The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination by R.F. Bright Page A
Authors: R.F. Bright
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scoffed at that very idea. Max said, “He couldn’t hold onto the pouch, it fell down there.”
Fred looked at Max, skeptically. “What’s in the pouch?”
Max clutched it like a lost puppy. “That’s not for us to determine. We might contaminate the evidence if we open it. We gotta get back and call him.” Max headed straight toward Lily without a moment’s hesitation or discussion.
Fred tagged along, then drifted to a stop. The intruder had revealed himself.
The man whom Max was destined to become had arrived.
12
C assandra tilted her glasses onto her forehead and watched Commander Konopasek lumber up to her desk. “When we going to return that frozen body?” he asked.
“Bagged, tagged and boxed to go, boss,” she said, banging a stack of papers on one edge and handing them to him.
He took the pile, but quickly handed it back and wiped his hands on his trousers. “We’re going to deliver this one ourselves. Give the next of kin a call. Ask them to have someone standing by to receive it. They have a phone?”
“Yeah. It’s in there somewhere.”
“Trooper MacIan can take it up there. They already know him. It’s important. It’s Levi Tuke related.”
Cassandra reached for the ringing phone. “Nationalpolicebarracksbedford,” she spat.
The Commander shifted from one foot to the other; he hated when she did that, and she did it every time.
After a series of nods and an a-huh, she put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s the Pastor from The Church up in Lily. They found something.”
The Commander motioned for the phone. “This is Commander Konopasek.” He went through several nods and um-hums, then said, “OK, Pastor. You hold tight. Trooper MacIan is heading that way and he’ll stop off for the courier’s pouch.”
The Commander pulled the screeching phone from his ear. Cassandra could hear what sounded like Trooper MacIan’s name in a chorus of shouts.
“That’s correct,” said the Commander. “Trooper MacIan. He’ll be there around two-thirty.”
* * *
C amille emerged from her bathroom , powder-perfect. She was about to make some tricky phone calls and had very deliberately made herself up to look like the woman she imagined her listener drooling over. She perched on her chair, picked up the phone with her father’s secret data card in it, and swiped through his call history. There were few calls, and one number dominated, Harbinger International. She hit the button.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Good morning, Representative Murthy’s office.”
“Sorry,” said Camille, bug-eyed. “I dialed wrong.” She hung up immediately. Representative Murthy? She startled as the office phone rang. She reached, hesitated, and reached again. Is this them calling me back? Do they have the office number? Can they track it? She stared at the phone like she’d just run over it, then bit her lip and picked up the receiver. Unsure about how to play this, she mumbled, in a voice unconvincingly not her own, “El-lo?”
“Ms. Gager?” said a kindly woman’s voice.
Camille’s jaw dropped; they knew her name. “Um hum.”
“This is Cassandra from the National Police Barracks in Bedford, Pennsylvania.”
“Oh? Yes. Sorry. I ah. ah.”
“Don’t be sorry, honey. You have nothing to be sorry about. My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“We’re going to bring your father’s body back to you today. You want to take care of this as quickly as possible.”
“Oh. Well, yes. I’m sure you’re right.”
“Just call a funeral home. There are still funeral homes in your neighborhood?”
“Yes, a few blocks away.”
“How’s late afternoon? Around four?”
“That’s fine. I’ll be here. Oh, and how will the . . . how?”
“One of our guys, Trooper MacIan, will assist you. I think you’ve met.”
“Yes. We’ve met.”
“Well then, I’m going to mark everything OK and he should arrive up there in a few hours.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my dear. If
Fred looked at Max, skeptically. “What’s in the pouch?”
Max clutched it like a lost puppy. “That’s not for us to determine. We might contaminate the evidence if we open it. We gotta get back and call him.” Max headed straight toward Lily without a moment’s hesitation or discussion.
Fred tagged along, then drifted to a stop. The intruder had revealed himself.
The man whom Max was destined to become had arrived.
12
C assandra tilted her glasses onto her forehead and watched Commander Konopasek lumber up to her desk. “When we going to return that frozen body?” he asked.
“Bagged, tagged and boxed to go, boss,” she said, banging a stack of papers on one edge and handing them to him.
He took the pile, but quickly handed it back and wiped his hands on his trousers. “We’re going to deliver this one ourselves. Give the next of kin a call. Ask them to have someone standing by to receive it. They have a phone?”
“Yeah. It’s in there somewhere.”
“Trooper MacIan can take it up there. They already know him. It’s important. It’s Levi Tuke related.”
Cassandra reached for the ringing phone. “Nationalpolicebarracksbedford,” she spat.
The Commander shifted from one foot to the other; he hated when she did that, and she did it every time.
After a series of nods and an a-huh, she put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s the Pastor from The Church up in Lily. They found something.”
The Commander motioned for the phone. “This is Commander Konopasek.” He went through several nods and um-hums, then said, “OK, Pastor. You hold tight. Trooper MacIan is heading that way and he’ll stop off for the courier’s pouch.”
The Commander pulled the screeching phone from his ear. Cassandra could hear what sounded like Trooper MacIan’s name in a chorus of shouts.
“That’s correct,” said the Commander. “Trooper MacIan. He’ll be there around two-thirty.”
* * *
C amille emerged from her bathroom , powder-perfect. She was about to make some tricky phone calls and had very deliberately made herself up to look like the woman she imagined her listener drooling over. She perched on her chair, picked up the phone with her father’s secret data card in it, and swiped through his call history. There were few calls, and one number dominated, Harbinger International. She hit the button.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Good morning, Representative Murthy’s office.”
“Sorry,” said Camille, bug-eyed. “I dialed wrong.” She hung up immediately. Representative Murthy? She startled as the office phone rang. She reached, hesitated, and reached again. Is this them calling me back? Do they have the office number? Can they track it? She stared at the phone like she’d just run over it, then bit her lip and picked up the receiver. Unsure about how to play this, she mumbled, in a voice unconvincingly not her own, “El-lo?”
“Ms. Gager?” said a kindly woman’s voice.
Camille’s jaw dropped; they knew her name. “Um hum.”
“This is Cassandra from the National Police Barracks in Bedford, Pennsylvania.”
“Oh? Yes. Sorry. I ah. ah.”
“Don’t be sorry, honey. You have nothing to be sorry about. My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“We’re going to bring your father’s body back to you today. You want to take care of this as quickly as possible.”
“Oh. Well, yes. I’m sure you’re right.”
“Just call a funeral home. There are still funeral homes in your neighborhood?”
“Yes, a few blocks away.”
“How’s late afternoon? Around four?”
“That’s fine. I’ll be here. Oh, and how will the . . . how?”
“One of our guys, Trooper MacIan, will assist you. I think you’ve met.”
“Yes. We’ve met.”
“Well then, I’m going to mark everything OK and he should arrive up there in a few hours.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my dear. If
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