- # -
After striking the man and making sure he was no longer a threat, Margaret Calder concentrated on controlling her breathing. The blow from the lightweight-alloy aircraft tail hook her husband had won in some absurd bet had rendered the intruder unconscious but she intuitively knew her first course of action was not to call 911. Unlike the damsels in distress in the ridiculous movies, Margaret Calder was not about to become a victim on the run, nor was she going to kill what amounted to a burglar no matter what Texas law allowed. When this moron wakes up he’s not going to be able to move, she decided.
After significant effort and using yards of duct tape, the unconscious man lay on the floor of Cecil’s den as she rifled through his wallet. “Don’t worry, I’m not stealing anything,” she muttered as if he could hear her then after finding some identification she picked up the phone and dialed her son’s cell number. When Alex Calder answered she asked, “Do you know someone, an employee by the name of Dennis Boland – a security guard?” There was a short pause before Alex responded in the negative. “Well, I just happen to know where Mr. Boland is,” she said with a self-congratulatory note.
At their hangar at David Wayne Hooks Memorial airport, her son asked in a casual, almost reflexive and only slightly confused response, “Oh? Where’s that Mom?”
“I think I may have hurt him,” she said with what sounded to her son like concern.
His nervous system was already stressed and his mind couldn’t come up with a scenario that explained what he just heard. “You did what?” he asked as if his mother was the confused party. “Hurt? Hurt who?”
Elanore heard her husband’s exclamation and looked at him in fear. “What?” she asked almost automatically. Alex was listening to his mother’s voice with a befuddled look on his face and Elanore tried her best to not be impatient but the next thing he said shook her thoroughly.
“Get out of the house, Mom ... No. No, don’t do that, don’t do that, go to the safe room,” he said firmly. After listening a few seconds he tried to interrupt as he was beginning to move quickly toward the car parked in the shade next to the hangar.
Close behind him Elanore asked, “What’s going on, Al?”
“No! No, Mom ... please, Mom, go to the safe room, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes ... He what? Old papers? ... You did what?” As he listened, a strange kind of calm appeared on his face after he processed what she had meant by ‘taping him up’. He turned to his still glaring wife as they climbed in the dark-green XK8. “She has a guy tied up in duct tape in Dad’s office ... she clubbed him with that old arresting hook!” He started the car, handed Elanore the phone and the Jaguar was soon streaking across the concrete toward the street.
Elanore did her best to not sound too alarmed as she put the phone to her ear. “We’re on our way ... Ah, are you sure? ... Okay, well, wait, wait a second,” she put her hand over the phone and turned to her husband. “She wants to know if you want her to call 911.”
Alex thought for only a few seconds with his lips pursed and his jaw clenched in anger. “Oh, no ... I want to have a little talk with my ex-employee first,” he said menacingly. “And I want the Professor to talk to him.”
As the car turned sharply onto another road and gathered speed, Elanore looked at her husband uncertainly and said into the phone, “Alex says to hang in there until we get there.” She covered it again. “The Professor?”
Alex picked up on the look she was giving him and said coolly, “This has to have something to do with Mom’s situation ... he wasn’t after money ... it’s too much of a coincidence.”
Elanore thought for several seconds. “You can’t do this without the police,” she admonished then became even more adamant when he didn’t respond. “Al, you need to talk to Dickey!”
Alex shook his head slightly as he considered calling their friend, Sheriff Richard “Dickey” Steadmore. He passed a slower vehicle at over eighty miles an hour and said, “Tell Mom to stay on the phone. Tell her to just ... hell, I don’t know, just talk to her.”
- # -
Alex drove through the gate when there was barely enough room and sped up the road, skidding slightly as he negotiated the turnoff to his mother’s house.
As if nothing unusual had happened, Elanore listened to her mother-in-law casually explain her morning swim, then the phone call from Catherine and finally what had happened after it. When the car screeched to a stop they bolted from it and dashed to the porch.
