ADX Praxis (The Red Lake Series Book 3) Read online

  ADX Praxis

  A Harry Grim Story

  ADX Praxis

  A Harry Grim Story

  by

  Rich Foster

  Copyright © 2012 by Rich Foster

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  First Edition: October 2012

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter 1

  Claire Dubois was five minutes late. The first hint of morning light silhouetted objects. as she left her apartment. Burdened by her book bag, purse, and a cake for the surprise party, she hurried toward her car in the parking lot. She never reached it.

  One moment a Ford Van occupied space 212 of the Willow Grove Apartments; an instant later it disintegrated in a fireball. The shredded parts accelerated outward at 8,000 meters per second. The carport roof thrust upward. The cement blocks of the rear wall crumbled. Vehicles rolled and tumbled, tossed like Matchbox Cars by the expanding gases. For blocks, glass sheets shattered on the shock wave. Shrapnel shards shredded drapes, peppering those inside with cuts. Babies screamed. Frightened residents stumbled out of their apartments, stunned. Some thought it was a gas leak; others feared a terrorist attack, but fifty miles outside Chicago? What terrorist would strike there?

  The wail of approaching fire trucks rent the morning air. The police aggressively sealed off the area, while brusquely ordering people away from their homes. In the parking lot fires roared as leaked fuel burned, torching damaged vehicles. Occasionally another gas tank went up in a concussive roar, causing the crowd to serge further away from the flames and smoke. The firemen also pulled back to let the fuel burn off. They used their hoses to cool down vehicles that were not engulfed by flames. Other crews hosed down nearby buildings, consequently flooding the apartments that faced the parking lot.

  “This is Lee Anne Chou, reporting from Crystal Lake, fifty miles northwest of Chicago.” She paused while the cameraman panned over the debris. Burning vehicles made for good footage. He turned his lens toward the clustered groups of apartment residents, who were a cross section of working class America,”

  The camera returned to Lee Anne. She continued her report.

  “At least one person is dead following an early morning explosion. Fortunately, for those living closest to the blast, the block wall of the carport building directed a greater portion of the explosion toward the farmland behind this suburban development.”

  Again the camera panned, this time over the neighboring field. In the morning light, the shock wave was reflected in the devastation of the farmer’s corn crop. Close to the fence line the plants were ripped from the ground and shredded to fine chaff, leaving raw dirt. Further from the epicenter, the corn simply lay down in a patterned arc, the tops of the stalks radiating away from the blast like a section of a crop circle.

  Across the street the people of Crystal Lake watched the news crews, firemen, and police work. People murmured their dissatisfaction but over all a curious silence lay upon the crowd.

  Local officials hurried to make an appearance before the news crews wrapped up for the seven o’clock broadcast.

  Within earshot of the crowd the Mayor of Crystal Lake promised Lee Anne, and the viewing audience, that there would be a quick and speedy response.

  A voice yelled, “It’s that god-damn Arab. The rag head in two-twelve.”

  Other voices chimed in, “Your right!”

  “It’s the Muslim camel jockey!”

  Others carried the cry. People agreed that he was suspicious, they should have known. The authorities should have done something. Frustration and fear fed their anger as they looked for someone to hate.

  Shortly before seven o’clock, a team from the Department of Homeland Security arrived.

  The DHS official and the local police chief bickered over control on his turf. After a brief power struggle, the local police stepped down. The crime site belonged to the Feds.

  The crowd became restive, eager to return home, view the damage, or get to work. Invectives flowed concerning the occupant of two-twelve. Where was he? The Arab, the camel jockey, the rag head, the sneaking son-of-a-bitch!

  At seven-ten the DHS assault team knocked down the door to Unit 212. By seven-twelve, Nadim Wafi was found hiding in a closet. Led out of his apartment, he was greeted by an angry roar from his neighbors.

  Nadim was a gangly, dark skinned, college youth. His parents, now deceased, immigrated to America from Saudi Arabia when he was two.

