Spartan Gold

CHAPTER 5

Headlights still off, Sam slowly steered the BMW up the road, trying to avoid potholes, until they were within fifty yards of the driveway, then shut off the engine.

Sam said, “Will you please wait in the car?”

Remi frowned at him. “Hi, it seems we haven’t met.” She stuck out her hand for him to shake. “I’m Remi Fargo.”

Sam sighed. “Point taken.”

They had a brief strategy/what-if/worse-case-scenario talk, then Sam gave her his sport coat and they climbed out.

They stepped off the road into the drainage ditch, which was shielded by high grass on either side. It ran up to the driveway, where it was funneled into a culvert.

Hunched over, pausing every few steps to listen, they followed the ditch to the driveway, then climbed up the bank and began picking their way through the trees. After twenty feet the trees began to thin out and they found themselves at the edge of a clearing.

The space was immense, perhaps two square acres filled with hulking tubular shapes, some the size of garages, some the size of compact cars, lying at angles like a child’s set of pick-up sticks. As Sam’s eyes adjusted to the darkness he realized what he was seeing: a boiler junkyard. How and why it was here, in the middle of the Maryland countryside, he didn’t know, but here it was. Judging from their size he guessed the boilers had come from a variety of sources—locomotives, ships, and factories. The falling rain pattered the leaves around them and pinged softly on the steel of the boilers, sending echoes through the trees.

“Well, this is the last thing I was expecting to find here,” Remi whispered.

“Me, too.” And this told them something about Ted’s assailant. Either he knew this area well or he’d done some homework before coming here. Neither thought gave Sam much comfort.

The Buick Lucerne was parked in the middle of the clearing, but there was no sign of either Frobisher or the car’s driver. Clearly they’d gone deeper into this maze of boilers. But why come here? Sam wondered. The first answer that came to mind chilled him. What Ted’s abductor had planned for him was unknown but one thing seemed certain: The man wanted privacy. Or a place to leave a body. Or both. Sam felt his heartbeat quicken.

“We can cover more ground if we split up,” Remi suggested.

“Forget it. We don’t know who this guy is or what he’s capable of.”

He was about to step out from the trees, when an idea formed in his head. A Buick Lucerne. Buick . . . GMC. He pulled Remi back into cover and said, “Wait here, be right back.”

“What—”

“Just stay put. I’m not going far.”

He took one last look around, watching for the slightest movement, then, seeing nothing, dashed out and headed for the Lucerne. He reached the driver’s-side door, crouched down, then said a quick prayer and tried the door handle. It clicked open. The dome light popped on. He clicked the door shut again.

Damn! At least there was no “keys in the ignition” chime.

Nothing to do but risk it.

Sam opened the door, slid inside, shut the door behind him, then waited for thirty seconds, occasionally peeking over the dashboard. Nothing was moving. He began looking around the car’s interior and found what he was looking for almost immediately. Set into a panel on the dashboard was a button labeled ONSTAR. Sam pushed it. Twenty seconds passed, then a voice came over the radio speakers.

“This is Dennis at OnStar, how may I assist you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Sam grunted. “I’ve been in a crash. I’m hurt. I need help.”

“Sir, do you know your location?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“Stand by, sir.” Five seconds passed. “All right, sir, I have your location near Black Road, west of Princess Anne in Maryland.”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

“I’ve alerted the 911 dispatcher in your area. Help is on the way.”

“How long?” Sam croaked, doing his best injured-driver impression.

“Six to seven minutes, sir. I’ll stay with you. . . .”

But Sam was already moving, slipping back out of the car and shutting the door behind him. Using his pocketknife he punched a hole in the left rear tire’s valve stem. He then crawled around to the opposite side, repeated the process on the other tire, then sprinted back to the trees and rejoined Remi.

“OnStar?” Remi asked with a smile.

Sam kissed her on the cheek. “Great minds.”

“How long until the cavalry arrives?”

“Six, seven minutes. It’d be great if we were gone before then. I’m not in a question-and-answer mood.”

“Me neither. I’m in a warm brandy mood.”

“Ready for a little hide-and-seek?”

“Lead on.”

They had little hope of following any footprints in the mud so he and Remi dashed across the clearing and began picking their way through the paths and tunnels formed by the boiler graveyard. Sam found two pieces of rebar and gave the shorter one to Remi and kept the longer one for himself. They’d gotten only fifty feet or so when they heard a faint voice through the falling rain.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about . . . what piece?”

It was Ted.

A male voice said something in return, but neither Sam nor Remi could make out the words.

“That thing? It was a piece of a bottle. Nothing important.”

Sam turned his head, trying to catch the sound and narrow in on where it was coming from. Using hand gestures, Sam pointed ahead and to the left, under an arch formed by a boiler that had half collapsed against its neighbor. She nodded. Once they were through the arch the voices became more distinct.

“I want you to tell me exactly where you found it,” the unidentified man was saying. The voice was accented, either eastern European or Russian.

“I told you, I don’t remember. It was somewhere on the river.”

“The Pocomoke River?”

“Right,” Ted replied.

“Where?”

“Why are you doing this? I don’t understand what—”

There was a slapping sound, something hard striking flesh. Ted grunted, followed by a splash as he obviously fell over in a mud puddle.

