The Rented Mule (13 page)

Gates allowed her to leave his office first and pointed down the hall toward Cooper’s office.

“Let me finish my audit, and I’ll come back here in a few minutes; then we can discuss supper.”

“Anything you wish. I’ll make us reservations. Eight o’clock?”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no either,” he quickly replied.

Giving him a smile, she twisted her pearls and walked off.
This was way too easy,
she thought.

Gates couldn’t believe his fortune.
Damn, I’m on a streak today. This is just what I needed,
he thought. He began planning the evening. He would burn up the company credit card trying to impress her.

Jenny slowly studied Cooper’s office. She grabbed several business cards and then looked at everything in the office. The large aquarium gave her an odd feeling, like the fish were watching her. She noticed a gold letter opener, engraved with his initials. She quickly glanced around to ensure that Gates or someone else hadn’t stopped at the door, and she picked up the opener with a tissue and put it into her purse, careful not to smudge any existing fingerprints or leave any of hers.

She silently closed the office door and then pulled out a digital camera and took pictures of the office. After listening carefully at the door for approaching footsteps and not hearing anything, she began looking inside drawers. Deciding she had pushed her luck far enough, she walked out and back to Gates’s office.

“Everything appears in order,” she reported.

“Good, I knew it would be. We have dinner reservations at eight. Pick you up around seven thirty? Where you stayin’?”

“I tell you what; I’ll go, but I’ll meet you there. That’s my only condition,” she said smiling and added, “so far,” for good measure.

Gates didn’t have to think. “That’s fair. Let me write down the address for ya.”

“What should I wear?” she asked, looking around his office again.

Gates wanted to say, “As little as possible.” But showing uncharacteristic restraint said, “Casual’s fine.”

While he was writing, she picked up her business card that was on the edge of his desk. He never noticed.

As he handed her the slip of paper with the name and address of the restaurant, he said, “It’s easy to find.” After a brief moment, he added, “Don’t stand me up.”

“I’ll be there, unless I get a better offer.” Jenny winked, turned, and walked out of his office.

C
larence Armstrong was following every detail of the map as he drove north. He liked that his current plan was coming together nicely. Jesse Ray was meticulously working through ways to plant the evidence that he had created. Tonight, the team would discuss Jesse Ray’s ideas over supper. Jenny was at the Tower Agency gathering information, and he was heading to recon their potential hiding place, currently the biggest variable.
The problem is that if this place ain’t everything I need, we might hafta abort. Damn it! I hate not havin’ a sound backup.

When Clarence arrived in Rockford, the seat of Coosa County, Alabama, he was pleasantly surprised. He laughed out loud when he saw a sign that read, “Welcome to Rockford, Home of Fred, the Town Dog.” Rockford had the only traffic signal in the county. There were no fast-food restaurants or grocery stores, which was a big negative for him, but it was located within an easy hour’s drive of abundant food in Montgomery.

At the crossroads, he headed north, and before he passed by Hatchet Creek, he slowed down, looking for his turn. He missed it the first time because kudzu covered the posts and most of the gate. It appeared that no one had been down the drive with any regularity in several years.

Clarence stretched when he stepped out of his Escalade. The small key fit effortlessly into the padlock that secured a large chain wrapped around the gate and a half-rotten wooden post. Pushing the gate open, he listened for any unusual sounds and searched for any prying neighbors. Satisfied he hadn’t been seen, Clarence drove onto the property. He noted that the hard gravel drive would not reveal tire tracks.
So far, so good.

Approximately one half of a mile into the property and out of sight of the county road, Clarence pulled onto the overgrown yard of an obviously abandoned antebellum mansion—the scarred old home, an eerie, silent reminder of grandeur. Huge camellia bushes covered most of the windows. Vines grew up the columns and all over the sides of the once white house. An old oak tree had blown over in the side yard years ago, and no one had bothered to clean it up. The place had once been a majestic estate and, despite decades of neglect, retained an air of Southern aristocracy.

As Clarence circled the house, he noticed an old barn in the back that appeared big enough to hide the team’s vehicles.