  The crowd jeered and pressed forward along the police line. Whites, blacks, and Hispanics united as Americans against a common enemy. They shouted for vengeance. They insulted Wafi and his religion. On camera angry men and women fueled sectarian hate in America. Around the nation, Muslims watching on television worried about a possible backlash from their neighbors and in the city men hurried to protect their local mosque.

  Lee Ann wrapped up her live report.

  “It appears that Jihad terrorism has come to the heartland of America.”

  Chapter 2

  On the East coast the morning was pleasant. A light breeze stirred a dance among the leaves of trees. Sprinklers hissed across verdant lawns. The air carried the harbinger of heat to come but merely the warmth of June not the torpid, enervating, heat of August The cackle of birds, occasionally, rose above the chatter on the TV.

  In his breakfast room Claus Van de Meer watched events unfold. Sunlight streamed through the casement windows, spreading across the mahogany table like spilled honey. He was corpulent man, his skin a pale milky-white from too much time spent in unnatural light. The tailored suit was slightly snug, the result of too many dinners and too little exercise. He was resolved to dealing with that and had already contacted his tailor. Thinning hair swept over his head. He had the gray muted by a stylist, her work shifted Claus’s appearance from aging to mature. His blue eyes were cool and impassive pools, as opposed to the flashing eyes of the angry tenants yelling on the TV. Claus watched with indifference as the bombing victims spat vitriol against the young Arab.

  He picked up the remote with fingers that were like plump, raw sausages and muted the raucous noise. Sunlight glinted off his gold pinky ring as he sipped his coffee. He held his coffee cup with the finger in question jutting out; the habit gave him an effeminate quality.

  Juanita, his Guatemalan housekeeper re-filled the cup. Claus managed a small grunt of appreciation. She was twenty when she entered the United States illegally three years before. A cousin found her a job with the Van de Meer’s. They paid her cash and failed to pay social security on her wages. Such an omission could be a problem for the Van de Meer if he chose to run for public office, but men like Claus preferred the shadows, he would abhor being on the cover of Time Magazine.

  Van de Meer perused the morning paper while consuming a substantial breakfast. The table was laden with eggs, bacon, toast, potatoes and fresh fruit. That was one reason Claus liked the girl, she could cook like she was Caucasian. When he asked for over easy that was how his eggs were done.

  Some of the news in the morning paper was just that, something new. But on many mornings what Claus read in the headlines was old news for him, having been briefed on breaking events during the middle of the night or, at times, by having created the event himself.

  Claus probed his vest pocket. He extracted a gold Elgin pocket watch.

  “Eight o’clock,” he muttered to himself.

  He pulled the napkin from his lap and rose. He brushed stray crumbs from the protruding curve of his vest. Juanita, like a robotic device hurried over and swept the floor. Claus was accus
tomed to other people cleaning up any mess he left behind.

  He glanced at the television screen, where the arrest of Nadim Wafi replayed for the fifth time. Claus smiled slightly, then turned the set off, picked up his Lois Vitton briefcase, and stepped outside. Idling at the curb a dark sedan and driver waited. The driver held the rear door open.

  “Good Morning, sir.”

  Claus gave him the smallest of nods before settling into the leather seat. As the driver pulled away for the twenty-minute drive to DPIO’s offices, Claus closed his eyes. Whether in meditation or sleep, the driver could never tell.

  The car rolled along the George Washington Parkway. The driver exited. He followed a winding lane through a leafy wood. They stopped at a modest building in Langley, Virginia. Across the parkway were the famed offices of the CIA, the third floor clearly visible through the trees.

  “Morning, Mister Van de Meer.” The guard behind the security desk greeted him.

  “Morning, Dusty.” Claus walked past him into a corridor lined with offices. He unlocked a door at the end of the hall. On the frosted glass were the words, Deutschland Properties & Investment Opportunities. The room he entered was small, about twice the size of an elevator and acted as a waiting area. Comfortable leather chairs and financial magazines were positioned under spot lighting.

