Project Northwest (28 page)

“How much is it?”

“There’s a minimum charge.”

Mark was frustrated. “A minimum charge
doesn’t answer my question. I asked how much is it? Your answer
should include a dollar amount. So, how much is it?”

“It’s like forty for me to even look at
it.”

Mark pulled out his wallet and showed the
young man a hundred dollar bill.

“I’ll have to break that for you at the
register up front. It’s been kind of slow back here.”

“No shit, I wonder why. Look the hundred is
yours, if you do it right now.”

“Oh, okay. You want the name changed?”

“Yes, please, now.”

The young man opened the laptop and for a kid
whose words flowed like molasses, he could type like crazy.

“What do you want the name to be?”

“ESP Sphere.”

“Okay, done. Anything else I can help—”

Mark left the bill, grabbed the laptop and
headed toward the Laser printer area. He selected a printer that
printed 25 pages per minute and threw it on the cart. He found a
toner cartridge that claimed to print 6,000 pages and threw it on
the cart along with three reams of paper. He picked up a package of
blank CDs and finally selected a banker’s box and went through
checkout.

Back in his hotel room, he hooked up the
equipment and started printing random excel files and emails and
burning random videos onto one CD and random voice recordings after
that, alternating back and forth.

He answered Tina’s call and told her if
everything went well, he’d be coming home tomorrow. She wished him
luck and told him she missed him.

An hour later, he had nearly a thousand
printed pages and had burned media files onto all the blank CDs. He
placed the items into the banker’s box, put on the lid, and labeled
the box ‘SMILE!!!’

He took a break and ate dinner before
enacting part two of his plan.

He loaded his Glock, checked his digital
camera, placed a couple of Lorcet pills into his coat pocket, and
called Tina.

“I’m going to crash early. I have to be up at
four in the morning. Just wanted to say goodnight.”

They talked for about an hour and he fell
asleep after setting his wake-up call and alarm clock, it was
almost 10:30 PM.

* * * *

James didn’t stay the entire night at The
Lounge as he normally did - mainly because he really didn’t care
for the band. The band was too pop-ish and what he really wanted
was some time to think. He kissed Bridget ‘bye’ and caught a cab
back to the condominium.

He turned on the stereo, selected a mix that
included Sean Hayes’ soulful music, some of Deftones’ slower paced
songs, and cranked the volume until the music filled the room. He
grabbed a Georgetown Brewing Co. brew, picked up the printed
material Bridget purposely left out in the open, and made his way
to the balcony. He sat and watched the cars travelling east on
Olive Way.

He thumbed through the packet, but didn’t
consume any of the information. His thoughts kept going back to the
note Mark had left.
Why would he call me? And the email wasn’t
from Mark. It was from someone at aeneid.com. Wasn’t Aeneid from
Virgil, the story about the Trojan who went to Italy?
The last
part of the note really didn’t make any sense, ‘a Mexican
standoff’. Was he really almost out? Could Mark do this so
quickly?

The beer was crisp, clean, and smooth,
contrasting nicely to the lyrics radiating from the stereo. He sat
for quite a while, doing nothing but watching the traffic,
listening to the music, and wondering what Mark was up to.
Deftones’ lead singer, Chino Moreno, was belting “I watched a
change in you. It's like you never had wings...” and James could
relate, wondering if the change in him was now his new normal.

He stood, placed the packet of Volvo
information near the laptop and wrote Bridget a quick note.

Bridget, you win, but we have to find
something a bit sportier and I’m still repairing the Mustang, I
love that car. Love ya, James

He turned on the tube, vegged out, and fell
asleep on the couch.

Bridget woke him with a kiss on the
mouth.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey, back at ya. What did you do tonight? I
see you saw my packet of material.”

“Yep, did you see my note?”

“Yes. I’m still awake and will search, but
the S40 was the nicest one I found. I’ll looked at the others, but
if they don’t have stellar safety ratings, well, you know.”

“I know. What time is it?”

“Almost two.”

“Okay, while you’re busy keeping us safe, I’m
going to crash, no pun intended. What time are we leaving in the
morning?”