Slowly climbing the front steps, he studied the door and windows carefully before slipping the larger of the two keys given to him by the Client into the dead bolt. The lock reluctantly released, and Clarence pushed open the door.

The inside of the house was surprisingly clean but unbearably hot. Flipping the first light switch he saw, he was pleased that the electricity worked. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
He noticed a window-mounted air-conditioning unit and walked across the room to it. He twisted a small plastic knob, causing it to turn on with a roar. He stuck his face into the breeze to ensure it was cooling.

Clarence turned away from the AC to take a deeper look into the house. The only furniture was an old couch and chairs in the main room. Lying in the center of the floor was a baby blue rotary dial telephone. Clarence hadn’t seen one like it since he was a teenager, staying with his grandmother. Picking up the receiver, he heard a dial tone and then replaced the handset on the cradle. Dozens of black-and-white photos hung at odd angles on all the walls.

The kitchen had an old refrigerator, a table with four chairs, an old stove, and what looked like one of the first microwaves ever made—it was huge. He twisted the sink faucet, and it sputtered before dispensing clear water that had a pungent odor.

Moving out of the kitchen, he found two bedrooms: each had a bed with no sheets and no other furniture or air-conditioning units. The only bathroom downstairs had a claw-foot bathtub and a permanently ring-stained commode.

At the top of the staircase were two large rooms. One was totally empty. The other had a bed and a rocking chair pulled close to one window. A pane of glass was broken. After carefully studying it for several moments, Clarence determined that it had been broken from the inside. For a split second he felt uncomfortable as if someone were watching him. He wheeled around, pistol raised. Nothing. Somewhat spooked, he reholstered his gun inside his waistband and quickly left the room. He went down the stairs nervously whistling. Between the bottom of the stairs and the front door, Clarence turned around for a broad appraisal of the
place.
With a TV and satellite dish, box fans for the bedrooms, and some sheets, this place’ll do just fine.

Returning to the kitchen, Clarence noticed an odd padlocked door. He tried the smaller key. The lock sprung open. Carefully opening the door, he saw that the stairs went straight down to a root cellar. A coarse string touched his face when he stuck his head inside to look around. He carefully pulled the string and a bare bulb illuminated directly above his head.
Just like Big Momma’s house
, he thought.

Clarence walked down several steep creaking steps into a small, windowless dirt-walled room. The musty air was cool. The walls were lined with crude, handmade wooden shelves. There was only one way in or out. A single army surplus cot was in the center of the space. As Clarence was climbing back up the stairs, he quietly said aloud, “This place is freakin’ spooky.”

Clarence decided that he should check the refrigerator before leaving. It was marginally cool. The only contents were a box of pharmaceuticals. Clarence opened the box, removed a vial, and read the label, “Succinylcholine Chloride. What the hell’s that?”

Clarence pulled his cell phone from his pocket and thumbed in a text message to Jesse Ray, “google succinylcholine chloride call back.” When he hit Send, he noticed it didn’t immediately send. He looked at the phone’s screen. Only one service bar. He shook his head as he put the phone back into his pocket. Overall, Clarence was satisfied with the house.

As he headed for the door, he realized that the air conditioner was not running.
That’s weird, I don’t remember shuttin’ it down.

He walked over and switched it back on. It again roared to life. He turned it off. Clarence stood quietly, listening and
looking around. He didn’t hear anything. Nothing seemed out of place. The only disturbing thing was that the people in the old black-and-white photos seemed to stare back. After a moment, he relaxed, shook his head, and walked out of the old mansion, key locking the front door behind him.

He had one thing to check before leaving—the old barn. If there was enough empty space to hide at least two vehicles, maybe three, then Clarence would have a suitable hideout. It exceeded his expectations.
This is gonna be the easiest money I ever made.
He chuckled, thinking about scaring the shit out of the Client for making that very observation.

When he approached his vehicle, he realized that the driver’s door was slightly ajar. He didn’t remember not shutting it. He quickly felt for the keys and found them. He pulled his weapon and wheeled around, gun at the ready.

“All right, asshole, come on out!”