“Get up!”

“I can’t!”

“I said, get up!”

Sam signaled for Remi to wait as he crept ahead, pressed himself against the wall of the boiler, then slid ahead until he could see around the curve.

There, in a space between a pair of pickup truck-sized boilers, was Ted Frobisher. He was on his knees, arms bound behind his back. His assailant stood a few feet in front of him, a flashlight in his left hand, a revolver in his right. He was pointing the gun at Ted’s chest.

“Tell me where you found it and I’ll take you home,” the man said. “You can forget all about this.”

There’s a lie if ever I’ve heard one, Sam thought. Whoever this man was he hadn’t brought Ted all the way out here only to take him back home and tuck him safely into bed. So sorry about all this, have a nice night. . . . Whether or not the man got what he’d wanted, Ted’s fate was sealed unless they acted quickly.

Sam thought for a few seconds and formulated a rudimentary plan. He would have preferred a more elegant solution, but they had neither the time nor the resources for that. Besides, simple was often the most elegant. He slid back along the boiler and returned to where Remi was waiting.

He sketched out the scene he had witnessed, then his plan.

“Sounds like you’re getting the most dangerous part,” Remi said.

“I have absolute confidence in your aim.”

“And my timing.”

“That, too. I’ll be right back.”

Sam disappeared into the trees for half a minute, then returned and handed her a rock about the size of a grapefruit.

“Think you can climb that one-handed?” he asked, nodding at the rusty maintenance ladder rising up the side of the nearest boiler.

“If you hear a big thump in the dark you’ll have your answer.” She leaned forward, curled her fist around his shirtfront, and drew him in for a quick kiss. “Listen, Fargo: Try to look harmless and for God’s sake be careful. If you get killed I’ll never forgive you.”

“That makes two of us.”

Sam hefted his piece of rebar and took off at a half sprint, heading back the way he came, then veered right and began circling around. He stopped to check his watch. Six minutes had passed since his OnStar call. He couldn’t wait any longer.

He tucked the rebar into the waistband at his back, then took a calming breath and started walking until he came around a boiler and the pool of light from the flashlight appeared in the darkness. Sam stopped and called out.

“Hey, there, howdy, is everything okay?”

The stranger whipped around, shining his flashlight in Sam’s eyes. “Who are you?”

“I was just driving by,” Sam said. “I saw the car. Thought maybe somebody broke down. Hey, how about not shining that in my eyes?”

In the distance came the faint sound of sirens.

Gun raised, the man spun back to Ted, then back to Sam.

“Whoa, fella, what’s the gun for?”

Sam raised his hands and took a careful step forward.

“Don’t move! Stay right there!”

“Hey, I’m just trying to help.” Breath held, Sam took another step forward, closing the gap to fifteen feet.

Be ready, Remi. . . .

He raised his voice to make sure he could be heard over the rain and said, “If you want me to leave, no problem. . . .”

Remi took her cue, and to his right Sam saw a shadow arcing out of the dark sky from atop the boiler. The stone seemed to hang for an impossibly long time, then landed with a sickening crunch on the man’s right foot. Remi’s aim was dead-on. Though a head shot would have made things much easier, it would have also likely killed the man, a complication they didn’t need.

Even as the man groaned and stumbled backward, Sam was moving, drawing the rebar from his waistband with his left hand as he charged ahead. Arms windmilling, the man was trying to regain his balance and had almost succeeded when Sam’s perfectly timed uppercut caught him squarely in the chin. The gun and flashlight flew up and away, the former landing with a plop in the mud, the latter rolling toward Ted. From the corner of his eye Sam saw Remi appear behind Ted. She lifted him to his feet and together they started running.

The stranger was lying on his back, half sunken in the mud, groaning. Tough customer, Sam thought. That uppercut should have solidly shut off his lights. Sam switched the rebar to his right hand.

The sirens were coming closer now, not two minutes away.

Sam picked up the flashlight and cast it around until he spotted the man’s pistol half buried in the mud a few feet away. Using the tip of his shoe, Sam pried it free, slipped the top of his foot beneath it, and kicked it far into the trees.

He turned back and shined the light into the man’s face. The man stopped moving, eyes squinting against the glare. His face was lean and weathered and he had small, mean eyes and a nose that had clearly been broken many times over. The white line of a scar ran from the bridge of his nose across his right eyebrow and ended just above his temple. Not just tough, Sam now thought. But cruel, too. The eyes told him that much.

Sam said, “Don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who you are or why you’re here, would you?”

The man blinked rapidly, clearing away the cobwebs, then focused on Sam and spat out a word. Russian, Sam thought. Though his Russian was passable for tourist purposes, he didn’t recognize the word. Still, it was a safe bet it had something to do with either his mother, some form of carnal knowledge, or both.

“That had a distinctly unfriendly sound to it,” Sam said. “Let’s try this one more time: Who are you and what’s your business with our friend?”

Another curse, this one a full sentence.

“Didn’t think so,” Sam said. “Well, better luck next time, pal.”

With that he leaned forward and swung the rebar in a tight arc, tapping the man behind the ear with what he hoped was just enough force. Rebar wasn’t the most delicate of weapons. The man grunted and went limp.

“Here’s hoping we never meet again,” Sam said, then turned and started running.