“Mom?” Alex yelled as he came through the front door. “Mom?”
“In here,” Margaret called out pleasantly as if she were responding to everyday company.
Alex stopped abruptly at the door to his father’s office and could only stare in amazement. Elanore was seconds behind him and had to nudge him out of the way to see what was going on.
Margaret Calder turned from watching the television and hung up the desk phone as she saw her son. “Hi,” she said pleasantly.
A heavily duct-taped man was lying on the floor, his hands in front of him and his ankles and shoes wrapped together. The bloody hair on the back of his head matched the color of the stains on the collar of his shirt and while he wasn’t coherent he made a groaning noise and Margaret gave him a pitying look.
“I don’t think I hurt him seriously,” she said. “But he hasn’t moved much at all.”
Elanore looked at the bundle of tape and said with some amusement, “I don’t think he can.”
Alex kneeled down beside the man and looked more closely at the injury. Shit, he thought. He wasn’t overly worried about the damage but from his un-professional first impression it appeared they might have to hand him over to the paramedics instead of getting to ask him some questions.
“Now that y’all are here I’ll get my kit,” Margaret said rising from her husband’s desk chair then pausing to turn the TV off with the remote. “Oh, this is his,” she said pointing at the now-unloaded revolver and handing Elanore the six rounds she had taken out of it. “Let’s try to not get any blood on the carpet,” she advised then nonchalantly walked out of the room.
“Is he all right?” Elanore whispered fearfully.
“Hell, I don’t know – Mom can take a closer look at him with us here.”
“Is that one of your security guys?”
Studying the ID badge on the desk by the man’s wallet Alex said, “He may have been – I, yea, I’ve seen him before.”
Margaret came back into the room with what looked like a large plastic tackle box and waved her son aside then opened the case and pulled out a sphygmomanometer and a stethoscope. After taking the man’s blood pressure she removed the stethoscope from her ears she said, “He’s not in shock. He hasn’t lost enough blood for that ... he’s going to have a bitch of headache when he comes around.”
“Do we need to call the paramedics?” Elanore asked worriedly.
Margaret then took a small penlight from her kit and tested the man’s pupillary reaction. “Not unless you want to,” she said, undoing the blood pressure cuff and letting her son help her to her feet.
Alex leaned over the man and spoke loudly. “Don’t try to move, Dennis. You have a head injury. Trying to move would be another really bad idea.”
Boland’s eyes finally began to focus then swimmingly drifted around the room. When he tried to turn his head to take in more of his surroundings he winced in pain and said something unintelligible.
“Just lay still, son,” Margaret advised. “His ears might be ringing,” she added quietly to Elanore. “Give him a few minutes and you can get him upright,” she suggested. “I think the bleeding has stopped. I’ll go finish the tea,” she said nonchalantly ... the Professor is still on his way?”
Alex nodded in response then shook his head in amazement at how unfazed his mother was.
Elanore waited a few seconds until her mother-in-law was out of earshot then leaned close to him and whispered adamantly, “We need to call Dickey!”
&nbs
p; Alex began nodding in agreement then shook his head and mouthed emphatically to prevent Boland from hearing, “Not now.” He gestured for her to move with him out into the hallway and once he was sure their prisoner couldn’t hear he leaned close to his wife. “I want to make a deal with him.”
She recoiled as if her husband had suddenly morphed into an alien. As far as she was concerned, having Boland behind bars seemed to be the only reasonable outcome.
When he saw her reaction he took a deep breath and sighed. “Look. I’m in this way over my head—”
“Which is exactly why you should call Dickey right now!” She insisted.
“No, that’s not what I mean.” He looked down and glanced back and forth trying to organize his thoughts and emotions. “El, someone else must be looking for that General ... Mom and Dad’s friend. They want to find him bad enough to hire people to come here and find things, maybe even force Mom to tell them something. I think this guy knows who it is.”
Elanore grew even more concerned. “All the better to have the Sheriff here, Al!”
