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

  “You mind if I quietly look around?”

  “I doubt I could stop you. I figure somebody still wants my prisoner dead, if he isn’t already.”

  The CIA man stood up. “Nice talking Sheriff. Lunch is on me.” He fished a twenty out of his pocket. “If that’s short you can get the tip.”

  *

  When he returned from lunch, Gaines found a woman waiting to see him. She was attractive, despite the three children she had in tow, young enough to be his daughter, Gaines thought. The face seemed vaguely familiar.

  “May I help you?”

  “My name’s Lisa Ames. I think I’ve been cheated.”

  Gaines gestured to his office. Lisa left her children with crayons and coloring books.

  “I hired a man to investigate my husband’s death. Eddie worked at Praxis and died in a car accident. I didn’t believe it and hired a detective.”

  “Harry Grim?”

  “Yes! So you know him?”

  The Sheriff nodded.

  “Well he took my money and said he would look into it. A few days later he called and gave me a story about how I could be in danger.”

  “That was all?”

  “I haven’t heard from him since. I want my money back.”

  “Well, from what I know of Harry he probably already spent it. But I can assure you Harry has not cheated you, in fact he has been working quite hard at great personal risk.”

  “Really?” She asked incredulously.

  “I’d give him some more time. There is no proof yet but there is reason to believe your husbands death was not accidental.”

  The color drained from Lisa Ames’s face. “You mean someone actually killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?” Lisa was dismayed by her mixed emotions, disbelief that someone would murder Eddie and shock that her suspicions were real.

  The Sheriff continued. “I don’t know if we will ever know all the facts but I suspect Harry knows more than I do. If I were you I would go home and wait.”

  Gaines watched as she gathered her children, walked out the door, and into the parking lot. She strapped the kids into car seats in an aging van. The van blew smoke, then backed out and drove away.

  Chapter 59

  “How’s it going Willard?”

  Harry leaned against the bulkhead in the companionway. The sun shot golden rays into the cabin. They danced across the sole and climbed the inner hull as the boat rolled gently on passing boat wakes. Down the companionway from the aft deck speakers floated the muted sound of 60’s rock and roll. The only other sound was water slapping against the hull. Clemson said nothing.

  “Oh how rude of me.” Harry reached over and jerked the duct tape off that covered Clemson’s mouth.

  “You’re in deep shit, Grim!”

  “You know that’s funny, you know my name but we’ve never met. I heard your buddies call you Kurt, would that be with a “C’ or a “K?”

  “With a K you little prick.”

  “Don’t be crude. Remember you represent your government. You want to make a good impression.”

  Clemson tried to kick Harry, but only jerked to a halt like a dog on a leash. He never came close.

  “I think you look like a Willard. Does that ring any bells?”

  Clemson remained silent.

  “Willard Stangl of Ridge Drive, Langley, Virginia?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Really?” Harry held up a Virginia driver’s license. “Photo looks like you.”

  “It’s a fake, just like the ones the Sheriff took from me.”

  Barton came up behind Harry and squeezed past into the cabin.

  “So you don’t live in a one story colonial, black shutters, white shiplap siding, big maple tree in front?”

  “Sounds like half of the houses back east.” Clemson looked bored.

  Barton pulled out a knife and began cleaning his fingernails. “I’ve got friends in DC too, Willard. Wouldn’t it be funny if we both knew the same mercenary killers? After all, we’ve both worked for the same company. In fact, I learned a few tricks from the Company, tricks to make people talk.”

  Clemson’s eyes darted nervously between Harry, Barton, and Barton’s knife.

  “My friend visited your house while Angelica was out?”

  Clemson’s eyes twitched slightly at the name.

  Barton put his knife away. “Grab my laptop,” he said nodding at Harry. “Want to watch home movies, Willard?”

  Harry returned with the computer. Clemson scowled but said nothing. Barton typed on the keyboard. A moment later the image of a living room appeared.

  “Is Mrs. Stangl home?”

