Sixteen

From Saugus to Lynn took about twenty minutes, with traffic a breeze, and I followed Wanda’s directions, which were clear and to the point. Lynn is what is called a North Shore community—meaning it was north of Boston—and it was mainly known for three things. One is its famed history of political corruption, which led to the second thing, a schoolyard jingle that goes, “Lynn, Lynn, the city of sin, you never come out, the way you went in.”

A number of convicted state representatives, state senators, and the odd congressman would no doubt agree.

The third thing is its quiet feud with its northern neighbor, Salem, home of the famed witch trials and also home to a nearly year-long festival and Halloween circus invoking its witch history, and bringing in hundreds of thousands of tourists each year to spend their cash.

Fortunate for Salem, and unfortunate for Lynn, the real history is that back in the day, Salem was a much larger community, and most of the witch-related activities—including the bulk of the hangings—took place within the current Lynn boundaries. But the tourists don’t know that, Salem doesn’t mention it, and most everybody ignores poor old Lynn when they try to bring it up.

Clarence’s house was in a sorry-looking cul-de-sac just a couple of minutes from a highway exit leading to Route 1, nearly running parallel to I-95. I got out and checked out his house, again hearing the hum of nearby traffic. The house was a Cape, similar to its neighbors, and its white paint was peeling in places. It had an attached garage, and the grass was about ankle-high. Some kids were playing around two houses down, tossing a football back and forth, two older teenagers and two younger guys, all dressed in blue jeans, hoodies, and backward baseball caps.

I went across the lawn, thinking with melancholy that in a while, this lawn will probably be boasting a for sale sign, and then swung around to the rear. As noted, there was a brick patio back there, right up against some brush and saplings. Two unfolded lawn chairs with rust and an equally rusting outdoor grill were back there. I went to where Wanda had directed me, and yep, there was a loose brick at the very edge.

Underneath the brick was a single key, with a plastic tab attached. I grabbed the key and instead of going back to the front of the house, I went to the rear entrance, and the door opened up right away, into the kitchen.

And into chaos.

Everything in the shelves had been tossed to the floor, from dishware to frying pans to silverware. I slowly walked through the kitchen, and then to the big living room, and the two bedrooms upstairs, taking my time, my hand on the butt of my pistol. The place had been viciously, violently, and professionally searched. Even with the damage and destroyed furniture and broken glassware and framed photos, there was a method and plan to this destruction: to look for something of value. Things weren’t just dumped, they were evaluated and carefully piled up, so there was no confusion of what had been examined as the search progressed.

Examined for what?

Damned if I know.

After some minutes in the house, I stood alone in the living room and tried to piece together what I was seeing. Mentally putting everything back in its place, I saw a bachelor pad—not a swinging bachelor pad, mind you—but a place where a single dad came home to relax. And what were his vices? Being a Red Sox and Patriots fan, watching TV, reading books—paperback novels about military adventures—and not much else.

Yet there was something here, something desired.

I toed a broken photo frame that contained a photo of his twin boys in their Little League uniforms.

Had the mysterious item been located already?

Probably not. It was hard to tell but everything in the house seemed like the damage had been done some time ago, before Carla had ended up in George’s company.

Which meant Wanda and her boys would be in danger until I settled accounts with George and whoever his boss might be.

I reached down, picked up the color photo of the twins, brushed off the glass, and gently placed it on the side of an overturned couch, where the stuffing and insides had been torn out.

I went back out the rear kitchen door, made sure it was locked, and then I returned the key to the brick.

Back around the side of the house, the four guys were still tossing the football around, and one yelled out, “Hey, bud, here it comes!”

So it did.

The football arced high up in the air and I stood next to my Ford, waiting to catch it, when two of the older boys ran as if to intercept it, and instead, hammered me right into the ground.

I fell back and felt foolish, being surprised and knocked down like this. It may have been foolish, but it was also effective. I fell on my back, the kids doing their best to hold me down, and there was a hesitation on my part—I mean, they were still high school age—that gave them an advantage. I started resisting and they were all over me, and then one of the older boys showed up, swore, knelt down, and took out a hand-held Taser, which he pushed into my side.

I grunted and howled, and rolled, and managed to slap at the older boy’s hand, and then I started shaking, trembling, spit flying.

“Good … good … the fucker’s down … now, where the hell is Mel?”

A loud engine came to my attention as I writhed on the lawn. Two of the boys started working on my hands, pulling them together, fastening them tight with plastic zipties.

“Hurry! Hurry, damn it!”

My shins were the next attention of the eager boys. I moaned, kicked, and rolled back and forth, spit dribbling down my chin. A white van rolled to a stop behind my Ford, the driver jumping out and opening a sliding door. I was grabbed, dragged, and dumped into the van. The rear seats had been removed, and there was a dirty carpet I was now lying on. The driver—Mel?—went around the van, the two older boys got in—one in the front, the other joining me in the rear—and the door slid closed and we were off.

