Shock Wave

twenty-nine

“Where’s Alicia?” asked Bill Tasker.

“I got a room at a hotel in case Wells tries to look for her.”

Tasker nodded, avoiding words that rattled in his head. He blinked hard at the bright overhead light as the small Latin doctor inspected the last of his stitches.

“Not bad,” said the forty-year-old doctor, with a light accent. “You won’t have much of a scar on your arm, and the two deeper cuts on your left leg will look like a Christmas wreath. Good work if I do say so myself.” He smiled, filling out crow’s-feet that showed he was sincere. “Judging from some of your other scars, these won’t bother you a bit.”

Tasker timed the throbbing in his head and let out a quick “Thanks.”

“You’ll be sore for a week. That was some tumble you took. Next time you two are fishing, you should ride in the truck’s cab.”

“Will do,” managed Tasker.

“Nothing’s broken, but I want you in bed for at least five days. Understood?”

Tasker nodded.

“Why don’t I believe you?” The doctor looked at Sutter, standing silently in the corner of the small walk-in clinic’s main exam room. “Like I don’t believe the fishing story. But my job is to patch up, not lecture.”

Sutter said, “Good plan.” He handed the man a stack of twenties. “We gotta boogie.”

“Let me get his prescriptions and give this to the cashier,” the doctor said, as he ambled out of the room.

Sutter quickly turned to his partner. “Tell me again why we didn’t go to Jackson and you claim worker’s comp?”

“No time. They’d have me on my back for a week.”

“Like this guy wants.”

“And I will. After we find out what the fuck is going on and grab Daniel Wells.” Tasker looked at him. “And these twenties came from where?”

“Your front pocket.”

“Derrick, that was evidence.”

Sutter nodded his head. “So, when you bend the rules and don’t use worker’s comp and lie to a doctor, it’s to save time. When I do something like that, it’s ‘destroying evidence.’ ”

Tasker’s eyes bulged of their own will. “It is destroying evidence.” They sat in silence a few seconds. Tasker realized these were extraordinary times. “Okay, what do you think we should do next?”

“Let’s go talk to Bolini and figure out what the damn FBI is up to.”

“Not if we’re just fishing. We need some proof.”

“This feels too damn close to the business with Dooley. Fuckin’ Bureau causing shit, and we got our thumbs up our ass.”

Tasker winced as he pulled his shirt up to look at his bruised ribs. Along with the twenty-seven stitches he’d just received in three different places, his legs had a few good patches of road rash, his left arm was turning blue with bruises and he thought one of his teeth felt funny. “We’ve gotta tie up the loose ends.” He slid off the examining table.

Sutter put his hand on Tasker’s tender shoulder. “I know exactly how to tie up the FBI loose ends.”

Jimmy Lail snatched his phone off the front seat on the first ring. “Yo,” he almost shouted. He’d been in a foul mood since Camy had stopped answering her phone. That’s why he was shocked to hear her voice.

“Hey, baby. Sorry I was such a bitch earlier.”

Jimmy smiled. “You da bomb, baby.”

“You wanna come over?”

“When?”

“I’ll be home in an hour. Don’t work out, you’ll need your strength.”

The smile spread across his face. “You got it, baby. I gotta swing by my crib and shower.”

“You may want to wait on that, too.” Her voice had none of the defiance she’d shown the past few weeks.

Now his erection swelled as fast as his smile. “Whatever you say.” He vaguely heard her say goodbye, then tossed the phone back on the front seat. He’d show her what goin’ all night really meant. Some good lovin’ would go a long way to straightening out that attitude she’d had for a few weeks. She’d beg him not to leave. He reached down and cranked NWA until his windows shook.

Just after nightfall, he rolled down Camy’s street in the way-too-white-bread development she lived in. The upstairs was dark and a few lights were on in the rear of the downstairs. Jimmy parked in the driveway, something she normally didn’t approve of. In fact, she usually liked him to park a house or two down. She said it was her old-fashioned streak. She didn’t want the neighbors to think she allowed men to spend the night.

