Witness to Death Read online

  The last time Callahan’d come close to being caught was near Christmas. He and Michelle had gone over to Robert’s house for dinner and to exchange gifts. After dinner, they moved into the study, where Sandler kept his hard liquor. He liked a drink while he worked. Sandler had broken out the scotch for Callahan and himself. Three glasses later, Sandler had to use the bathroom. Michelle was in the kitchen making sure the filet was cooking all right and talking to Juanita, the maid.

  Callahan got up, and took a step forward, the alcohol skewing his sense of balance slightly. He put his hand on the back of the chair to steady himself. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he took another step. The room stopped spinning.

  He’d had the code to the safe behind the painting of Columbus for nearly a year now, but hadn’t been able to get near it. Now was his chance. He lifted the painting off its hook and dialed in the combination. Stopping to listen for Sandler, he heard nothing save for the whisper of gossip from the kitchen. The safe creaked open.

  There wasn’t much inside. A few thin tax folders, a blue Tiffany box, and the sheet Callahan was looking for. It was a graph, comparing Sandler’s missile sale profits to Ameritech’s. Ameritech was the arms company a branch of the government had been using discreetly—and illegally. The company never made the headlines, as the government used it only to purchase weapons for Black Operations. Weapons the public wasn’t ever supposed to know about. Somehow Sandler had found out.

  Callahan pulled at the paper and tried to read it, but he heard the toilet flush above him. He slapped the paper down in the safe, and slammed the door shut and spun the dial once. Hanging the painting back on its hook, he knew he wouldn’t be able to make it back to his chair before Sandler reached the study.

  “Admiring the painting?” Sandler slurred, coming through the door.

  “Yeah, Christopher Columbus right?”

  The painting showed Columbus standing alone on the beach, the small waves breaking on the shore. Columbus appeared to be looking at something outside the frame, as the wind blew sand around his ankles.

  “Right,” Sandler said, sidling up next to him. “I had this commissioned. Always admired the man. He was looking for a new way, trying to be innovative. Make things easier for his country. A shorter way to India? It would have saved Spain tons of manpower, tons of money. He was way ahead of his time.”

  Callahan nodded. The picture looked like it was at an angle, and he wondered if Sandler saw the same thing. Did he know what Callahan had been doing?

  “That’s what I want to do for this country. Find something new, a way to save it manpower and money. I’m useful, and my business is run efficiently, Frank. You know how that works. I’m sure your steel business is run the same way.” He reached out and straightened the painting. “I just want to keep this country safe.”

  Callahan wondered if Sandler had accented the last word on purpose, to give him a scare. Or if it was just the alcohol talking.

  Now, as the van bumped along what felt like a gravel road, he wondered if Sandler had known then that Callahan was an agent.

  No, he thought. If that was when he’d found out, he’d have taken action much more quickly. Michelle said he’d fired a guy for bringing him the wrong lunch. Sandler agreed to deals with other countries in twenty minutes. The guy was a doer. He rarely showed patience.

  It had to be some other time.

  The van rumbled to a stop, and Callahan felt the engine die. The front door opened and slammed shut. The back doors opened, and he was pulled from the cabin. He was led, an arm under his elbow, through the gravel, on to slippery concrete.

  “Be careful,” he heard a voice he was sure was Christine. “There’s ice.”

  “You don’t want to do this,” he tried. “You’re going to get hurt. Let me go and I’ll help you.”

  They paused, and he felt a change in the air, as if Christine had turned toward him. He waited, not sure if she would stab him or if she was thinking about his offer. An instant later they were walking again. Occasionally they slid on ice patches. His ribs argued with him every time.

  They stopped again, a few minutes later, and Callahan heard computerized beeping and then a sliding sound, followed by a metallic clang. They took four steps forward and the cold was replaced by dry warmth. Someone pulled the duct tape from his neck. Then the hood came off.

  Callahan squinted, a bright light shining in his eyes. He waited for his pupils to adjust. The glare faded a little, and he realized he was in a brightly lit warehouse, with high ceilings and thick walls. It was an airplane hangar. At the far end were two helicopters, Sandler’s company logo blazed from the doors. He looked up and saw that the roof could slide open. On the far end of the building were wooden and metal cases he’d only seen on military bases. They also had the logo on them, thick, bubbled “D” with a red circle around it. To his left stood a shiny metal desk, Sandler sitting behind it.

  The man looked up, the exhaustion and alcohol in his eyes replaced by a clarity of purpose as if he’d found new life in the warehouse. He smiled when he saw his guests. Stood up, and came around his desk, a newspaper in his hand.

  “You are a very lucky man, Mr. Callahan. May I call you Peter?”

  Heat ran down Callahan’s back, starting between his shoulder blades and spreading like molten lava. Sandler knew his real name.