The shock of the Taser still reverberated through me, like the waves of water from a tossed stone in a puddle, bouncing back and forth. When I had been dumped into the van, I managed to roll and duck so that my legs were facing the front, where Mel and the other boy sat in individual bucket seats. The interior smelled of grease and old doughnuts, like this had once been a delivery van. With all the doors closed, the van sped away from the cul-de-sac, skidded to a halt at a stop sign, and then got on the road, regaining its speed.

Inside there was a jumble of shouts, commands, and curses. Mel focused on his driving, yelling, “Shut up, okay, I’m trying to fucking drive! Shut the fuck up!”

His companion up front turned, looking back at me, eyes wide, holding a revolver in my direction. The third was kneeling over me, and I thrashed my head, spit flying, groaning, and he yelled, “Shit, what’s wrong with him? I think he’s fucking dying!”

“How the fuck should I know?” the boy with the gun yelled.

“You fucking tased him!”

“I tased my younger brother once,” he shot back. “He sure as fuck didn’t act like this!”

“If he dies, what the fuck are we gonna do? We sure as hell won’t get fucking paid!”

Mel the driver yelled back, “I’m trying to fucking drive! Shut up!”

The other one said, “He’s got a gun on him! Find it.”

His shaking hand went underneath my coat, tugged the Beretta free. “I got it,” he said, voice wavering. “What do I do with it?”

Mel said, “Christ, shove it up your ass for all I care.”

I let out a really loud groan, and my companion in the van’s rear said, “Fuck! I think he’s dying!”

The guy with the gun started to answer his friend, but I got so busy I didn’t quite hear what he said, not that it made any difference. The boy in the rear was kneeling down, looking down at me with concern, poor fellow, since I repaid him by abruptly leaning up and pounding my forehead right into his nose, shattering it.

He screamed and fell back, both hands up to his nose, and things really got interesting. The thing with Tasers is that if you can knock the electrodes away from you in a rapid motion—like I had done back at Clarence’s front lawn—then you can drastically cut down on the impact of the thousands of volts slamming through your body.

Which allowed me now to propel myself forward on my muscular butt, raise up both legs, and slam my bound feet into the side of Mel’s head. He yelped and fell over, the steering wheel falling out of his grasp. “Fuck!” came from his buddy up front, and he got off a shot—damn loud in the closed interior of the van—that seemed to go into the vehicle’s roof.

I rolled myself in a ball as best as I could as the van shuddered, screeched, and roared off the road, falling over into a drainage ditch or something. I had no idea what was going to happen next, only certain that when you’ve been snatched like this, time is your enemy. If you’re going to make a break for it, do at it at the very beginning, before your captors get comfortable and are no longer operating on fear and excitement.

I bounced around in the van like an old soccer ball, someone’s foot hitting my head, and the van rolled, crashed, and both rear doors flew open.

More shouts.

The van stopped.

I forced myself out, rolling and pushing, until I stood up. I was riding high from the endorphins racing through my system, and I knew I was hurt, but I didn’t know the extent of my injuries. That would come later. I raised up my arms, aiming at a piece of the rear bumper, and brought them down briskly.

The plastic zipties burst. My hands were free. Zipties look secure but they can be easily broken if you’ve practiced … and my, how I’ve practiced. If you don’t believe me, spend a couple of minutes on YouTube.

I ducked back into the van. The boy with the broken nose was in a corner, crying, holding his hands up to his face. I found my pistol. Grabbed it, and then seized a tire iron that had flown free from a stored spare tire on the side.

One quick motion later, my legs were free.

Next time, I’d make sure I was carrying my Ka-Bar.

Yeah. Next time.

I went around to the front of the van.

Mel was dead, although I hadn’t killed him.

“Seatbelts,” I murmured to the bloody head pushed through the shattered windshield. “How could you forget seatbelts?”

I went around the front of the van, broken, bowed in, fluids leaking out. The passenger door flew open, and the third young lad emerged, blood trickling down his forehead. His baseball cap was missing, revealing a very elaborate haircut with zig-zags and designs razored in. His mouth was bloody, and one eye was closed, but despite his injuries, he started to bring up his revolver.

“Drop it,” I said.

He kept on moving, and I gave him that one and only chance, and then I shot him in the chest.

“Sorry,” I said.

I went back to the rear of the van, where the third boy remained, still sobbing. I got in on my hands and knees, holding my pistol, and I tapped it on his right foot.

“You.”

He lowered his hands, shaking. Blood was smeared over his hands and his face. “I … I … ”

“Shut up,” I said. “I don’t have much time.” I tapped his foot again. “Who was in charge?”

“Gill.”

“Who’s Gill?”

“You … I think you … he’s been shot.”

“All right. What was the job?”

“We … we had to watch that house … somebody looking like you showed up … we had to snatch you … ”

“How long have you been watching the place?”

“Three … days. Three days … ”

“Who wanted to snatch me?”

“I don’t know.” I raised up my pistol and he screamed. “I swear to God, I don’t know! Gill … he was in charge. Asked me and Mel … asked us if we wanted to make a couple of hundred bucks, easy … ”

“After the snatch, where were you going?”