  “That’s a negative,” an electronic voice answered.

  The camera moved through the house.

  “Show me those photo’s on the piano.” Barton ordered. Looking at Clemson, he asked, “You play? Or is it the wife, Willard?”

  The camera panned in close to a gilded frame. A family portrait showed Clemson his arm around a slightly plump middle-aged woman and the other arm around an attractive college age co-ed.”

  “Nice looking family, Willard, especially the girl. Those tuition bills at Vassar can be a ball buster, huh?’

  “You keep her out of it!” Clemson lunged at his ties, the raised veins on his flushed faced pulsed. It was his first unequivocal reaction.

  The camera roved through the bedrooms. In a bedroom decorated for a girl, a hand opened the top drawer in a white dresser, it fondled a pair of white panties. Then the camera moved to the closet. The doors folded open. It was mostly empty, but the hand stroked one of the few dresses.

  Barton looked at his watch. “Two o’clock, two hours later out there.” He turned back to the laptop. “Mrs. Stangl might be home soon. Better retreat and wait until dark.”

  “Rodger.”

  The computer screen went blank.

  “Don’t you dare fuck with my wife, you black son-of-a-bitch.” Spittle flew from Clemson’s lips as he spoke.

  Barton’s bicep flexed, his fist slashed out with unbelievable swiftness. It slammed into Clemson’s face, whose lip split. Blood dibbled down the chin.

  “Learn some manners or I might get angry,” Barton said as he wiped the back of his hands on Clemson’s pants leg. “Beside, ain’t your wife my friend is interested in. Your house is just business. His pleasure begins after he drives to Poughkeepsie.”

  Clemson lunged again. He said, “Damn nig…” before Barton swung and snapped Clemson’s head back. He did not move again.

  Barton stood up, “Let’s get a beer. He’ll be sleeping for awhile.”

  They shut the cabin door and retreated to the salon where Harry pulled two beers from the galley fridge.

  “Would your contact in Washington do the daughter?”

  “Not for fun, he doesn’t go for women.”

  “But would he ice an innocent girl?”

  “Maybe for money but not for free. I don’t really know, all the merc’s have limits but it’s always a gray zone.”

  “Would you?”

  “Depends on the reasons. Collateral damage and all the shit you know. Sometimes war is messy.”

  After a bit Harry said, “The daughters his weak spot.”

  “Yeah” Barton replied between deep droughts. “Not sure he cares much about the old lady. Thrills probably gone. If you made him watch somebody cut her up, I’m not sure he would care. But the daughter…” Barton let the words trail off.

  “A lot of men would die for their little girl,” Harry softy observed.

  “Yeah, especially if he thinks she is on the cusp of hell. A racist’s hate can work for you if you play it. If I threaten to drop his daughter off in Harlem where the brothers can freight train her, daddy will talk.”

  “Maybe it won’t come to that. I’d like to get this over, the sooner the better.”

  On the radio, Lennon sang, “Let it be.”

  Barton opened another beer. “You ai
n’t heard from Paula, have you?”

  “Not sure I will.”

  “She wanna fly, friend, you won’t be able to hold on.”

  Harry shook his head slowly, “Wouldn’t even try.”

  Barton made a small face, then chose to change the subject. “I think we might want to move. Don’t know who is looking for us, or how close they be, but a moving target is harder to hit.”

  Harry fetched his second beer and went out on deck, leaving Barton at the galley table where he soon busied himself stripping down his gun. It was a habit and required little thought as he wiped and oiled each part.

  Diesel engines rumbled to life. Forward, the windlass whined as the anchor chain clattered into the chain locker. The bow rose slightly as the boat moved into the wind chop. Then Harry opened up the throttle on the fly bridge. Leaving a frothy wake behind, the boat moved away from its anchorage and lumbered further north.

  Chapter 60

  Ziegfeld was busy editing film. The footage shown to Clemson inside his house along with other film was being massaged by technology. A contact in the San Fernando Valley filmed a blue screen short. The porn actress chosen to star was a close physical match to the photo sent to the director. A man who had aspirations while in the UCLA film school but learned to settle in life.

