Death Logs Out Page 3

  Chapter 8

  Wake County, North Carolina

  Rick Martin worked only a few days a year. In those few days, however, he lived on the edge between life and death, his life and other people’s death. At least so far.

  A strapping man in his forties, he stood six feet tall with an erect, military posture. His brown-reddish hair was wavy, a little long, a bit unkempt, like a preoccupied university professor’s. He sported a mid-length beard that was red, redder than the hair on his head. He wore old, faded jeans or khakis, a simple button-down shirt and, on those cool days or nights, a woolen sweater. He always wore a pair of simple, rugged black boots.

  The real loves of Rick’s life, however, could be found in a securely locked closet in his bedroom: they included Smith and Wesson semi-automatic pistols, Berettas, Russian assault rifles, high-powered long-range rifles equipped with night vision scopes, and popular police issue Glock 19’s. These were the tools of his trade.

  He sat in the wooden rocking chair on the porch of his old farm house, a simple white clapboard house in northern Wake County, North Carolina, about forty minutes outside of Chapel Hill. He rented the old place from the two Smith brothers, Billy and Jimmy, who owned and operated a large, hundred-acre farm where they raised cattle in an environmentally conscientious manner. Rick was a good tenant. His old house sat on the edge of the property, nearest the road, Lee Street, and away from the main activities going on in the other ninety-nine or so acres. He seemed reasonably articulate, in a redneck kind of way. No one had ever seen any visitors to his house. He didn’t appear to have a job with regular hours yet never seemed strapped for cash. He drove a relatively new black Jeep Cherokee. The windows were tinted so that you couldn’t see who was inside, an unusual feature for a vehicle in that part of the world. In Wake County, however, people didn’t ask a lot of questions.

  Rick never installed a land-line in the house, preferring his cell phone for the infrequent incoming calls. He rarely initiated a call himself. He was a loner and he liked it just that way.

  So it was a surprise when his cell phone rang this afternoon and an even greater but very pleasant surprise when he saw the international 379 area code.

  Chapter 9

  Wake County, North Carolina

  Rick Martin started the engine of his Jeep Grand Cherokee. It was good to be working again, especially for a client he already knew and trusted. He laughed; who would ever believe that his biggest employer was one of the most powerful and respected organizations in the world? They said they’d received a call from this woman and had traced it back to this area but that she lived somewhere else.

  Although Chapel Hill was just a college town, it adjoined two large cities, Raleigh and Durham, and was surrounded by miles of sparsely populated farmland. There were plenty of places for a professional killer to hide, even one with a hostage.

  The first stop would be a trip to the Raleigh-Durham Airport. He’d check in with his network of buddies there, particularly airport security and the good folks at Hertz and Avis.

  He glanced again at the photographs on the seat beside him. As soon as he’d gotten the email he printed out ten copies. She was pretty, with long black hair. Her name was printed on the bottom, “Sindy Steele.” That had to be an alias, who the hell names their daughter Sindy with an S?

  But the sound of his phone ringing again—the second time in the last several hours, if not months—brought him out of his thoughts. He took his foot off the gas pedal.

  “Rick, it’s Fletcher.”

  “Chief Fanelli—man, it’s nice to hear from you, buddy,” he whispered into the phone. “Hey, how’ve you been? Hey, I didn’t recognize the number. Where are you calling from, New York City or something?”

  “I’m using my private cell. I’m doing well—but, listen, I’ve got a problem. A big one. Are you still living in North Carolina?”

  “You know I love it down here, chief. Yep, I’m in my same house in Wake County.”

  “That’s Chapel Hill, right?”

  All of a sudden, this is the place to be. “Yes sir, right nearby. What can I do for you?”

  “I need for you to rescue a young lady who’s been kidnapped. She’s my goddaughter, a student there at UNC, Sofia Nicholas. You’ve got to get her out as quickly as possible—unharmed.”

  “Do you know who’s got her?”

  “Yes, a woman, a professional killer, Sindy Steele.”