“Uh … the North Shore Mall … in Peabody. We was supposed to meet a guy there after Gill called him … ”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, Christ, please, don’t shoot me! I don’t know! Gill … he set up the meet … he was in charge … oh shit, oh shit, I wish I had never known him … oh shit … ”

I kept my pistol pointed right at him. He brought his hands back up to his face, sobbed some more. He looked to be fifteen or sixteen, if that.

“You.”

“What?” He refused to look at me, and I knew why. He didn’t want to see me or the pistol that was about to shoot him.

“Is there anything you can tell me to help me find out who ordered the snatch?”

“Mister … please … I wish I could … I’d lie if I could … but if I knew, I’d tell you … oh God, please don’t shoot me … please don’t shoot me … ” The sobbing resumed, louder than before. A wet spot started widening in his crotch.

I tapped his foot again. And again.

“What? Please … what?”

“I’m leaving. You’re going to tell the cops whatever you want, but you’re going to leave me out of it, including the snatch part. Tell them you were carjacked, tell them some random terrorists shot you up, tell them you got in a fight over some girlfriend, I don’t care …”

I hammered his foot with my pistol. “But I know a lot. I have a lot of friends and contacts in this part of the world. And if I find out you mentioned a syllable about me and what I look like, then you’ll wish at the end of the day I had put a bullet through your forehead.”

Then I left.

I casually walked across the street—no running!—and then cut through somebody’s side yard. In a very few minutes, this neighborhood would be packed tightly with police cruisers, fire trucks, and an ambulance or two. And if it was a slow news day, maybe a TV crew from one of the cut-throat competitive television new stations from Boston.

But I had to be quiet, inconspicuous, and I had to smoothly get out of here.

The side yard led to a narrow stretch of woods. I pushed through, breathing hard, my pistol now back in its shoulder holster. I didn’t even remember putting it back there.

I emerged through the woods. A housing development, with better homes than those in Clarence’s neighborhood. Somewhere a dog barked. I cut through the yard and resumed my slow stroll. Clarence’s place … it had to be over there, to the northwest. I wiped at my eyes, kept on walking.

Sirens were beginning to sound.

I kept on walking.

I tripped three times getting to Clarence’s house, including stumbling through a muddy stream or ditch, depending on your point of view. As I bumbled my way across this rural section of Lynn, I kept on thinking and rethinking what I was doing. When I had started this little adventure, it had been pretty straightforward: find George and whoever helped him kill Clarence and nearly kill me, and then put them all in body bags.

At some point I may have thought of going to ground, because George and his partners were numerous, tough, and nearly everywhere—from my home in Litchfield, to ambushing me and Carla in Manchester, to being over in Vermont at the Putney Homestead. That was a lot of firepower to go up against, especially since Carla may well be working with George on her own agenda.

Not many options there. It would be smart to go cold dish on their asses, i.e., revenge being a dish best served cold, and wait a month or a year or five years.

Yeah, that would be smart.

I emerged in a back yard with a swimming pool, swing set, and the lawn littered with abandoned toys. Such a beautiful, peaceful oasis. Hard to believe that in a few minutes’ walking distance, there was a semi-destroyed van with two dead young men and another man who would probably have nightmares for the rest of his life.

A young girl stepped out from a rear door of the fine-looking house. She looked at me, I looked at her. She seemed about six or seven. I gave her a cheerful wave, and then briskly walked along the side, across the street, and then into another tidy suburban yard.

Smart. Yeah, who was being smart? I should step back now, but today, that choice had been taken away from me, once I met Clarence’s ex-wife and saw photos of his twin boys, both at the carefully decorated home and the smashed residence that belonged to Clarence.

They were now mine. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t resist. If I were to go to ground and stay quiet, George and his hunters would keep at it, and eventually, they would go to Wanda’s home and her two boys, and go to work on them.

That wasn’t going to happen.

But, damn it, what did I have to negotiate with if I approached George? To allow him to keep his life if he stayed away from Wanda? I doubt he would take that deal. That wasn’t how he operated. Wasn’t how I would operate if I were in his place, as depressing as that sounded.

No, he wanted what Clarence had stolen, something I supposedly had. That would be the focus of a negotiation, nothing else.

I came out on a familiar road, feet wet, hands raw, and various aches and pains beginning to make themselves known as the endorphins began wearing off. Before me was Clarence’s house, and the other quiet homes as well. I walked across to my Ford, reached into my coat pocket, and retrieved my keys. How lucky could a guy get, that through all of this nonsense, I hadn’t managed to lose my keys.

Lucky, indeed.

Luck.

I’ll be damned.

I gave the neighborhood one more look before I left, and I spotted something on Clarence’s lawn. I went over and with some difficulty, bent down, and picked up the football that the boys had been tossing around earlier, and which they had used to trick me.

I juggled the football in my hand, went back to my vehicle, and shoved the football underneath the front left tire. I unlocked the Ford’s driver’s side door, and got in, and started up the Expedition.

I drove forward, destroying the football in one satisfying bang!, and then left what had once been a kill zone.