Deliverer

Chapter 8

Truman couldn't sleep after McAllister's call. He went on a jog with Barley, letting some tension in his joints seep into the cold September air. He finished his jog at the shooting range just east of the house and fired a few rounds. He didn't have an endless supply of ammo, though, and it occurred to him that he might need it.

Chilled by the thought of a bloodbath, he went down to the basement and lifted weights. The odor of mildew and rust overwhelmed his nostrils, and his eyes wandered over the mess in the room. Trash piled up in the corners. Rust decorated the pipes and sinks. The basement stank of wet and decay.

Claber's call at noon was a welcome distraction. “We're in Utah,” he said. “Heading for the Montana border.”

“Perfect,” Truman said into the phone. He entered the kitchen and scowled at the food and trash littering the room. Did nobody clean up after themselves? Sometimes Grey was far more beneficial at home than on raids.He opened the fridge and tossed half of the contents into a trash bag. “Wait until nightfall or our agent might not be working.” They had safely crossed the border many times, even if the border patrol didn't include one of Truman's men. But with a theft as important as the Swan Lake necklace on board, Truman preferred to play it safe.

“We will.”

The rest of the day passed in a monotonous silence. Truman spent most of it outside with Barley, finding the emptiness of the house oppressive and stifling. He didn’t go inside until it got too dark to see.

Toward midnight the phone rang, waking Truman from where he slept at the foot of his bed. Claber again. Truman cleared his throat and answered. "Yes."

"Boss?" Not Claber. Eli's voice came across the line, high-pitched and whiny. Unusual for Eli.

Truman pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "What is it, Eli?" Something couldn't have gone wrong so soon. Not now.

"We had, um, uh, a slight mishap."

Truman's lower lip curled into a snarl. "What? What happened?"

"We had to kidnap these four girls that were spying on us."

It took a full minute for the words to sink in. Girls. Spying. Kidnap. "You did what?" he shouted.

"Well, they were—" The phone went dead.

Truman pulled it away from his ear and stared at it. Signal lost. He waited a few minutes for Eli to call back, but he didn't. They must be in a dead zone. There were half a dozen of those between Montana and Canada.

Rattled, Truman lay back on his bed. He tried to summon the hypnosis of sleep, but thoughts tumbled around his mind, trying to make sense of Eli's brief sentences. Kidnap? Girls? How? Why? What were his men doing with them?

Truman sat up and opened the nightstand drawer. As it should be, the whiskey bottle lay on its side, silent and inviting. Truman took a big swig, then another. Kidnap. Spying. Four girls.

He was a jewel thief. Not a kidnapper. This was not part of the game.

He took several more gulps before collapsing face down on the bed, passed out.

#

Claber didn't call all the next day, and Truman resisted the urge to check on them. The only words Truman had for his second-in-command were furious and condemning. Claber knew better. How could he let something like this happen? Kidnapped girls. Every cop in the nation would be looking for them.

It took some effort for Truman to scan the American newscast on his tablet. Finally, with the right combination of words, he found an APB, put out by the Idaho Falls Police Department.