  The action was blocked out to match the rooms in Clemson’s house. Crates were used for kitchen counters. A similar shaped sofa was used for the actress to scramble across as she tried to flee her attacker. A bed is always available on a valley film set.

  It was a snuff film; the kick being the actress didn’t die.

  Ziggy waited for the final footage, the opening shot that would set the film’s tone. Meanwhile he ran filters to turn the sunlight into moonlight. The dim light also hid inconsistencies in the action.

  *

  In Langley, Virginia twilight filled the night. A police officer strode up the front walk of Clemson’s house. He rang the doorbell. The door opened and Angelica Clemson smiled at the unseen camera that recorded her every expression. The police officer looked her in the eye and told her. “Your daughter Kim has been viciously ganged raped and murdered in New York.”

  Angelica’s reaction could not have been better. Her face exploded in fear, anger, and horror. She spun away from the camera clutching herself in grief.

  Ziegfeld edited the footage. The front porch light gave a nice homey touch as the front door opened. He zoomed in on Angelica’s face. It lent the effect of someone leaning in toward her. There was no doubt it was her. Ziggy used the clip until she turned her back to the camera, after that he spliced in the San Fernando footage.

  Finally, he reviewed the clip one still at a time. The shot he used showed Angelica’s face apparently slack, her jaw hanging agape, and the eyes rolled back. It was an ephemeral moment, as she responded to the news of her daughter, but superimposed on the porn actress’ face, in the final scene, Angelica Clemson appeared very, very dead.

  Chapter 61

  The houseboat rode at anchor in a broad cove north of Cransden Point above ADX Praxis. The bay was shallow. Sailboats avoided it lest they run aground. Fisherman found deeper or more shadowed water better fishing. The shoreline was marshy around the bay. People chose to build their cabins elsewhere. It was as private as one could be on the lake.

  Once they dropped anchor, Harry and Barton remained below decks. Anyone who looked would soon lose interest. Cruising further out, there were plenty of other boats with bikini-clad girls to distract the eye. The portholes, sliding door to the aft deck and hatches were shut. Primarily because the A.C. was running off the generator, the other reason, to hide the screams that Clemson was sure to make.

  Barton opened up the cabin sole of the salon. The faint scent of mildew and diesel wafted up on the cool bilge air. Harry brought in a towel. Barton ran a hose from the aft deck wash down pump, into the salon.

  “Lets get him.”

  In the forward cabin Clemson tried to kick and flail but it was futile. Dirk squeezed a pressure point on Kurt’s clavicle. He went rigidly tense and then almost limp. They dropped him less than gently into the bilge.

  Clemson swore. He threatened. And then he couldn’t talk because of the towel Harry dropped onto his face. Barton ran the hose. As the towel became sodden Clemson flopped like a fish out of water, his body screaming for air. His body flexed and fought for the air that failed to come.

  Barton jerked the towel away. Their prisoner coughed and choked until he managed to say “fuck y…” but was cut off by a stream of water that left him choking again. Harry dropped the towel back across the face. Clemson resumed his convulsive jerks, much like a man being electrocuted.

  “We all know how this goes. We keep this up until you talk.” Harry lifted the towel.

  “Can you hear me Willard?”

  Clemson nodded violently as he sucked in great gulps of air. Desperately he tried to swallow enough to carry him through the next cycle. But there would never be enough.

  “Now you just lie there and enjoy breathing. If you stay quiet I won’t have to put the towel back, at least not yet. Do you understand?”

  It was a standard technique in extreme interrogation, force an answer and grind the subject into submission where they were grateful for any small favor. When Clemson did not answer, the towel went back, leaving his eyes exposed. The water flowed.

  Barton leaned in, “Do you understand?” This time Clemson nodded violently. The towel came off his nose and mouth.