The big man nervously scanned the area. After what seemed to have been an hour but was only a few minutes, he eased up onto the front porch. He gently tried the doorknob, but it was locked. Under his breath, he said, “Shit, I’m losing my mind. I just musta not shut the door all the way.”

With gun still drawn, he hurriedly looked under, around, and inside his vehicle; then reholstering, he climbed in and quickly locked the doors before cranking the engine.

After securing the gate exactly as he had found it, he drove back toward Montgomery. He began listening to a satellite radio news analysis of the global financial effects of the United States’ national security concerns resulting from the Chinese government’s recent aggressive attempts to further their monopoly of the world’s rare earth metals, their mining, and their exportation so that he wouldn’t think too much about the odd things in and around the old house.

Fortunately, not too far into the broadcast, his stomach growled and for the rest of the drive his attention was locked onto the idea of mounds of Dreamland’s barbecue ribs.

C
larence and Jenny had discussed her supper plans with Gates for ten minutes. He initially didn’t want her to go, but she was persistent and persuasive, so he finally relented, “Yeah, okay. I agree. You probably will learn something useful, but you gotta be careful… and call me if he gets even remotely outta bounds.”

“I will. I’m just gonna eat with the guy and talk. That’s all it’ll take. There’s nutten to worry about,” Jenny explained.

“Now you’re sure you don’t want me or Jesse Ray to tag along?”

“No, no, not at all. I don’t figure he’d be relaxed and real chatty if I brought you along,” she replied, almost laughing, and then added, “Don’t worry about me. I can handle this jerk. Y’all got your own work to do.”

“All right. I expect a call as soon as you get back in your car.”

“Clarence, I swear, you sound like my daddy,” she joked. But she knew that he genuinely cared, more than anyone ever had, and she appreciated it and loved him for it. “Okay. I’ll call
later… I’m here now,” she continued. She pulled into a parking space in front of the restaurant and turned off her lights.

“Where’s here?” Clarence asked.

“Sinclair’s. Not too far from downtown… on Fairview Avenue—in the old money side of town. I can’t see the street number, but everything’s fine. I’ll learn something we can use. I can feel it.”

“You call me if he gets too friendly or if you feel uncomfortable. Be careful.”

“Don’t worry. This guy thinks he’s a player. I can control him like a hand puppet. Already have. Later.” She closed her cell phone, grabbed her purse, shut and locked her door, and then strolled toward the restaurant.

In a parked car across the street sat Gates Ballenger III, watching his date walk. He popped a Viagra, rubbed himself, and thought,
Absolutely the best performance-enhancing drug ever created
.

He chuckled as he ran his fingers through his hair and then drank the last swallow of his imported beer. He quickly got out and hurried to catch up with the hot young blonde.

Opening the restaurant door, he saw Meagan Massey standing, waiting. He immediately apologized for being late, making up a lame excuse about a conference call that he couldn’t finish in time.

“You know you’re not supposed to keep a lady waiting,” Jenny said rather curtly. She could tell by the look in his eyes what he wanted.
Game on
, she thought.

“I’m so sorry. You look fabulous,” he added and meant it.

“Thank you,” she knew he expected her to compliment him back, but she didn’t. “Shall we eat?” She noted his outfit looked new—everything an expensive brand name.

“Certainly,” Gates replied and turned to face the maître d’hôtel.

“Good evening, Mr. Ballenger. Your usual table is ready,” the headwaiter said, ogling Jenny.

“Thank you, Tony.” Gates was certain she was impressed by the way he was being treated. Gates was a big tipper, but only when using the company Amex.

“Tony… a bottle of Caymus Cabernet Sauvignon, Special Selection, please. Two thousand seven, if you have it. If not, I’ll settle for the two thousand two,” Gates said in his most sophisticated voice. Jenny tried to keep a straight face.

“I’m so sorry. I assumed you like wine,” Gates said, turning to Jenny to apologize.

“That’s fine. You’re doing good… so far,” she replied as the waiter handed her a menu.

“
Wine Spectator
’s review of the two thousand seven vintage is as descriptive of you as it is the wine: ‘firm, ripe, and muscular,’” Gates quoted, laying it on thick.