  The next room was larger. It was the office of a successful man. The walls were wainscoted in oak. Thick drapes bordered the windows, which behind sheer curtains were, curiously, frosted. The room contained a desk, several filing cabinets, two chairs and a bookcase. All were of excellent style and quality, chosen to assuage any fears of possible investors.

  Claus closed and locked the door. At the desk he set his briefcase down and tapped a sequence of numbers on the keypad of the telephone. Silently, the floor sank. It moved down, away from the wood paneling, revealing raw concrete walls, and the tracks on which the floor moved. Fifty feet below ground level the office floor came to a stop before a utilitarian hallway. A driver waited with an electric golf cart.

  The cart hummed down the fluorescent-lit tunnel, whisking Van de Meer along, until they stopped at a steel door. On the other side Claus entered a short hallway with blast doors at the end. At the second door he entered a suite. On the other side of a mirrored glass wall was a broad room that contained a couple dozen desks where people worked at glowing monitors. Few had ever seen Claus. If they should occasion to see him, they would not know who he was. He dwelled on the hidden side of their work. He lived like a spider in its hole, silently observing, waiting for a tremor in the fabric of his web.

  Claus was greeted for the third time that morning. Between lips, that were pursed into permanent disapproval, Christina Whelks tartly said, “Good morning, Sir.”

  She was a sparse woman with graying hair; another aging spinster that love had passed by. As a consequence she dedicated herself to her work and her boss. She arrived early and when asked, stayed late without complaint. Nothing else in life made demands of her time.

  “Good Morning Miss Whelks.”

  Van de Meer’s smile was ephemeral yet congenial. She knew his greeting expected no reply. Without comment she handed him a stack of papers for his review or his signature.

  Settled behind his desk, he turned on the television. The morning talk shows were agog with the Chicago bombing. Lacking details, reporters wildly speculated. The only solid item of news was that body parts were found in the rubble of the carport and charred remains of a second victim within a burnt out auto. Several mid-eastern groups announced through Al-Jazeera Television that they were responsible for the attack.

  Claus dialed an extension.

  “I want to see you, now.”

  A minute later his intercom rang.

  “Kurt Clemson is in the outer office, sir.”

  “Send him in, Christina.”

  Clemson was a tall well built man, but undistinguished in looks. Without an effort on his part he was readily forgettable, a distinct advantage in his line of work. His hair was nondescript brown and eyes were seldom stirred to passion. On the commuter train he would pass for another mid-level bureaucrat doing his thirty years toward a government pension.

  “What’s up, sir?”

  “Contact, what’s his name, over at Home Land Security.”

  “Furgeson?”

  “Yes. See what they have on the Chicago bombing. I want all the details. Including what they think the real target was to be. They sure as hell can’t believe the little shit meant to blow up a carport.”

  “What about the FBI.”

  “They’re usually too tight lipped to be any help, but check our contacts over there, maybe we can glean a few facts.”

  “How about upstairs?” Clemson asked cautiously.

  “I’ll see what their position will be. In that its domestic I am sure the official line will be no comment.”

  Van de Meer’s phone rang. He waved Clemson off with one hand. As Kurt left the room, Claus took the call.

  Chapter 3

  Eddie Ames slipped out of bed, hoping to not disturb his wife. In the northwest it was barely light. Outside, dark storm clouds scudded across the sky. Between the houses he saw a sliver of Red Lake, where the wind whipped the wave crests like cake frosting. Trees heavy with summer foliage swayed and bowed in the wind, the Aspen leaves creating a shimmering pattern.

  “What time is it?” his wife Lisa murmured.

  “Ten to five.”

  “Um. Have a good day.”

  Eddie bent over. He ran his fingers over her disheveled hair and kissed her cheek.

  “Love you.”