He knocked on the front door and it flew open almost instantly.

All he could do was stare and say, “Wow.”

“Like it?” She laid on her Dixie drawl and smiled.

He nodded, taking her in his arms. The sheer material of the tiny pink teddy smelled like lilac. She bit him on the neck playfully and took his hand, leading him through the living room to what was normally the guest bedroom downstairs. They had done it in there before, rattling the huge brass bed frame and tilting the mirror on the vanity to watch themselves.

Once in the room, she turned and whispered in his ear, “Let’s get dirty tonight.”

“Anything you want, baby.”

She winked and pulled a matching pink teddy from the dresser near the small bathroom.

“Really?” This was new.

She held it up to him and nodded vigorously. Then she pulled out some handcuffs.

That wasn’t too unusual. He shrugged and started to yank off his shirt.

Camy turned him toward the bathroom and said, “Come out ready. I wanna be surprised.” Then she gently shoved him toward the open door.

Inside he flipped the light switch, turning on the bright, clear lights around the mirror. He held the teddy up to the mirror and shook his head. If it made her wild, why not. Even though he’d rather just do it, sleep an hour and do it again. He slipped out of his street clothes and had to survey himself naked for a few moments, then dropped the teddy over his head. It looked miniscule but had amazing stretch capabilities. He pulled it down but was unable to button the crotch over his genitals. What did it matter? He checked himself in the mirror again, then, satisfied, he shut off the lights and made his entrance.

“Look at you,” said Camy from a sprawled position on the queen-sized bed. She patted the mattress. “C’mon, stud.”

He bounded into the bed and grabbed her, trying to un-snap the teddy immediately.

“Hang on there, big fella.” She stroked his rising erection. “Let’s do it right.” She pulled the handcuffs off the small table next to the bed.

“If that’s what you want.” He obligingly stretched out his arms and allowed Camy to run the cuffs through the brass frame and secure his hands.

“That’s a little tight, baby.”

She smiled. “That’s not all that’s tight.”

He felt his breath get short as she slipped off the bed and made a show of walking around the bed. She went back to the dresser and retrieved two sets of leg chains.

“Where’d you get those?”

“Amazing what being nice to the Marshals will get you.” She casually strung one set on each side of the foot of the bed frame, then walked to the bathroom. A couple of seconds later, she walked out with two washcloths. She folded one and placed it inside the metal cuff on the leg chain, then secured his right ankle. The cloth made the tight cuff comfortable. He sighed as she did the same to his left leg.

“Try it,” she said as she gazed at his toned body, spreadeagled on the bed. The pink teddy stretched to its seams around his chest, the white, puffy frills on the shoulders brushing his nose.

He pulled his hands, then each leg, and said, “Baby, that’s tight. Now let’s get dirty.”

She ran a hand down his chest. “You bet, baby,” she purred. Then she walked to the door to the family room and opened it a crack. She walked back toward the bathroom, flicking on the overhead light in the ceiling fan. The room was suddenly lit up like a classroom.

Jimmy squeezed his eyes shut. “Baby, I know you like to see me, but that’s a little bright.” Behind his closed eyelids, he saw a brighter flash and opened his eyes. Two men in bedsheets with pillowcases over their heads like old-time Klansmen stood at the foot of the bed. One had a camera in his hand. He shot another picture, and the flash blinked.

Each man had holes cut out of the pillowcases. One man fumbled with the case to get a better view. Camy remained motionless by the bathroom door, still in the see-through teddy. The broader of the two men, the one without the camera, pulled a slender three-foot baseball bat from behind his back. He slapped it in his hand. Jimmy could read the Fish Billy logo on the handle and knew it was used to club hooked game fish. A chill ran down his back and he felt his bowels loosen.

One man said, “You are so fucked.”

At which moment Jimmy’s bladder just emptied.

“Jesus,” said the man.

