The Judge’s List

38

The first two calls went unanswered, which was not unusual, especially on a Saturday. He nodded, said try again.

“Could you please put the gun down?” she asked.

“No.”

He just sat there, five feet away, his back to the fire, with the thirty-inch section of nylon rope draped around his collar and falling harmlessly to his chest. “Try again.”

She had lost all feeling in her ankles and feet, and maybe that was a good thing. They were numb, so if they were broken the pain could not be felt. But the numbness was radiating up her legs and she felt paralyzed. She had asked to use the restroom. He said no. She had not moved in hours, and had no idea of the time.

On the third call, Lacy answered.

“Lacy, hi, it’s Jeri, how are you dear?” she sang as cheerily as humanly possible with a six-inch barrel watching every move. He raised the gun a few inches.

They went back and forth with the weather, the beautiful spring day, then got down to business with the FBI’s futile search for Bannick.

“They’ll never find him,” Jeri said, staring into Bannick’s soulless eyes.

She closed her own and launched into the fiction: an anonymous informant had given her clear physical proof that would nail Bannick. She couldn’t discuss it on the phone — they needed to meet and it was urgent. She was hiding in a motel two hours away and she didn’t care what was planned for the evening. Cancel it.

She said, “My car is in the lot on the south side of the motel. Park next to it, I’ll be watching. And Lacy, please come alone. Is that possible?”

“Sure — there’s no danger, right?”

“No more than usual.”

The conversation was brief, and when she hung up Bannick actually smiled. “See, you are a gifted liar.”

She handed him the burner and said, “Please, give me the dignity of going to the bathroom.”

He put away the gun and the phone and reached to unlock her ankle chains and cuffs. He tried to help her stand but she pushed him away, her first contact made in anger. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

She stood for a moment as the blood rushed to her feet and lower legs, and the pain returned in hot bolts. He handed her a walking cane, which she took to steady herself. She was tempted to crack him with it, to strike at least one blow for all the victims, but she wasn’t balanced enough. Besides, he would easily subdue her and the aftermath wouldn’t be pretty. She shuffled into a small bedroom where he waited, with the pistol, as she managed to lock the door to a closet-style bathroom with no tub or shower. And no window. The dim light barely worked. She relieved herself and sat on the toilet for a long time, so content to be locked away from him.

Content? She was a dead woman and she knew it. Now, what had she done to Lacy?

She flushed again, though it wasn’t necessary. Anything to stall. He finally tapped on the door and said, “Let’s go. Time’s up.”

In the bedroom, he nodded at the bed and said, “You can rest in here. I’ll be right in there. That window is locked and it won’t open anyway. Do anything stupid and you know what will happen.”

She almost thanked him, but caught herself and stretched out on the bed. It was the perfect time and place for a sexual assault, but she wasn’t worried. Evidently, it never crossed his mind.

Though the cabin was warm, she pulled a dusty blanket over herself anyway and was soon sleepy. It was the fatigue, the fear, and probably the remnants of his drugs still racing through her body.

When she was asleep, he popped a benny and tried to stay awake.

Always eager to show off for a pretty girl, even for his sister, Gunther had the idea of flying off to lunch and dining on great seafood. He claimed that all small aircraft pilots in that part of the world were familiar with Beau Willie’s Oysters on a bayou near Houma, Louisiana. A 4,000-foot airstrip was surrounded by water on three sides and made for white-knuckle landings. Once on the ground, the restaurant was a ten-minute walk. During the day, most of the customers were pilots out looking for fun and good food.

When they landed and got out of the plane, Lacy checked her phone. Jeri had called twice. Seconds later, she called again and they chatted as she followed her brother to Beau Willie’s. Though the call was somewhat mysterious, the news was breathtaking. Clear proof that would nail Bannick.