  Callahan didn’t speak. He strained his arms against the duct tape, his muscles taut.

  “It seems I have a use for you. I want you to see something.”

  Sandler held out a copy of the New York Times. It was the Sunday edition. Callahan wondered how long he’d been unconscious in the van. He looked at the headline and froze. The shock must have shown his face, because Sandler grinned, showing off his coffee stained teeth.

  “That’s right. I know the reporter, he sent this to me, and somehow he broke the story of Ameritech and its secret connection to United States’ Black Operatives.”

  “What did you do?” Callahan leaned toward the paper trying to read the article.

  Ameritech had worked hard to remain a secret. Their public persona was a computer company. The article spelled the facts about the bombs they built, the missiles, the tanks, everything that made the United States the best at killing people quietly. Or loudly, for that matter.

  “Did you leak this?” Callahan asked.

  Sandler folded the paper into quarters and tucked it under his arm. He walked back to the desk and picked up a pen.

  “If you did,” Callahan said, “you’ll probably help the Ameritech stock soar. Monday morning is going to be a boon.”

  Sandler nodded. “Oh, good. I just bought stock in Ameritech. The media is a wonderful thing. Though I must say, I’m going to have to sell first thing Monday.”

  He wrote on a small yellow notepad. Dropping the notepad back on the desk, he returned to Callahan.

  “I need your help,” Sandler said. “You’re going to tell me where someone is.”

  “Why would I help you?”

  Sandler turned toward a door that led into a hallway. A large man with dark hair came in pushing a wheelchair.

  Callahan’s body went slack and he had to tense up to stop himself from falling over. He turned toward Sandler and was about to ask what the hell the man was doing when he saw all the color had drained from Sandler’s face as well.

  Duct taped to the wheelchair was Michelle, her eyes wide and pleading.

  John took the bus back from the Poconos. He caught it, after walking about a mile in the snow to a ski lodge. He got back to Frank’s home just as the sun was setting, sliding behind the houses on the far end of the street. Maybe Frank’d be there, and John could ask him what to do.

  As he stood on the porch, cold wind whipping down the road and cutting into his ears, John’s body seemed to untie, like a knotted rope. His muscles loosened and his eyelids felt heavy. He shuddered against the cold, and tried to blink the burn out of his eyes.

  No time to sleep.

&n
bsp; He rang the bell again, and got no answer. He stepped off the porch and walked around the driveway. Frank’s car wasn’t there, but John didn’t even know if he’d been able to get it back after the Jersey City incident.

  John felt even colder, and not from the wind. What if whoever was after Frank in the first place had gotten a hold of him? What if Christine had come for him?

  Edging down the driveway, he listened for anything out of order. He heard a loud smacking sound, like metal against wood. He came around the corner of the house, and into the back door. The sliding door was off the track and open an inch.

  John pushed the door open, then forced his feet to continue forward.

  He stepped into the kitchen and smelled something rotten coming from the sink area. No one was around. John pictured Ashley, blood seeping from her stomach and chest. The air escaping from her lips in gasps.

  John’s throat was tight, and he could barely swallow. His hands were shaking at the thought he might discover Frank in the same state.

  He went into the living room, the rotten smell fading into a stale odor. As if no one had stepped into this room in days. At least not since Frank had locked up the house the other night. The heat was pumping out of the vents and John felt sweat forming on his body.

  He took the stairs next. No sounds came from above, not a squeak, not a bump. Nothing.

  He took the steps two at a time now, some of the tension in his back easing. He checked the bedroom and the bathroom and found nothing. The bed had been made, and the toilet seat was down.

  He turned into the office. Papers were everywhere, drawers were open. The computer was on. Someone had been in here, he thought as a chill went down his arms. But not Frank.

  John took a deep breath and went back downstairs. He opened the window. The smell reminded him of a story he’d told Ashley on their first date. Something he’d never have told Michelle when they were dating.

  They were at Tomorrow’s drinking beer. The bar was empty, and the waitress was on the other side of it. He hated telling school stories in the town where he worked, as he never could tell who’d be listening. But he wanted Ashley to know something about him. Something Michelle never believed existed.

  He tried telling her about teaching The Outsiders in class. How someone crying when Johnny died gave him a swell of pride. They were finally getting it. They were understanding.

  Ashley didn’t go for that. Called it clichéd teacher crap. So, he went with a different story.

  “I had a student, Jenny Kowalski. Little blonde girl, eighth grader, about three years ago. Real good kid.”

  Ashley nodded.

  “One day she came into class with a huge bruise on her cheek. Like dark and purple, it was swollen, squeezing her eye shut. It was first period, I had her. I was the first to see her. I asked her what happened and she said the wheel on her bike popped and she flipped over the handlebars. I went to Megan Hertz, figured I’d tell Guidance about it, just in case. I couldn’t get many details out of Jenny and it felt sketchy, like she was lying. Megan said she’d take care of it, but by the end of the day, she still hadn’t called Jenny down to talk to her.”