  She rolled over and was asleep again before he reached the kitchen where the fresh aroma of coffee came from the pot that switched on at four-thirty each morning. He poured into a cup that read, World’s Greatest Dad, a Father’s Day gift the week before, from his ten-year old daughter. The dark French roast tasted good. He ate a bowl of Fruit Loops. Ever since he and Lisa had kids, sugary cereals seemed to be the only type that made their way into the house.

  When he glanced at the clock, it was already five-fifteen. If he were to be on time he needed to hurry.

  In the living room he flipped on the television, and casually watched as he put on his uniform. He learned that a thousand miles east, near Chicago; a terrorist had set off a car bomb. Eddie saw a youth with dark sunken eyes staring into the camera lens. Men bearing M-16 rifles hustled him along. Above the noise of the melee the youth repeatedly shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

  “Probably see you sooner or later,” Eddie said to the image on the screen. He put on his shirt, his belt and his badge. Near the rear door he sat down on a stool and pulled his boots on. He ran a rag across the black leather to boost the shine.

  Eddie filled his travel mug with coffee and by five-thirty he left the house. Upstairs Lisa stirred with the throaty roar of his pickup truck starting. But she put the pillow over her head, as she did most mornings, and hoped the kids might still be asleep.

  Red Lake is a mountain lake that runs northwest starting at the base of the Lazarus range. It is ten miles long, narrow in spots but broadening out to form placid bays, sheltered anchorages and decent fishing. At the southern end is the City of Red Lake, a title that overstates the significance of the modest size resort town.

  To the south over the pass is Beaumont a town that closer approximated the word city. Beaumont has an airport, a downtown, and an economy that is driven by things other than out of town guests that boat in the summer and ski in the winter.

  Eddie rolled through the early morning light along the eastern edge of the lake. His wipers slashed at the rain that beat on the windshield and bounced hard off the asphalt, giving the road a hazy white effect. The road snaked along the curving bays of the lake. At times it brushed the water, but usually people with money, large houses and spreading lawns, separated the highway from the shore.

  The rain stopped as abruptly as it began. Breaks formed between the low-lying storm cl
ouds, revealing an azure sky. Patches of dazzling light broke up the dark shadows on the road, as the sun shot through breaks in the hills and glinted off the water and wet pavement. Today, unlike most summer mornings, no water skiers cut the lake, drawing silent curses from fishermen who hoped for calm waters. The storm chop caused them all to stay home in bed.

  He glanced in his rear view mirror. To his irritation a sheriff’s cruiser was quickly closing, its lights flashed and the wail of the siren overrode the road noise in his pickup. Eddie slowed and pulled toward the shoulder, both cursing and wondering what he had done. To his relief the patrol car swung wide, across the double yellow line and blew past him. Returning to his lane, it disappeared around a curve in the road.

  On the radio the sad lament of a country western singer faded to the CBS morning roundup. The bombing near Chicago dominated the news, the commentator mongered fear and paranoia. Eddie depressed the scan button. A fundamentalist preacher broadcasting from Coeur d’Alene momentarily shouted about God, damnation, and hell fire. More fear. More Angst. More uncertainty. Eddie dispatched him to the ether by pressing the button again.

  A local station warned of budget cuts and diminished services. U.S. school children’s test scores were abysmally low, and Congress reached an all time nadir in their approval ratings.

  Finally, he left the radio tuned to an oldie station, where someone from the generation before his sung about something blowing in the wind.

  It is an easy twelve-mile run from the City of Red Lake, to the higher reaches of the lake, an area known as Upper Cransden.

  Around a sweeping curve, the prison comes into view, sprawling across a flat knob of land that bulges out into the lake. No trees surrounded the prison; the land was clear-cut before it was built. The 360-degree visibility is maintained, making any stealthy approach improbable. Chain link fences topped by concertina wire encircle the facility. Behind the fences lay guard towers, pressure pads and laser sensors. It is rumored among the staff that there is a death strip with landmines, but in that no one has ever escaped, the story remains unproven.