He’s
not making any sense. What car? Who or what, is this Garibaldi? They called
themselves that on the video. Is it a club?

“Repeat that back to me,
Rhetta.” He said again. “It’s vital. You will need Garibaldi as a password, a
verbal ID. The rest of what you need is in the envelope. And you’ll need to get
the car.” He wheezed harder.

“I don’t follow you. What car
are you talking about?” She swiveled her head to locate the vehicle he was
referring to. She saw none. “And what’s a Garibaldi?”

“The car’s not here, Rhetta.
Write the name Garibaldi down, if you have to, but remember it. Now, listen
carefully.” He wheezed, coughed so violently again, that Rhetta wasn’t sure he
could go on. He sucked in air and continued. As he spoke, the air he expelled
from his lungs made a whistling noise. “You have to go to Kansas City to get
the car. The address is in the papers.” He pointed to those beside Rhetta.
“It’s a cave storage facility. The unit is under my name and your name.” He
coughed and spasmed again, but this time he didn’t hide his handkerchief
quickly enough. She saw the blood. He stuffed the handkerchief into a pocket.

“What’s wrong with you?” she
asked, pointing to his pocket.

“I told you. I’m dying.” He
said it so simply he might have been announcing the weather. “That’s not
important. Listen carefully.” He paused, getting his breathing under control
enough to continue. “Someone killed George Erickson. We were the last two. Now
that he’s gone, I’m the last person left in the trust. When I’m gone, it’s all
yours. Whoever killed George is after you now. I don’t know who it is. There’s
an imposter out there trying to steal the trust. I’m sure that’s why George was
killed, and why you were attacked. Someone who knows about the trust is trying
to convince the bank he’s the last one.” His wheezing was
so loud, it made Rhetta wince. “I know everyone
else is dead. I have proof. It’s in the pouch, inside there.” His chin jutted
toward the large envelope on the seat. “You need George’s death certificate,
and mine after I’m gone. I’ll be dead soon, so it’s up to you to go and claim
the trust.”

He rolled
up the sleeves on his right arm and showed it to Rhetta. “See this? It’s the
mark. It was in the video and it’s all explained in the papers. George had the
mark, too.”

Rhetta
remembered seeing a tattoo on the video. She stared at his arm. It bore the
same tattoo, a triangle with a bar, and looked to be about two inches square. Exactly
like the ones she saw in the video.

“Where
did the money come from? Is it stolen from the Vietnamese?” Randolph had
thought there was something very suspicious about the men in the trust
acquiring a large sum of money. He was sure it was stolen. Rhetta thought so,
too.

He shook
his head. “That money came from Uncle Sam. And we earned every penny. You just
need to read what’s inside there.” He gestured toward the envelope.

His death certificate.
That there was a death certificate for her father
and George Erickson could only mean something military, classified. “Were you
Black Ops?” She stared at him. He didn’t flinch.

He
wheezed so heavily that Rhetta thought she might have to take him to a
hospital. When he finally caught his breath, he said softly, “We were darker
than Black Ops. That’s all you need to know. The important thing is, we had an
agreement, and now I’m the last one. What’s left is mine.”

“If
you’re the last, and it’s all yours, why don’t you go and get this money?”

“I
wouldn’t survive the trip. It will be up to you.”

“What if
I go with you?”
What
the heck did I just say
?
She mentally slapped herself.

He stared
at her a moment, another tiny trace of a smile teasing one corner of his
wrinkled lips. He shook his head. “The money won’t do me any good. Besides, I
won’t live through the trip. Then you’d just have to deal with an old dead
man.” He coughed long and hard again. In spite of herself, Rhetta began to feel
sorry for him. She wondered if he was going to keel over here, and she’d have to
deal with him now.

“When you
do go, how will I know, and who’s supposed to handle your funeral?”
Oh God, did I really just ask him that?

He waved
his hand. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve made arrangements. When I leave this
place today,” he waved around the lot, “I’m going to be with someone who will
contact you when I’m gone. Someone I trust. I don’t want you to have to deal
with my death. You didn’t have to deal with my life.”

Rhetta
nodded slowly. “Did you tell the police all this?”

“No, I
want you to do that. I can’t go to the police. I’m already dead.” He took
another labored breath. “Don’t lose these papers, whatever you do.” He laid a
thin hand on her arm. She felt a current shoot through her. In that moment, she
knew without a doubt that this man was her father.