Daniel Wells looked down from the cab of the Freightliner with great pride. He had walked onto the Big Rig Academy grounds unseen, used the key he had stolen to start and then drive a tractor right off the lot and through traffic with hardly an incident. He had clipped a parked Chevy, then bumped another car near Seventy-second Avenue, just hard enough to knock it onto the median. The man looked dazed and no one else was around this time of night, so Wells wasn’t worried. First he was headed over to Emerson-Picolo Transportation, and then his problems would begin. He had to hook up to a trailer, alone, then get off the lot. He knew no one was there, he’d already driven past. He had used a series of stolen cars during the evening to get from one spot to the next. They had all been Hondas, that being the only car he knew how to hot-wire. Getting into the cars wasn’t pretty, either. He just shattered the side window and opened the doors. He turned on Thirty-sixth Street and slowed almost immediately as he came up on the lot. He stopped the rig with its blinkers on and hustled to the gate. He tried the key he’d kept from the year before and it worked perfectly. Sliding open the double gate, he trotted back to the truck. After a minute of maneuvering, he was in the lot and close to the small tanker opposite the open gate. That solved a couple of problems. First and most important, it was pointed in the right direction. Second, it was fairly small, about two-thirds the size of a full tanker. He’d checked it to make sure it was full. The cargo was avgas. The small warning placard on the side had the numbers 100/130 written on it, confirming that the cargo was, in fact, aviation fuel. It would blow. He had already tested that theory.

He backed the truck, slowly watching the rearview the whole way. This was something they usually used two men to do. He heard a thump, then a click. He threw the tractor out of gear and set the brake. Jumping out, he raced to the rear, only to discover he had missed the “fifth wheel,” the connector for the trailer, by three feet to the left. Now the trailer was hooked on the truck’s supporting beam.

Back in the cab, he gunned the engine to pull free, but ended up dragging the tanker a few feet. The noise and sparks were horrendous, especially considering the tanker’s load. He hopped out and inspected the connection again. Still hooked to the side.

Then he used his problem-solving mind. He let some air out of the rear tires. When they were half empty, he jumped back in the cab, and the tractor pulled out smoothly.

He lined up the tractor again and then inched it back. As soon as he heard metal on metal, he hopped out and inspected the alignment.

“Incredible,” he said out loud to himself. The connection lined up perfectly, the ball of the trailer-tanker directly in the center of the fifth wheel. Just like a pro. He backed the tractor some more until it locked in place, then secured the trailer, brake lines and electrical connections. His first solo. His heart raced with the engine as he headed toward the open gate. He couldn’t resist blasting the horn like a real trucker. No one was around, and if they were, who would expect a thief to announce himself like that? He was on top of the world.

He reached the gate and turned east on Thirty-sixth Street. He turned a little sharply and took out the fence with the tanker-trailer. He shrugged as he dragged a seventy-foot length of chain-link fence a block before it broke free. He looked in the mirrors. The right one was missing. No problem-still no one around.

An hour later, having to drive much more conservatively and even taking the tanker through part of his planned route, Wells parked it on the side of a residential street that had a patch of pine trees and grass on one side. Two other big rigs sat there. If someone cared to check, they’d think he was just another trucker visiting someone on a long trip.

He hopped out and found a Honda a block away. A swat with the blunt edge of his Buck knife and the window cracked. He used his elbow to finish. It made almost no noise. He was inside the small blue Civic, about to rip the steering column to pieces, when he noticed someone already had. He didn’t know why; if the car was locked, someone had a key. He went with it, touched the two already stripped wires, which caused the small engine to hum to life. He pulled out, appreciating the ease of handling compared to a big rig. A block later, he turned onto a small side street and could see the Orange Bowl right in front of him. That was the best landmark for miles around. He’d thought about leaving the tractor-trailer in the Orange Bowl’s parking lot, but this was less conspicuous. After the Big Rig Academy reported the theft, someone might notice it in the parking lot.

Wells headed south to his duplex to finish the step van, because that was all he’d drive from now on.