Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

“Thank you.” Gromov nodded to Yanna. “We brought you a box of your favorite chocolates.”

Yanna passed a small cardboard chocolate box to Maddick. He peeked inside. It held five thousand dollars in unmarked fifties and twenties.

“I’ll enjoy these, thank you. I’ll give you some additional background on the information. Would you like to get a coffee first?”

Maddick, Gromov and Yanna looked like any other group of suburbanites socializing at a children’s birthday party. Only the subject was the Texas justice system and Maddick gave them a primer.

“Are you familiar with prisons, Sergei?”

“No, I know very little of prisons.”

Yanna looked away so her face would not betray his lie.

Maddick said that there were some 150,000 offenders in over one hundred fifty prisons, jails and other facilities in Texas, and if needed, he could help get information on just about anything.

“For now, I am interested in locating Mason Varno,” Gromov said.

Before he was paroled, Maddick said, Mason Varno completed a five-year sentence at Hightower Unit for robbery. The prison was near Dayton, northeast of Houston. The unit housed about 1,400 prisoners, give or take. Like prisons everywhere, the institution had its challenges with gangs, beatings and other issues. While Varno was inside, he took part in various programs and also sought the help of the Fellowship of the Good Thief Society, a faith-based support group.

“He kept to himself and managed to stay out of trouble,” Maddick said. “However, I was able to find out that he associated with four prisoners, and maybe not always on the best of terms, but there were four.”

Maddick’s intel indicated that among Varno’s circle, there was talk of plans for various enterprises on the outside and that Varno feared retribution on the inside for a disastrous drug deal prior to his incarceration.

“By the sounds of things, you would think he would’ve been almost happy to be inside, or so it seems,” Maddick said.

“Where are these four associates?” Gromov asked.

“Two are still in prison. One died in a workshop accident. Only one has been paroled. All of their information is in the envelope.”

Gromov began opening it.

“Now, while it would be a parole violation for the inmates to associate with each other while on parole, we all know rules are broken every day.” Maddick smiled.

Gromov looked at the first page of records. The ex-con’s name: Lamont Harley Faulk.

“A little warning about Faulk,” Maddick said. “You’ll see he’s serving time for aggravated assault. In prison he was legendary for knowing everything about everyone. He was drawn to white supremacist gangs. He once put out a man’s eye with his thumb, bit off one of his ears and ate it, then used a nail gun to leave him crucifixion-style against the wall of a barn. This was after a fit of road rage. The man cut Faulk off. Faulk confronted him at a red light, hauled him away to the barn where he nearly killed him. Faulk’s not quite right upstairs. He’s got a temper. He hates most living things, but apparently keeps his word. He’s pathological about that. It’s all there in his psych reports.”

Gromov studied Faulk’s records.

“I don’t know how you’d persuade him to tell you anything about Mason Varno,” Maddick said, nodding to Yanna. “Oh, could you please pass me my grandson’s things on the seat there? I’m afraid it’s time for us to leave.”

Yanna passed him the small sneakers, jacket and ball cap.

“Thanks and good luck,” Maddick said.

After Maddick left, Yanna moved to the seat across from Gromov.

She sipped her tea while he slipped on his bifocals to study the documents more closely. She thought it a strange juxtaposition how this powerful Russian mobster, no doubt a murderer himself, was sitting here amid the laughter of American children, preparing to hunt down a violent psychopath.

Garland, Texas

A lush grove of oak trees gave Remy and Mason cool sanctuary at the edge of the I-30 truck stop southwest of Garland.

They were nearly out of sight, sitting back in the shade on the soft grass. The baby was content lying on their blanket. Remy had just fed him and was engrossed in the news reports she was reading on her laptop. Mason was studying a new map that he’d folded precisely. Take-out wrappers, drink cups and grease-stained bags dotted the blanket.

They’d been driving across the Metroplex for the past few hours.

Their pickup truck was the only vehicle at the far end of the lot. To anyone who saw them, they were a young family enjoying a private picnic.

The hum of freeway traffic rushing along the causeway over Lake Ray Hubbard was punctuated by the growl and grind of rigs wheeling in an out of the Exxon station. Remy lifted her face to the ensuing breezes. It calmed her and she paused, allowing herself to believe that she and Mason were really on their way now. They were really closer to their dream. She reached for Caleb to stroke his cheek lovingly. But touching him underscored her aching emptiness, her overwhelming sadness over the baby she’d lost and all that she’d been through.

Remy battled her painful maternal feelings as she gazed at Caleb.

Your mother does not deserve you. No one deserves you more than me. I saved you. It was all meant to be. You’re MY angel.

Yes, it’s all meant to be.

Just like it was with Mason, the way he knew, absolutely knew that we had to get out of the motel at the right time. Thank God he talked some sense into me. I was not thinking right when I walked to the park. He was so smart to get us out of our motel before the police found us.

Remy went back to the news stories about the SWAT action at the Tumbleweed Motel. It was such a close call. Still, she didn’t think that the police sketches accompanying the reports looked much like her and Mason. He’d let his beard grow, wore sunglasses and long sleeves to cover his tattoos. She touched her short dark hair while considering other ways to ensure that she didn’t resemble the wanted woman in the sketches in any way.

Remy found a new story by the Associated Press, which reported that the FBI was still relying heavily on the public’s help in the tornado baby case. Agents had little information on the two people using the aliases of Luke and Ashley Johnson of Houston. Remy knew that Mason had changed their plate again after they’d pulled away from the motel. He’d been careful, even lining up a place for them to go and, judging by everything that she’d read, she and Mason still had an advantage.

“We were lucky to get out of the motel when we did. It was a good call, babe,” Remy said.

“Damn straight, it was.” Mason lifted his attention from the map, but when he saw her caressing the baby his jaw tensed. “Stop that,” he said.

“Stop what?”

Mason slapped Remy’s hand away from Caleb.

“Hey!” she said.

“You’re not keeping him, so don’t get attached.”

“Don’t you ever, ever hit me!” Remy’s breathing quickened as she glared at Mason. Since they’d left the motel, he was tense, irritable and sweating, which signaled that he needed his drugs. She hated it when he got that way. She glanced at the bulge in the blanket near him where he’d put his gun. She also hated it when he carried that thing around.

He stared at her for a long, cool, moment.

“We’re under a lot of pressure,” he said. “Once we get to my friend’s place we’ll be totally off the grid. That’s when we’ll call the agency, close this deal, get our money and be gone. I know a guy who’ll help us get new identities, good ones with social security, passports, everything. We’ll freakin’ disappear.” Mason looked at his cell phone on the blanket next to his soda then pursed his lips. “Lamont better damn well give up the location. I gave that mother a lot of money.”