  Rick couldn’t believe his ears. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?” he said, before catching himself.

  “What do you mean?” Fletcher said.

  “I mean no matter where these ladies are—I’ll find them for you.”

  “I know where they are.” Fletcher said.

  “Well . . . ” Rick answered. “The pieces were falling into place. “We’re half-way there then, aren’t we?”

  “They’re at the Holiday Inn Express right outside of Chapel Hill.”

  Rick knew this was his lucky day. “I know right where it is.”

  “Rick, we need to get that young lady—her name’s Sofia Nicholas—out of there alive and unharmed. And I mean, not a scratch.”

  “Chief, what about the other woman, this Sindy Steele?”

  “She’s a problem. One I’d prefer went away . . . Permanently.”

  “I got it.”

  “The young girl is all we care about.”

  “Chief, let me ask you something, is anyone else looking for her?” Rick sensed he was about to get paid twice for the same job.

  “No, I can’t imagine anyone else is looking for her. She’s an independent contractor, you might say. She’s on her own. No one else is looking for her and no one will really miss her when she’s taken care of.”

  Rick Martin always wanted to believe there was a God. Now he knew for sure.

  Chapter 10

  It took him fifteen minutes to get to the motel and a crisp hundred-dollar bill to find out from the desk clerk which room the tall pretty lady was staying in. Two hundred more and he had the room next door.

  Martin placed his stethoscope against the adjoining wall between his room and the one where Sindy Steele was holding Sofia Nicholas. Even before he inserted the attached earphones securely in his ear he could hear the sound of the television through the wall.

  He unwrapped his tools, feeling like a dentist surveying his picks and utensils. He stretched out the thin, flexible cable of the fiber optic snake camera, then an equally miniscule hand drill.

  Finally settling in to listen, he felt a sense of relaxation, that warm inner peace that came from knowing he had successfully cornered his target, had a solid plan in place and now just needed to execute it as he had done so many times before.

  He could hear everything from Sindy Steele’s room as clearly as if he was sitting on the bed with her, which was where he wouldn’t mind being under different circumstances. He wondered if she was fully dressed or, perhaps, in her lingerie, or less. His mind wandered as he fantasized about her.

  He had seen several photographs of her, supplied separately by his two clients. The ones from Chief Fanelli were the most interesting, sexy, candid shots. Then he wondered too about young Sofia. The university coeds had always attracted him with their lithe young, half-naked bodies parading around campus. He was anxious to place the camera scope through the wall. But first he had to listen and wait for the right moment to do it.

  He sat back in the faux wood desk chair, closed his eyes and tried to place himself next door, inside room 112.

  “It’s a business dinner, Janelle. I made a lot of money with him last year. It paid for your jewelry, including that pretty necklace you’re wearing. I didn’t see the big deal if the guy wanted to squeeze your ass a little.”

  He instantly recognized the show. Two years ago, he’d hung out with a woman who was addicted to Dr. Frank. At first he couldn’t stand to watch it and would do anything to pass the time some other way while she sat in his farmhouse, glued to the screen. But the
n he found himself repeatedly glancing up to the screen himself. Embarrassed, at first he tried to hide his growing fascination. Then, as his attention became impossible to conceal, he confessed that he found it “mildly interesting.” But once she left him for the last time, he never again tuned in. His mind was wandering again. “Come on, Rick, get yourself focused here,” he whispered to himself. But the show drew him in once again.

  “What happened then, say after he left? Did you discuss it?”

  It was funny to hear Dr. Frank’s voice again on television.

  “No, then he wanted me to do it on the kitchen table. I still hadn’t pick up the dinner dishes. I had to just push everything aside.”

  Finally, above the noise of Dr. Frank, he heard her.

  “Okay, Sofia, we’re going to spend the night here. I’ve got to keep your mouth taped a while longer. I’ll give you a chance to eat one of those cheeseburgers later as long as you promise not to scream or do anything stupid. I’ve got to keep you bound up, though. If you scream or speak above a whisper you won’t eat or drink again. Do you understand? Anyway, there’s no one around. This place is dead tonight.”