“The trip only takes about forty minutes, so
I say we make it a slow wake up morning.”

“Sounds good, baby. Okay, goodnight.” He
kissed her and made his way to the bedroom.

Chapter Twenty
two

~ Reveille of the Ill-fated
~

Mark was up before
the alarm went off and the wake-up call came through. He dressed,
stuffed the Glock into the back of his pants, and covered it with
the tail of his coat. He put the digital camera inside the banker’s
box, headed out the door and drove towards James’s
condominium.

He parked the Explorer on Pine Street, walked
to the parking lot of the condominium, and found the Tahoe parked
in the spot reserved for 602. He hid the banker’s box next to the
building and carefully jimmied the lock on the Tahoe’s cargo door
and slowly opened it. When the alarm didn’t go off, he placed the
banker’s box in the back of the vehicle. He retrieved his camera
and called the police. He gave them the tag number and claimed it
was his spot and he wanted it towed. He was certain it had a number
of tickets. Getting the box in the Tahoe was easier than he
expected and was he thankful because he didn’t look forward to
bribing the tow truck driver.

He concealed himself in the shadows of the
building and watched the flatbed tow truck from EZ Towing Co. pull
into the parking lot with two big boys in the seats.

They circled the lot until they found the
Tahoe. The boys were big, but quick. In mere moments they had the
winch attached and started dragging the Tahoe onto the tilted bed
of the tow truck. The alarm went off and all hell broke loose.

Mark immediately recognized Mr. Wrong. Mr.
Wrong was used to using his size to intimidate, but the two boys
were not having any of it. Mr. Wrong yelled and postured and they
gave it back in spades. Two more associates showed up and after
some pushing and shoving, one of the boys said he would call the
police and all the associates calmed down. Mr. Wrong took the
paperwork and he and the other associates headed back upstairs.

The tow truck drove past Mark and he wrote
down the name and address ‘EZ Towing Co. 46th Street.’

He found the towing company’s lot just off
Aurora Ave and continued to 47th street, parked and walked to the
back of the lot with camera in hand. The entire fence was covered
with some type of vine and he couldn’t get a clear visual on the
Tahoe inside—he needed a higher vantage point and then he noticed
the Realty building on the corner of the street. After finding the
fire escape, he used it to gain access to the roof of the building
and a perfect view of the Tahoe. Now all he had to do was wait for
William P. Wright to show up. It was almost 6:00 A.M. and he
snapped a couple of shots of the sunrise over the Cascade
Mountains.

Mr. Wright pulled into the parking lot of the
EZ Towing Co. on 46th Street and was met at the gate by an older
man and the two big boys that had towed the Tahoe.

Mark was too far away to hear the
conversation, but he knew what was being said and began taking
pictures.

“Here to pick up the Tahoe.”

“Sure, it’s one twenty-five for the
towing.”

They exchanged money and information and soon
Mr. Wright, Mr. Wrong, and two associates were at the Tahoe
inspecting it for damage.

Mr. Wright jumped into the passenger seat and
the associates checked the equipment in the cargo bay to make sure
nothing was missing. The associate saw the banker’s box tucked in
the corner, just behind all the radio relay equipment. He tapped on
it and suggested that Mr. Wright take a look.

Mr. Wright suspiciously eyed the banker’s box
and saw the word ‘SMILE!!!’ in capital letters penned across the
top. He opened it and saw page after page of emails and financial
data files, his data, the exact same files he was providing to his
client. He saw CDs labeled ‘recordings.’ He pulled one and gave it
to the associate. “Check this out in the CD player.”

Wright looked through the remaining files in
the box. Someone had a great deal of his information and they were
fucking with him.

The Tahoe’s speakers came to life and played
track after track. It was recordings of their radio traffic, along
with their conversations between James and Mr. Wright.

Wright didn’t say anything. He just stood at
the back of the Tahoe, shaking his head while looking at what must
have been hundreds of pages of his private data. He looked at Mr.
Wrong. “You, talk to, I think he said his name was Harry, and find
out who had access to our Tahoe. You two, pretend like you’re
walking back to the gate—Hansel is out there somewhere taking
pictures. I want him alive.”