  “Fine. Look Willard, you know how this goes. And each of us has been trained to resist. I’m sure they gave you that course at Langley. But we also know that sooner or later everyone breaks. Your only hope of not talking is that I screw up and kill you first.”

  “Do it!” Clemson snapped.

  Barton smiled. “I might. After all you tried to ice my butt. I’m sure that airplane flight you put me on was going to end at 10,000 feet.”

  He stopped and looked over to Harry. “Grab us a couple beers. This work makes me thirsty.”

  Clemson’s breathing was close to normal.

  “There’s something I want to tell you, just in case I do screw up and you die. If we don’t get what we want, your family is next. If you die, they will get it anyway.”

  “I’ll kill you!” Clemson flopped and twisted in the bilge. In only a hospital gown the fiberglass scratched his back. A small tinge of red mixed with the water in the bilge.

  “You missed your chance, Willard.”

  Harry handed him a beer. They popped the tops and drank. On the floor, Clemson began to scream for help. Barton kicked the towel over his face with the toe of his deck shoe. When the sound continued he poured some beer on the cloth to wet it. It sucking and gagging sounds increased. A minute later he picked it up.

  “This is tiresome, Willard. Hell you’ve probably read my record. You of all people should know it’s better to give up before permanent damage is done.”

  Kurt gasped.

  “Who do you work for Willard?”

  It went like that for an hour. The boat reeked. Clemson wretched but his stomach was mostly empty. He loss bowel and bladder control. He writhed in his own waste and beat himself flopping against the hull in the bilge.

  “Willard whimpered in a fetal position.”

  “You smell like crap, Willard,” Barton said.

  By then, Clemson’s eyes were fearful and focused on something far away, something dark and inevitable.

  “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere. So you are going to have a little break. Sit him up Harry.”

  Harry propped him up. When Clemson tried to sag back down Harry cracked him across the side of the face with a hard backhand blow. He wrapped duct tape around the mouth.

  “Remember my friend who visited your house? Well I am going to give him a call.”

  Barton dialed on his cell phone. A moment later he said, “It’s a go. Skype it.”

  Barton positioned his laptop so Clemson could see the scr
een. “Willard, this is the short version of what will happen to your daughter, Kim.”

  Clemson tried to lunge but Barton’s foot caught him in the gut. He fought without success, until the screen lit up with the front walk of his house. This seemed to freeze his resistance. Willard Stangl saw his wife answer the door. He saw her fear and apparent horror. He had a head cam view as she was chased through his house, knocked down, sodomized on his own bed and then had her throat slit.

  He became more agitated as it went, thrashing and bouncing like a spastic. Tears flowed from his eyes and muffled sounds like the word no, no, no, came from behind the duct tape. He beat his tied legs against the hull.

  Barton snapped the laptop closed.

  “Don’t know if you loved her Willard,” he paused to stroke his face in thought, “but that is what we call collateral damage.” Again Barton waited. “So who do you work for?”

  He jerked the tape off of Clemson’s mouth. The words spilled out.

  “D.P.I.O. It’s a CIA black bag operation. Now leave my daughter alone!”

  “That ain’t enough to save her.”

  “It was a covert domestic operation. The Agency can’t legally operate here. If Homeland and the FBI knew, they would be all over us.”

  Barton paced himself. He let the silence build. Finally he asked, “Who told you to take out Harry and why?”

  “Grim was looking into Praxis. We couldn’t have that.”

  “No, Harry was looking into Eddie Ames’ death. Did you kill him?”

  “That was Speers. He was the team mechanic.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “You killed him. He was on the plane.”

  A trace of a satisfaction showed as Barton recalled crushing his would be assassin’s esophagus.

  “Who ordered Speers to kill Eddie? And more importantly who was dumb enough to order you to take me?”

  Clemson was gaining control again as the shock of seeing his wife raped and murdered ebbed.

  “If I tell you, I’m dead.”

  “Seems to me someone already decided that. Or did you just grab the wrong ass in the jail shower?”