  Rick smiled, this was just what he wanted to hear. He glanced to his right, eyeing the bottle of Wild Turkey he had placed on the desk, alongside the hotel’s plastic cup encased in a small plastic bag. He wanted to pour himself a good shot but it would have to wait . . . until it was over. Looking at it only made it worse. He thought again of the picture of Sindy Steele, the one that showed her long slim legs in black stockings and high-heeled stilettos as she was stepping out of a limousine. He remembered looking more closely at first, wondering whether he saw a glimpse of her white thighs above the stocking line. It had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Now his mind was racing. He wondered if there could be any chance that he could somehow, out of this situation . . .

  He caught himself. He knew better. Just carry out the mission. He’d never gaze at whatever mysteries awaited Sindy Steele’s lovers above those firm thighs.

  Sindy Steele would not see the morning light. He hoped Sofia Nicholas would be luckier.

  Chapter 11

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina

  It took only ten minutes for him to drill the hole, about the width of a tiny nail, through the adjoining wall and thread the fiber optic wire and lens through. He could see virtually everything now.

  Rick Martin hadn’t yet heard Sofia Nicholas speak but he could make her out in the corner of the room, bound in duct tape and secured to one of the two double beds. He could still hear the television and, occasionally, would hear Steele. He felt encased inside their room, watching the two women watching television.

  He felt something unusual inside him, a lack of concentration, as though he were outside himself, watching him watching them. It was something he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was because he had not an “assignment” in nearly a year.

  Sitting at the desk facing the wall between them, he thought about how he would enter Steele’s room. He had already lifted a master key intended for the housekeeping staff. The chain would be identical to the one on his own door and would offer no resistance to his thrust. But, for now, as long as Steele didn’t make any threatening move toward Sofia, he’d just listen.

  His plan wasn’t complicated. He’d wait until Steele was asleep, burst through her door, and shoot her dead before she could harm him or Sofia. As he watched them through the wall with his camera, he rehearsed the plan over and over in his mind. It promised to be a long night.

  Steele was talking to Sofia. Unable to speak, Sofia’s eyes seemed to be screaming with fear—no, terror.

  “I loved your father. And he loved me; believe me. I could have killed him, a year ago, they were going to pay me a lot of money to do it. And I almost did it because he’d turned on me. All of a sudden he wanted to get rid of me, he thought I was unstable, I knew what he thought—I’d overheard his calls—but it didn’t stop him from fucking me, did it? No, he kept fucking me even after he knew he was going to dump me. That’s why I took the assignment when these guys called me. And then . . . I just changed my mind. Mostly ’cause I could see they were going to get rid of me then, too. Anyway, I saved his life. It doesn’t matter why. I think he’d take me back too if it wasn’t for his wife . . . your mother, I guess, right?”

  Rick zoomed in closer to Steele, checking to see exactly what kind of weapons she had and exactly where they were. She was on the second twin bed, facing Sofia. Her gun was on the nightstand.

  “You don’t believe me? You think I’m nuts or something, too? It must run in the family.”

  Sofia was shaking her head but Steele wasn’t paying any attention.

  “You don’t believe your daddy could do all this, do you? Hold on, let me show you.”

  Steele reached into her handbag and pulled out what appeared to be a digital recording device. She played with the buttons and then put the machine on the edge of Sofia’s bed.

  “Listen.”

  The recording was loud and clear. Rick didn’t recognize the voice but it was apparently Sofia’s father, Michael Nicholas.

  “She’s crazy, Samantha.” Talking to his wife, it seemed.

  “You promised me this was over –” A woman’s voice. The wife.

  Michael again: “She’s dangerous. We know what she’s capable of doing. Fletcher got his hands on a sealed court document from when she was in med school. They couldn’t prove it but the cops at Stanford believe she murdered her boyfriend. And do you know why? He’d just moved out on her.”

  “Maybe next time, if you’re going to screw around you could at least have the good sense not to do it with a schizophrenic murderer.” Good one.