Her appetite vanished but she managed to choke down half a dozen raw oysters as she watched Gunther gorge on a dozen for starters and then attack a fried oyster po’boy. They talked about Aunt Trudy and got that out of the way. He quizzed her about any news on the Allie front and again offered too much advice. It was time for her to find a husband and start a family and forget the notion of going through life alone. She reminded him that he was perhaps the last person she would listen to when the subject was long-term commitments. That was always good for a laugh and Gunther was a sport about it. She asked about his current flame and he seemed as disinterested as he’d been two weeks earlier.

“Got a question,” she said as she sipped iced tea. Gunther had toyed with the idea of a cold beer, even said he had never eaten oysters without one, but he was, after all, flying an airplane.

“Anything.”

“I just got a call that sort of changes my plans. There’s a town called Crestview about an hour east of Pensacola, population twenty thousand. I need to meet an important witness there at nine tonight. Would it be possible to land there and rent a car?”

“Probably. Any town of that size will have an airport. What’s going on?”

“It’s big.” She glanced around. They were on a deck at the edge of the water and the other tables were empty. It was almost 5:00 p.m., on a Saturday, too late for lunch and too early for dinner. The bar was crowded with locals drinking beer.

“Last time I mentioned that we’re investigating a judge who might be involved in a murder.”

“Sure. Not one of your run-of-the-mill cases.”

“Hardly. Well, the call came from our star witness and she says she has some important information. I need to see her.”

“In Crestview?”

“Yes. It’s on the way home. Could we stop there?”

“I guess I’m not going back to Atlanta tonight.”

“Please. It would be a big favor, plus I’d like to have someone with me.”

Gunther pulled out his smartphone and went online. “No problem. They say they have rentals. This could be dangerous?”

“I doubt it. But a little caution might be in order.”

“I love it.”

“And this is strictly confidential, Gunther.”

He laughed and looked around. “And who might I tell?”

“Just keep it between us.”

He stood in the dark room beside her bed and listened to her heavy breathing. His instincts told him to take the rope dangling from his left hand and finish her off. It would be the easiest one of all. He could do it quickly, effortlessly, then wipe down the cabin and drive away. It would be days before she was found.

On the one hand, he hated her for what she had done to him. She had brought down his world and his life would never be the same. She and she alone had stalked him, tracked him, and now his game was over. But on the other hand, he couldn’t help but admire her pluck, brains, and doggedness. This woman had done better work than a hundred cops in several states, and now he was on the run.

He tossed the rope onto the bed, took a microfiber cloth wet with ether, and held it onto her face. As she jerked, he clasped one arm around her neck and held the cloth as tightly as possible with his hand. She fought and kicked but was no match. A minute passed and she began to go limp. When she was still, he released his grip and put away the cloth. Slowly, methodically, he took a hypodermic needle and poked it into her arm. Five hundred milligrams of ketamine, enough to keep her out several hours. He toyed with the idea of another dose, but it was risky. Too much and she might never wake up. If he had to kill her, he preferred doing it the proper way.

He walked into the other room, tossed some more files onto the fire, picked up the handcuffs and ankle chains, and took them to the bed where he pinned her wrists tightly behind her back and locked the cuffs. He secured her ankles with the chains, and for fun wrapped the nylon rope lightly around her neck. As always, he was wearing plastic gloves, but for good measure he wiped down the surfaces anyway. He checked the windows, again, and could not open them. It was an old cabin, and in bad repair, and the windows had been locked by dried paint and disuse. He burned the last of the files, and when he was certain the fire was safe he locked the cabin’s only door, stepped onto the porch, and checked his watch. 7:10. He was about an hour north of Crestview, near Gantt Lake, in Alabama.

The dirt trail wound through the woods with only an occasional glimpse of the lake. It passed a drive here and there but the other cabins were not visible. He turned onto a gravel road and waved at two scruffy teenagers on ATVs. They stopped to watch him go by.

He preferred not to be seen by anyone and debated returning to the cabin, just to make sure the kids were not curious. He let it pass, called it paranoia. The gravel eventually yielded to a paved county road and he was soon on a state highway, headed south.