Alex took her by the shoulders gently and fixed her eyes with his. “And tell them what?” He paused to see if she understood. “Let’s just tell them about how some mysterious and,” he paused with a finger raised, “not-to-mention, former communist officer, who supposedly disappeared fifty years ago, is now smuggling priceless Russian artifacts to a former Red Air Force officer’s wife? She’s not too old to go to jail, El.”
A look of being overwhelmed crossed her face, but only for a moment. “We don’t need to tell them all of it,” she protested.
“We don’t know what he knows ... yet. What if he knows the whole thing and starts telling them?”
Her shoulders sagged and she sighed. “I think I see your point,” she whispered in resignation.
Alex cocked his head quickly in the direction of their prisoner. “And if he goes away—”
Elanore went rigid and her eyes opened wide. “Goes wh—?”
Alex put up both hands. “No! For chrissakes, El,” he said with some frustration. “Not ‘goes away’ that way!”
She rolled her head back and sighed loudly in relief then whispered back, “I’m sorry ... really—”
“We give him a choice.”
Elanore looked at her husband as if she was being lied to. “A what? A choice of what?”
“He tells us everything he knows about who he’s working for and we don’t turn him over to the police. Then we let the Professor sort the rest of it out.”
The look of misunderstanding on her face made him explain more about what he knew about Kirkland. “He does that kind of thing in his business. Exigent circumstances. White hats versus black hats ... stuff we don’t need to know. Or want to know.”
Elanore was suddenly reminded of her initial assessment that Michael Kirkland’s job must have been awfully dull and she appeared fearful again. “What the hell does ‘don’t want to know’ ... what does that mean?”
“How to find Mom’s friend without exposing him and her and how to—”
Margaret interrupted them as she approached down the hallway. “Who’s meeting the Professor?” she asked simply, seemingly immune to the tension. “You know he has a date with Catherine later this afternoon,” she added as if that were the most important aspect of the day’s events.
Alex and Elanore exchanged glances as Margaret went by and he spoke first. “Why don’t you ... why don’t you go meet him at the hangar ... have him explain what he explained to me at my office, okay?” He looked quickly at his watch. “They’ll be there in less than a half hour. It’s big, ah, a big twin, like a Hercules with just two engines. I’ll keep an eye on things here. Just, just tell him to explain white hats and black hats and tell him we think we’ve caught one of the black hats. It’ll make more sense.”
She looked both bewildered as well as resigned to being dispatched without fully understanding what her husband and the Professor might have been cooking up behind her back. She looked at him and said almost petulantly, “Oh. Okay ... I’ll just go meet them ... not worry about a thing.”
Alex nodded. “Please?”
Elanore shook her head and glanced at her watch, realizing she was not going to be changing her husband’s mind.
“I promise, we can take care of this ... I left the keys in the Jag,” he said convincingly.
Elanore took a deep, cleansing breath and sighed, then kissed her husband quickly and headed down the hall.
- # -
When he fully regained consciousness, Dennis Boland found himself in Margaret Calder’s large kitchen, well-taped to a sturdy arm chair. Although still in some pain, he was now becoming more and more aware of what was happening. “Are the p’leece coming?” he asked somewhat numbly. When it seemed he was being ignored he tried another approach. “Are you holding me for the p’leece?”
“You best stay quiet,” Alex Calder advised. “You’ve had a head injury.”
With growing concern Boland determined he was completely immobilized in the chair then his attention was drawn to footsteps coming toward the kitchen. It took a few seconds to realize it was the man that had driven Calder to the ranch the other day.
“Well, what have we here,” Kirkland said with a smirk as he walked in. “I’d offer to shake your hand but, well, that would be rude under your present circumstances, wouldn’t it?”
Boland’s heart rate began climbing; despite the calm words something very cold was behind the eyes now fixed on him and Alex Calder’s departure from the room didn’t help.