  Sindy Steele moved closer to Sofia, her face just inches from Sofia’s duct-taped mouth. Rick tensed up, wondering now if he would have to move in earlier than he’d planned.

  “Let me ask you something, Sofia,” Steele said, her voice breaking. “Do you think I’m a schizophrenic murderer?”

  Chapter 12

  40,000 feet over Maryland

  Michael looked out into the night. Through the window of the Gulfstream 150, the lights of Baltimore twinkled far below. Facing Fletcher in the seat across from him, he nervously fingered his phone until he couldn’t wait any longer.

  “She may not answer; don’t get upset,” Fletcher said.

  But she did.

  No hello, or who is this? She knew it was him.

  “It’s funny how fragile life is.” She was either crying or so angry her voice wasn’t as strong as when they last spoke. “You know when your mouth is taped up, the only way you can breathe is through the two little nostrils in your nose. Just two tiny holes –”

  “Sindy, please –”

  “And the real funny thing, what makes you realize how easy it is to just put someone’s lights out, forever, is . . . all you have to do is take about another two inches of tape and you seal up those little holes—and then it’s all over. That person is gone. They kind of . . . implode.”

  “I’m on my way down there. Let’s sit down and talk this through.” He had to be careful not to let her know that he knew her exact location. “Tell me where you are.”

  “That’s all it takes, just another piece of tape. I don’t know why we bother with guns and things. This is so clean, so easy. Even for the girl here. Just a bit of choking for maybe a minute or two.”

  “Sindy, I’m so sorry if I hurt you. I really am. You have to believe that. I didn’t know how else to handle things –”

  “Me too. I don’t know how else to handle things either,” she said.

  There was a pause, Michael wasn’t sure what it meant or what to say. “What can I do?”

  “Oh, forgive me, I was just reaching for the roll of tape. Don’t you hate it when the tape sticks back on the roll and you have to try and lift it up the end with your nails to get another piece?”

  “Sindy –”

  “Good bye, Michael
, I’m busy now.”

  Chapter 13

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina

  Rick moved the eye of the scope so he could see around the room, checking first on Sofia, who was squirming, apparently trying to get loose. He looked around for Steele. Their bathroom was the only part of the room that wasn’t visible to the camera’s hidden eyeball. She must have gone there after disconnecting Michael’s call. At least she’d moved away from Sofia.

  He waited, expecting to hear a toilet flush; he pointed the camera back to Sofia, still struggling to get free, she looked terrified. As she struggled she kept glancing down to the foot of her bed. Rick manipulated the camera to the spot she appeared to be watching but saw nothing unusual. There was no one there.

  He looked again for Steele. How long does it take a woman to go to the damned john? Maybe those skin-tight jeans were hard to get up and down.

  He scanned the room again, rapidly this time, moving the scope as far to each side as he could. Where was Steele? She had to be taking a shit. But he could hear her, speaking.

  “Let me ask you something, Sofia,” Steele said, repeating her earlier remark, “Do you think I’m a schizophrenic murderer? I don’t know about the schizophrenic part but I guess I do know about the murderer stuff. That’s a sure thing.”

  He watched Sofia as she struggled harder.

  Steele repeated it again, “Let me ask you something, Sofia. Do you think I’m a schizophrenic murderer?” And again, “Let me ask you something, Sofia. Do you think I’m a schizophrenic murderer?”

  Yes, lady, I do, no matter how many times you ask. You are fucking nuts.

  As he listened Rick kept visually rehearsing his commando-style, surprise entry into Steele’s room.

  Then something caught his eye again. It was what Sofia had been looking at: Sindy Steele’s iPhone on the other bed. Why was Sofia staring at it?

  His own world was closed off by the sounds from Room 112 echoing through his earphones. But she was still repeating . . . He took his eye off the scope, then moved his head slightly to the left to look at his door. He removed his earphones and listened. There were no noises in his own room, all was still. He stood up and looked around. Everything was okay; the chain, although mostly useless, remained in place on the door.