Mark had already made his way down the fire
escape’s staircase and exited the Realty Company’s parking lot
heading toward 47th street. He had a good thirty pictures in the
digital camera and placed the strap around his neck. When he
stepped off the sidewalk onto the concrete he saw the associates
turn the corner and he began to run.

The first bullet struck the ground ten feet
in front of him, thrusting a plume of dust and concrete into the
air. It was a warning shot, but he didn’t stop. The second bullet
tore through his right calf muscle, missing the tibia bone my mere
millimeters, causing him to trip up and tumble forward onto the
empty street.

The road rash burned like hell and his leg
was on fire. He knew he was going to be caught. He quickly downed
the two Lorcet pills in his pocket and rolled to his back. Within
seconds, he had two guns pointed at him. The Tahoe pulled alongside
them and Mark was dragged by the collar toward the Tahoe. He was
tossed against the open door and patted down.

“Where is your Explorer, Hansel?” Mr. Wright
persisted with the question until he got the answer. Mark tried to
duck when the punches came, but couldn’t. He took a couple of blows
to the mid-section in his stride, but a blow to the head landed and
it was freshman year in college again. He was out cold.

His limp body was thrown into the back seat
of the Tahoe.

* * * *

Mark came to in a concrete warehouse of some
sort. It had an open bay and the Tahoe was parked inside. The
warehouse obviously had not been used for quite some time. It had
vines snaking their way up the inside walls and running over the
ceiling along with the musty smell of urine. He could faintly hear
the splashing of waves nearby over the ringing in his ears. The bay
darkened as an associate rolled down the metal door. The looped
chain mechanism ground and complained. To Mark, it sounded like a
visit from the grim reaper dragging his chains.

Mark’s wrists were tied with rope pulled taut
and wrapped around the luggage rack on the top of the Tahoe. His
feet were tied at the ankles with the rope disappearing under the
Tahoe, his arms carrying the weight of his body.

Mr. Wright was right in his face the moment
he woke up. “Smile, isn’t that what you wrote? Who the fuck are
you?”

Mark didn’t answer and took two blows to his
exposed rib cage and laughed, the Lorcet hiding much of the
pain.

“What are you some kind of sadist? I will ask
you once more, who are you?”

“A private investigator.”

“A PI? A fucking gumshoe? Who hired you? Was
it DuVall?”

The Lorcet continued to kick in and Mark
laughed at Mr. Wright’s expense. “I have a sleeper program on my
computer. If I don’t log into the dialog box at nine each morning,
a counter starts. If the counter trips—the program sends all those
files and recordings, the ones I only gave you a sample of, to the
FBI, along with twelve pages about you, William P. Wright.”

“Really, is that so?”

“Yes, you’ll have so many fingers up your ass
that you’ll think you’re at a proctologist convention. It will be
good practice for you and your boys in prison.”

“Think you’re some type of comedian, huh?”
Mr. Wright held up three fingers and Mr. Wrong gave Mark three hard
blows, one to the stomach and two to the head. Blood spurted
everywhere from Mark’s busted eye socket and broken nose.

Mr. Wright picked up Mark’s cell phone and
showed it to him. “What if I called Tina and found out where she
is? Yes, I saw your call log. Lot of calls between you two. I bet
she’s really important to you.”

Mark blew the blood out of his nose and spat.
“She is, but you won’t touch her.”

“Really now, I don’t think you know who
you’re fucking with!” His voice echoed off the walls, each note
seeming to look for a way to escape. “Why wouldn’t I, gumshoe?”

“She’s a cop.”

“FUCK!”
screamed Mr. Wright as he
threw the cell phone into the wall and walked to the front of the
Tahoe. Mr. Wright held up three fingers and could hear the punches
landing on Mark’s body, followed by another to the head.

Mark was happy to see the phone in pieces. It
meant they couldn’t find Aaron.

“Cricket, did you hear all that?” Mr. Wright
snapped. He was fuming.

“Yes, sir. Was that his cell phone crashing
against a wall?”

“Yes, I threw the fucking thing, why?”

“It’s just that cell phones are often used as
the alternative for password resets. We could’ve used it.”