Kit Crumb - Body Parts

Even before the dust settled, Paul Casey began picking his way through what used to be the opening of the mine. With his shirt collar pulled over his mouth, he felt around until the dust finally settled and he could see the mine was completely sealed. His hip ached and his head throbbed, but he knew he couldn’t rest until he caught up with the man who killed Rye Anderson. It was slow going down the trail to the clinic, which was burning itself out. When he reached the mansion, the ground floor windows were blown out and flames licked the outer walls. He finally allowed his pace to slow as he approached the gate, but was surprised to find it open.

The car blocking the way wasn’t Bobby’s muscle car, it was a black and silver BMW. A knot formed in Paul’s stomach at the sight of Phil kneeling over a prostate figure. Hopping as fast as his hip would allow he came up next to Phil, prepared for the worst.

“Bobby.” Paul stared down at his friend in total disbelief.

“He’s fine Paul.” Phil said looking up. “But you’d better have a look in the BMW.”

Paul passed through the open gate, and immediately recognized the two occupants as the woman with the shotgun and the man who had blow up the mine. They were leaning stiffly at odd angles. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw when he reached the car—both had been horribly gutted.

As he turned from the car, Phil greeted him, his arm around his brother who was rubbing the center of his chest.

“Jeez, I think one of those blue suited goons punched me in the chest. Thought I’d been shot.”

Paul looked to Phil for an explanation. “Apparently when Bobby got here he wasn’t the only one looking to catch up with those two.” Phil nodded toward the BMW.

Bobby broke loose from his brother, walked the last few steps to the car and peered in the open window.

“I guess they wanted them a lot more then we did.”

Phil turned a grim face on Paul. “Rye and Claire?”

Paul shook his head. “The mine was sealed by the blast. Bobby, why don’t you drive down and get the local sheriff?”

Bobby shook his head as he walked to join his brother. “Not a chance. The last time you sent me on an errand I got punched in the chest by a gorilla. I’ll just call,” he said, holding up his cell phone.

A stretch limo pulled into the gas station in Denton Beach. The windows weren’t tinted they were blacked out. When the attendant walked up to the driver’s window, all he could see of the lone figure inside was a silhouette.

“Fill it up?”

The window rolled down four inches, and the attendant noticed the driver never took his hands off the wheel.

“I need directions to Pericolo Lane,” a voice said in a thick accent. The voice didn’t come from the driver.

“Sure. Two blocks north, take a right at the Book Nook.”

The window rolled up and the limo drove off.

“Mildred, would you get a look at that limo?” Sally Moore said to her sister.

“Oh my God,” said Mildred. “I’ve never seen one so long. I wonder if it can make even half the turns on that road?”

“Could you bring me that box of books, I need to start now if I’m going to get them entered by the end of the day,” Sally said.

For the next twenty minutes, Mildred and Sally Moore worked independently, one entering books, the other shelving, occasionally interrupted by tourists and the few regulars who routinely visited the Book Nook.

Mildred looked up from the computer as blaring sirens grew closer and closer.

“Sally, do you have your little TV on again?”

“No.”

Sally deserted her shelving and walked to the picture window that looked out on North Main.

“Something’s going on. Millie, come see.”

Mildred joined her sister at the window.

“My goodness, what in the world would take two police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck? And would you look at that black sedan.

Sally laughed. “Probably the FBI.”

The two women took turns speculating on what might be happening. As the sirens faded, the women went back to work.

The stretch limo slowed at the gate of 20415, then stopped. The first of four passenger side doors opened; a man climbed out, fastened the middle button of his sport coat. The distant wale of sirens filled the air. The man—dark complexion, hair slicked back—heard the sirens, but looking up and down the road saw nothing. Without taking a step, he turned his upper body only and spoke to someone inside.

”Claro.”

The remaining limo doors opened and six nattily dressed men emerged.

One, clearly the leader, paused and looked around. “Beautiful,” he said. He too heard the sirens, but they seemed so far away he thought nothing of it. He looked over at Paul Casey and the Panther brothers, then at the stone pillar with the address. He spoke in Spanish to his companions; all heads turned in an attempt to locate the direction of the sirens. The leader walked across the road.

Paul walked to head the man off. As they met near the center of the road, the man stopped. “Excuse me. I see that this is 20415.” He spoke with a strong Spanish accent, then seeing Paul’s apparent confusion, added, “Please forgive me. I am Eduardo Santana, representative to the Columbia delegation. We have an appointment with Doctoro Simms and Señora Rehnquist.”

Paul had made the first man out of the limo as a bodyguard the moment he stepped onto the road. He was puzzled by this other man, however, until the names Simms and Rehnquist were mentioned.

“Perhaps you could direct me?” Santana said.

The sirens were now clear enough that it was apparent that they came from several vehicles.

Paul managed to produce his most cordial smile. “Certainly,” he said, and stepped back indicating the silver and black BMW. “You’ve arrived just in time.”

The stranger shook Paul’s hand. “Bueno, señor. Thank you very much.” He turned and walked back toward the limo where he joined his companions. Paul walked back to join the Panther brothers as quickly as his hip would allow.

“What did you tell the police?”

Bobby was still rubbing his chest. “Everything I thought would get them up here in a hurry. Black market organ sales, murder… and I threw in the fire for good measure. Why?”

“Judging from those sirens we should see half the county’s law enforcement come flying around the corner any minute.”

Paul watched as the group of men from the limo—the Columbian contingent—walk across the street and converge on the BMW.

Paul’s eyes widened, and he instinctively took a step back. The highway patrol vehicle whizzed by, narrowly missing the men. It then suddenly turned into a skid, stopping crossways to the road. A second vehicle, a sheriff’s patrol, skidded to a halt parallel to the limo, blocking it from the delegation.

Paul and the Panther brothers silently watched as an unmarked black sedan came to a skidding halt, blocking the road. It hadn’t come to a complete stop when its doors flew open and a half dozen men wearing orange vests with NSA on the back emerged. Several knelt into the three-point position, aiming their guns at the Columbians, who by now were looking for a quick exit. Three more NSA agents crabbed forward, guns drawn.

Suddenly, the bodyguard reached into his coat, but a volley of bullets brought him down before he could pull his gun.

“Shit, are you sure that’s all you told them?”

An NSA agent, his gun still drawn, interrupted Bobby’s response. “One of you Paul Casey?” Paul looked to Bobby then back to the agent. “Yes sir, I’m Paul Casey.”