  John closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his hands.

  “I went to the house. Went to talk to her dad, in person.”

  “John, you’re not supposed to—”

  John nodded. “I know. I know. And I went anyway. I was going to try and beat the shit out of him. I was sure it was the dad. And as I pull up, and get out of the car, what do I see? Jenny’s dad with the bicycle, trying to put a new tire on it. I felt like an idiot.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  John finished his drink

  “Did Michelle say a lot about me?” he asked.

  Ashley shook her head. “She just told me you guys dated, and she thought you’d be good for me.” She laughed, and John could see the beer was loosening her up. “Gotta tell you, I thought it’d be weird going on a date with someone my friend had dated.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his stomach twisting a bit. When Michelle had approached him about it, he’d said yes, just to show her he was over her. But now, he realized just how over him she was.

  “Well, one of the mistakes I’ve made when I’ve dated is not being up front.”

  Ashley leaned in a little closer, smiled. “Oh yeah? What else haven’t you told me in the two hours we’ve been sitting here?”

  “I’m afraid of water. Like deathly afraid.” John gripped his beer tighter.

  Ashley took the rest of her beer in one long gulp.

  “I think it’s going to rain tonight,” she said.

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “That bother you?”

  John finished his beer. “Truth? It’s not my favorite thing.”

  “Then we’d better get out of here before it starts.”

  John felt his blood go cold. Another bad dating strategy. It was fine, though, Ashley was cute and funny. Maybe it was just too soon to start dating again. He put money on the bar.

  “Well,” he said, “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “What do you mean?” Ashley asked. “Date’s not over. I just think we should go back to my place before the rain starts.”

  Back in Frank’s living room, John exhaled heavily. When he thought Ashley had broken up with him, he hadn’t felt as if his heart’d been torn from his chest. He’d felt like electricity was running through his body. He thought she was wrong for arguing with him. He was doing the right thing. He was going to help out a friend.

  And now Ashley was dead. Frank wasn’t here. And Michelle had been kidnapped.

  He had to do something.

  Holding Michelle in the bed, how warm she’d felt, her hand running up and down his forearm as he lay there. He missed it, wanted it back.

  John closed his eyes. He had to get Michelle back. Make sure she was safe.

  “Look at these, not at her,” Sandler said. He’d slapped a bunch of photographs down seconds earlier.

  Callahan stared at the pictures laid out on the desk. Behind him, he could hear Michelle’s mumbles through the gag, and his triceps tightened with each one.

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “You have your own daughter duct taped in a wheelchair.”

  Sandler twitched and Callahan took it as a shrug.

  The place smelled like oil and rubber. Just like the room where he’d once held a drill to a terrorist’s head, trying to get him to talk. His palms were equally sweaty then and now.

  “What are these?” he asked Sandler.

  The words sounded hollow as he spoke them. He wanted to spin and rush toward Michelle and get her out of there. But if he did that the woman with the taser and the gun would put him down.

  In the pictures, an Arabic man was exchanging a briefcase with a white man. The white man was sliding a large box across a table. On the box was the Ameritech logo.

  “That,” Sandler said, “is a terrorist purchasing a bomb from an Ameritech employee. It’s a bomb with a timer and a pressure switch. Very portable and easy to attach to a vest. We wanted you to see these so you could do something for us.”

  “What do you need me for?” Callahan asked.

  Sandler shook his head. “Isn’t it obvious? We need you to tell us where Omar Thabata is.”

  “Bullshit,” Callahan said. “You know exactly where he is. What is going on here?”

  Over Sandler’s shoulder two men in trench coats stood at the edge of the hallway and watched them. Callahan didn’t recognize either of them. If they were Blackwater guys, he’d never interviewed them.

  “I want you to give me Omar’s location.” Sandler’s voice echoed around the high ceilings. “You were the last one to see him. You took care of my men so quickly, so easily. Did you then arrest Omar? Is that where you were last night? You never went home. You didn’t show up until this morning. Tell me where Omar is.”

  “Like hell,” Callahan said. “I don’t kn
ow where he is. I was looking for him too.”

  Sandler’s face went a little paler.

  “Please think about what you’re saying.”

  “No one knows where he is.” Not even Weller.

  “You’re lying. You must know.”

  “I don’t have any clue. You lost your guy? Real solid operation you’ve got going on here.”

  Sandler smiled.

  Callahan turned around from the desk and surveyed the scene. The armed woman stood about halfway between him and Michelle. The fat man with the moustache gripped the handlebars of the wheelchair. Callahan had seen him before, but couldn’t remember where. The round face and moustache almost seemed to be a trademark. The trenchcoats hadn’t moved.