 His
voice cracked again, and he began another coughing fit. As unreal as all of
this seemed, Rhetta was now convinced that someone was after him and now her,
for a mysterious trust with an unknown sum of money. The cops were dead wrong
about her attack. That was no “snatch and grab,” as they put it.

She
needed to look through those papers.

“After
you go through these papers, go to Kansas City, then go to the cave and get the
car.” He coughed again. His hand returned the tissues to his coat pocket. More
blood. Rhetta’s head began to spin. He shifted gears so quickly Rhetta had
trouble keeping up.

“Okay,
dammit. What cave? What car?” Her head was reeling. Maybe it was from the bump,
or maybe it was because she was having a conversation with a man she now
believed was her long dead father about Black Ops, trusts, caves and cars. She
felt a massive headache crowding her stitches and worming its way around to her
forehead.

He raised his head slowly,
piercing green eyes identical to hers boring through her. Even though he
wheezed heavily, his breathing labored, she heard his answer clearly enough.

 “My 1967 Camaro.”

Before Rhetta could answer, her
father turned abruptly and melted into the woods. For a sick man, he moved like
a cat, a quick and dangerous one. She sat, stunned, staring at the envelope.
Ricky, who’d been listening to all of this, was the first to speak.

“Did he say he has a 1967
Camaro in a cave in Kansas City? I bet I know that place. It’s called The Cave
Storage, and it’s fantastic. All underground natural storage. Like having stuff
in climate-controlled units. How silly. It is climate controlled. It’s a cave.”
Ricky slapped her head. “Sorry. I’m babbling. I think I’m stressed.”

Rhetta closed her eyes and
sank against the backrest. “What the heck is going on?” She sat up and turned
to Ricky.

Ricky placed both of her
hands on the steering wheel. Her expression turned serious as she faced Rhetta.
“Somebody attacked you and tossed you into the Dumpster. The cops told you it
was a robbery, but how many robbery victims are thrown into a Dumpster? Let’s
get out of here in case he’s right and someone is after you.” She swiveled her
head in both directions apparently scoping out for any intruders, then put
Streak into gear and aimed for the entrance onto Highway 177, about fifty feet
from where they’d parked. She stopped, checking the traffic in each direction.
Even though it bore a fancy name like State Route 177, it was only a two-lane
blacktop road, not unlike a lot of county roads in the area. The impound yard
sat on a large curve in the road, which made getting out of the yard dangerous.

Rhetta lay back against the
seat, eyes closed, pondering everything Frank had told her. Did she dare
believe he had a 1967 First Generation Camaro? And that it had been in storage
all this time in Kansas City? Why was he telling her about this? To prove he
was really her father and wasn’t dead? Was it because, as he said, he was close
to death? If his racking coughs were any indication of his health, she believed
that to be true. How much longer did he have? A month? Two? Six? A week? She
had no idea. She believed now he really was her father. Yet it was hard to have
any feelings for him, except sympathy for his struggle for breath. Maybe he’d
been a lifelong smoker and was paying the price now. She remembered seeing him
with a cigarette in the video.

Ricky’s voice jolted her back
from her musings. “I can’t believe it. When are we going to go and get it?”
Ricky always had a way of bringing everything to a bottom line. “I wonder what
kind of shape the Camaro is in.” Turning to Rhetta, she continued. “You know,
those caves stay very dry. The car could be in perfect condition. I’ll hook up
the aluminum car hauler. Maybe Randolph will let us use his Artmobile.”

Rhetta just shook her head.
Her father, who was supposed to be dead, who claimed he was going to die soon,
just gave her a mysterious bundle. He declared it was associated with some form
of Tontine Trust, and told her to go to Kansas City to the Cave Storage to get
a Camaro that had to have been there for more than forty years. And that she
should remember the name Garibaldi? She began to think she’d gone to sleep and
awakened inside a Woody Allen spy movie. Did Woody Allen ever make a spy movie?
Maybe he just did, and she was the star. She groaned.

How did he come to have the
car? When did he buy it?

“Don’t get too hopeful,
Ricky. It’s probably a hunk of junk. Let’s hope at least that he’s paid the
storage fees current or I’ll probably have to pay a whopper of a bill to get
it.” Rhetta sat forward. “I’ll call the place and see if I owe anything before
I think about going. I won’t do anything until I read through these papers.”
She patted the bundle alongside her. “And I sure want Randolph to go through
this package, too.”

“I wonder what color…” Before
Ricky could finish, an explosion ripped the still, cold air. Rhetta pivoted
toward the sound in time to spot a ball of fire as it rocketed to the tops of
the trees.

Right where her father had
walked into the woods.