He saw another man walk in carrying some articles as the tall man explained, “My associate here was going to have to begin some fairly intensive research into you and your compatriots, Mr. Boland – but it would appear Mrs. Calder has intervened and saved him a considerable amount of time.”
In obvious discomfort mixed with fear Boland said, “I ... my head ... I need a doctor.”
“Actually, you’ve been looked at by a very experienced trauma nurse,” Kirkland countered. “Of course, she’s retired,” he added offhandedly. “But she’s also the one that knocked your silly ass halfway to the moon ... look at it this way Dennis, she could have just kept swinging until you were dead, and rightfully so.”
Boland struggled slightly and found once again the duct tape wasn’t yielding. He didn’t like looking at the man and his fear was ratcheting upward as he came to grips with the fact that he was completely vulnerable. “You’re not the police?” he asked less dully, his speech improving from the adrenaline.
Kirkland shook his head. “No. They would be cutting off the tape and reading you your Miranda rights at this point.”
Boland unimaginatively tried to stall. “Can I have some water?”
“Of course,” Kirkland said then looked at Yamaguchi. “If you would please, see if you can find a glass and get Mr. Boland some water.”
“How about iced tea?” Yamaguchi offered, pointing to the large jar sitting on the counter.
Boland nodded. “Yes. Yes, please,” he said with a slight feeling of hope. After being helped to take a few sips of the tea, Boland licked his lips and glanced around nervously. He watched the other man step away and heard the noise of the glass being put down in the sink but couldn’t see what he picked up from the counter because of the man seated in the chair. When he finally did see what the objects were he actually jerked in the chair and a bolt of pain surged from the back of his head. With his eyes wide and his mouth agape, the thought of what might be about to happen made his groin tighten and his tongue suddenly became even more dry. “You, you can’t ... no ... you can’t!” he gasped.
Yamaguchi set the Bernzomatic torch, a box of kitchen matches and a large pair of locking pliers on the table next to Kirkland then stepped around behind Boland carrying a roll of duct tape and a folded dish rag.
“Wait! You can’t!” Boland protested loudly and tried again to struggle as he saw Kirkland reach over and pick up the h
and torch. Before the man behind him could tape the dish rag over his mouth, Boland pleaded almost hysterically, “What do you want?”
Kirkland lit a match and opened the valve on the small torch. A slight puff followed the hissing sound that accompanied the flame.
Boland was now in full-blown panic and he screamed, “What are you doing?” The dry dishrag being stuffed in his mouth muffled what he tried to add to that.
Kirkland picked up the pliers and slid forward in his chair. Leaning closer to Boland he examined the torch flame and adjusted it to a broader shape then did something with the knob on the pliers.
Boland could smell the torch and screamed something unintelligible through the rag as tears began to burn in his eyes and pain radiated from the back of his head. He saw the man in front of him nod and the tape was pulled and the rag removed. “I’ll tell you anything, anything!” he gasped desperately.
“Who hired you?” Kirkland asked casually, keeping the torch and the pliers close enough to one of Boland’s hands that he could now feel some heat from it. “And for the sake of the fingernails on your right hand, don’t say something utterly absurd such as, ‘I don’t know ’.”
“Nelson Bailey!” Boland blurted out loudly. “His name is Nelson Bailey. He’s a skip-tracer out of Virginia. Arlington Virginia. He’s paying me ... twenty-thousand.”
Kirkland didn’t hesitate. “For what?”
With his eyes fixated on the flame Boland answered in a staccato rush. “He wanted stuff, like papers ... anything – anything old. Papers. Files and letters, envelopes, pictures, calendars. Anything with a name and address on it.” He took a gasp of breath as his eyes remained fixated on the torch.
Kirkland waited several seconds then casually dialed down the flame until it extinguished. “How do you contact Bailey?”
Boland relaxed only slightly but was still breathing heavily. With tears and sweat trickling down the sides of his face he answered, “I send him an email. And he can send me back a number to call ... and, and a code, a code that works – it, it, it works only once, just for that call.”