Knock Out

57

WINNETT, NORTH CAROLINA

It was late afternoon when the black FBI Bell helicopter landed at the small airstrip two miles west of Winnett. The mountains were thick around them, and yet it was so hot and humid when Savich stepped out of the helicopter, he wished he could strip down and find a hose. He helped Sherlock out, and both of them stood there a moment, even the hot gush of air from the helicopter blades better than the still, dead air.

Holding hands, they ducked down and ran toward a small tin building thirty feet away. They turned to see the helicopter lift off. The pilot, Curly Hames, waved to them. They veered off into the shade of the buildings to where a dark green Subaru sat next to a banged-up truck and a rotted-out SUV.

The keys were in the ignition. Savich gave the interior a tolerant look and turned the key.

Sherlock sniffed. “The car smells new; that’s big of the field office. Okay, we’re going to meet Cully at the Chevron gas station on Market Street, only about half a mile from Victor Nesser’s apartment on Pulitzer Prize Road. Then we’ll go to Victor’s apartment, meet up with Bernie Benton, and wait until Lissy and Victor show.” She grinned. “Weird name. Turns out that Winnett native Marvin Hemlick won a Pulitzer some forty years ago for writing about a nasty Ku Klux Klan chapter here. Anyway, when last I spoke to Cully, he said he and Bernie had Victor’s place covered, but nothing was happening, and time was moving slow as molasses in this heat and both he and Bernie were getting antsy.”

She pulled out her cell and dialed Cully’s number. There was no answer, only voice mail. Sherlock frowned, dialed again, got voice mail again. “Why doesn’t he pick up? I told him I’d call the minute we were here. Cully’s known for being so type A, his shoes nearly walk by themselves. What could he be doing?”

“Do you have Bernie’s cell phone number?” Savich asked as he negotiated a left turn onto Market Street.

She shook her head. “Let’s get to the Chevron station, see if Cully’s there. Maybe his phone’s dead.” Like either of them believed that, Sherlock thought, and tightened her seat belt. Even the seat belt smelled new.

“We’ll be there in a minute; hang on, sweetheart.”

She noticed the countryside was quite pretty as they drove by— tree-covered hills rising slowly to higher hills, and finally they saw the mountains behind them. Pine and oak trees crammed the slopes, enough for a thousand houses, Sherlock thought, without making a dent.

Savich slowed through Winnett’s small downtown. The three-block center was set squarely on flat land; the townspeople must have long ago taken a bulldozer to smooth it out. Red brick and wooden buildings crowded together along Market Street, and wherever there weren’t buildings, there were trees crowding in. It was quite lovely, really, but it was so hot even in the late afternoon, Savich imagined you could fry spit on the sidewalk.

The downtown was quiet, dead, only a couple of teenagers milling around outside. Dinnertime, he thought, and escape from the oppressive heat, maybe some hoses going to cool off in the backyards.

The Chevron sign appeared ahead on a right-hand corner. An old man stood in the doorway of the Quik Mart, arms folded over his chest, watching a young guy pump gas into a white Mustang convertible. There were a couple of cars waiting to be serviced, but there was no sign of Agent Cully Gwyn.

Savich didn’t pause. “Let’s go over to Pulitzer Prize Road, take a look at Victor’s apartment building. Maybe they’re there, watching, forgot the time, whatever.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but she didn’t like it. She was tense, on edge. She punched her cell phone’s GPS on, and a dulcet female voice told them to turn right in point-five miles. A minute later, they pulled onto Victor’s street in a neighborhood of the small ranch-style houses set back from the road on big yards with pine and oak trees cozied up to the houses. They were lucky it rained here a lot, or the town would never have survived forest fires for so long.

Pulitzer Prize Road was unexpectedly long. Finally the houses began to peter out, and at the very end of the street, on the very edge of Winnett, stood Victor’s apartment building. It wasn’t much, a two-story brick building with maybe six apartments. But the yard was big and green, like all the other yards, and there was a red brick walkway that led up to the door. There was only one house beyond the apartment building, the grass overgrown, its windows boarded up, obviously vacant. Beyond that decrepit house stretched a narrow two lane road that disappeared into the thick oak and pine trees. Every-thing looked limp.

“If the locals don’t take care,” Sherlock said, looking around, “the forest is going to consume the town. Nothing but oaks and pines everywhere. It looks like they swallow up the road.”

“I wouldn’t mind sitting under an oak tree about now,” Savich said, looking up at the afternoon sun, hot and high in the cloudless sky, “what with the temperature hovering around a hundred, and the humidity at two thousand. Do you know what the problem is—the sun’s too big down here.”

“We could join that golden retriever over there snoozing away under that pine tree. Everybody must be huddled around their air conditioners.”

“If Cully and Bernie are watching the apartment building from close by, they could be inside that empty house,” Savich said. “Do you see anyone? A car? Anything?”

They looked around carefully, saw nothing but the sun beating down. The trees were utterly still, not a breath of moving air.

Savich turned the car around and headed back toward town. He parked a couple of blocks from the apartment building, between a Toyota SUV and an F-l 50 truck. They walked back toward the building, their SIGs pressed against their sides to avoid any panic from passersby. They needn’t have bothered. Not a single soul appeared, not Cully or Bernie either. They could be well hidden, Savich thought, but surely they’d have recognized them, at least recognized Sherlock’s bright hair. This wasn’t good, Savich knew it.

Savich would swear the air pulsed with heat. He saw the humidity was making Sherlock’s hair curlier. She turned to him. “Why don’t Cully and Bernie let us know where they are?”

Savich said nothing; what was there to say? He opened the apartment-building front door and stepped into a tiny lobby that held one palm tree and six mailboxes, painted white. The temperature dropped at least thirty degrees.

“It’s like I’ve died and gone to an ice locker,” she said. She flapped her arms, enjoying it.

They looked at the mailboxes even though they knew Victor lived in apartment 403, but why was there a number like that in a two-story apartment building?

“Let’s take the stairs,” he said. “Stay alert.”

They didn’t meet anyone on the stairs. Savich imagined a lot of people were inside, eating dinner. They heard children arguing over whether to watch an old Star Trek episode or Batman, but no adult voices.

The hallway was wide and dark, all the apartment doors painted different colors. Victor Nesser’s apartment was at the very end of the second-floor hall. His front door was painted bright green, with big brass numbers—403.

Sherlock stepped forward, knocked on the door, and waited a moment, her SIG ready. “Mr. Nesser? It’s Clorie Smith, from the Winnett Herald Weekly. I’m here to offer you a full month’s free subscription, four free issues.”

No answer.

She knocked again. “Mr. Nesser?”

No sound, nothing from inside the apartment.

Savich pressed his ear to the door.

He didn’t hear anything at first, pressed his ear closer. He heard a muffled sound—a person’s voice? He didn’t wait, motioned for Sherlock to step back, and he kicked the door in. It flew open, banging against the wall. They went in, fanning their SIGs, and found themselves in a small entry hall, a living room to the right connected to a small dining area and kitchen.

Empty.

A muffled voice yelled, “In here!”

The voice was coming from the bedroom. Savich stepped toward it when the man shouted again, “No! Don’t come in! There’s a bomb and a trip wire!”