Black Daylight Page 13
He figured they knew they would be spending the day combing through it all, and for what? His story wasn’t true.
Maybe skipping it was more the work of the sheriff than Agent Rower. He wasn’t sure.
Either way, she was going to indulge the sheriff over him. If the sheriff said they should go to the gas station first, that was what they would do.
When he realized they were going to the gas station, Widow asked about the security footage. Didn’t Shostrom already order it to be messaged over? Or emailed? Or however, they were going to do it?
Rower told him this was faster. And left it at that.
They stopped at the station and parked near the rear in front of a set of outside bathroom doors, white brick walls with graffiti in one corner, just past a dumpster.
Rousey and Rower got out of the front. Roberts stayed where he was, watching Widow like a hawk. He waited for Rousey to stand by his door before turning his back on Widow.
Out of curiosity, Widow tried the door handle on his side. It didn’t open. They had the child lock engaged.
Rower started to open Widow’s door for him, but Rousey called to her to wait. She stopped and stood there, staring over at them.
The deputy popped the rear door and pulled out two Tactical Remington 870s. Big guns. All black finish. Serious weapons.
Each deputy took one and loaded it and pumped the action. Rousey stared in at Widow, made sure he saw the shotgun, made sure he witnessed the pump.
Widow made no expression. He just waited.
Rousey told Rower to go ahead, and she opened the door, let Widow out.
Widow didn’t want to get shot by whatever load the deputies were armed with, so he got it in his head to continue to play nice.
His suspicions nagged at him. Judging by the whole “Hannibal Lector” way that they were treating him, so far, the loads in the shotguns were probably Magnum slugs.
Why go all out with these weapons if you didn’t have dangerous slugs loaded?
Rousey came around, stopped at the passenger side rear tire and usurped Rower’s control over Widow like he wanted to show her that he was taking charge.
He barked at Widow to step forward.
Widow followed orders, no questions, and stepped forward. He stayed cold: cold expression, cold gaze, and he was physically cold. He wondered if they would ever give him back his coat. He shivered in the borrowed thermal.
Rousey closed his door behind him.
Widow stared down at his handcuffs. For a moment, he expected Rousey to cover his hands with a jacket or something, but no one did.
“Let’s go,” Rousey ordered.
He waited for Widow to go first and stayed behind with the shotgun. It wasn’t pointed at Widow, but it was there, pointed at the ground behind him, which made little difference in Widow’s mind.
From Widow’s experience, this looked more like a prisoner transfer than a simple witness pointing out where he had been the night before. But Widow didn’t protest. Not once. Not so far.
Being a man with nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there, he had a lot of patience. Why not? He considered himself lucky. Most people in this world dealt with tremendous nuisances every single day. Although being in handcuffs for doing the right thing was worse than mundane, daily nuisances, he still considered the whole thing an inconvenience.
He followed behind Rower. They walked into the gas station. Roberts held one of a set of double glass doors open.
Rower stepped in first and then Widow, followed by the deputies.
Behind the counter stood two employees of the gas station. One was an older woman with white hair. She was petite to the point of being a borderline little person. The second was the young guy from the night before.
Dark circles surrounded the under part of his eyes. He hadn’t been to sleep yet.
Rower had Widow stand four feet from the counter and asked, “You recognize this guy?”
“Yeah. That’s the dude that got left here last night. Same guy I told Rousey about.”
They knew each other. Widow figured most people from around twenty square miles probably knew who Rousey was, being that he was the full-time deputy stationed in this area.
Rower asked, “You guys got last night’s surveillance footage?”
The lady with the white hair answered.
“I already sent it to the sheriff.”
“You got a copy here too?”
“Of course.”
“Let me see it.”
“Who are you?” the lady with the white hair asked.
“Pardon me; I’m with the FBI.”
Rower took out the same badge Widow had already seen and showed it to the woman and then the young, tired clerk. After they were satisfied, she flipped it closed and stuck it back into her jacket.
“Come on then. It’s back in the office.”
Rower began to follow the lady back behind a door marked “Private,” but the lady stopped and looked back.
The deputies were pushing Widow forward like they were all going back.
The white-haired lady said, “We can’t all fit back there.”
Rower turned to the deputies and said, “I’ll take him.”
Rousey said, “What?’
Rower stepped up to Widow and grabbed one hand under his bicep. She tugged on him, pulled him away from the deputies.
“I’ll take him. Don’t worry.”
Rousey looked over at Roberts, who stayed quiet.
“You boys stay here. Stand guard.”
The deputies were ordered to follow Rower’s instructions. Nothing they could do. No ground to argue. She had given them a clear order.
They both nodded and stayed back.
The white-haired lady’s reaction was different. She wasn’t under orders by the sheriff. She had no obligation to follow any orders at all from the FBI.
She said, “I don’t want him to go back there.”
“He’s gotta go back. I want to see him and the guy in your footage together.”
The white-haired lady frowned in protest. She said nothing, but the resistance was obvious.
Rower said, “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
And she pulled open her jacket, showed the white-haired lady her Glock 22.
Widow smiled because he knew that wasn’t going to reassure the woman. He knew she had two guns herself, at least. One was under the counter. Probably packed beneath the cash register. And the other was in the office. Probably duct taped to the bottom of a desk.
He figured neither of them was a Glock. They were both probably closer to the rocket launcher family than the nine-millimeter family.
He smiled.
The white-haired lady nodded and led them both back.
The office was more cramped than Widow thought. He barely fit in behind Rower.
She stayed close to the white-haired lady, who sat in a rolling chair at a desktop attached to the wall.
She clicked on a laptop computer and pulled up the file for the cameras with the right times. She had already set it up all ready to go.
She clicked play, and they watched on the screen in four split screens as Widow’s story unfolded just as he had described it.
He arrived in a car with two other passengers. He climbed out and headed inside the station, as he had said. A minute later, the two in the car could be seen arguing, not heavily, but disagreeing about something. Next, they slowly backed out of the space and drove off.
On the other screen, they watched Widow staring out the window, near the register. The expression on his face stayed stagnant, unemotional, not angered, not bent out of shape. He just looked opinionless, like it didn’t matter to him one way or the other.
They watched as Widow did as he said. He bought a coffee and drank it, right there in front of the gas station, out near an ice box. Finally, they watched him throw away the empty cup and saunter off out of the close camera’s view, and then he appeared on the most external came
ra, pointed at the interstate.
They watched as he looked at the interstate and then back towards a long set of unmarked, country roads like it was a tempting choice.
In the end, he chose the country road, and just like he had claimed, he vanished down one, trekking over the light snow.
Rower said, “So, you were telling the truth?”
“Did you doubt it?”
“I’m an FBI agent. I always doubt everything.”
“Can I get out of these cuffs now?”
“Not so fast.”
Widow’s face was the same as on the screen—emotionless and unaffected.
Rower said, “But, I owe you a coffee like I promised.”
She thanked the manager and followed Widow back out into the store. Roberts and Rousey stood near the entrance, shotguns ready.
Widow walked toward them, presuming that was Rower’s next order.
“Hold on,” she called out from behind him.
Widow stopped, turned, and faced her.
“Wait for us outside.”
“What?” Rousey asked.
“Give us some space.”
Rousey looked at Roberts. Both men paused a long beat.
Rower said, “It’s not a democracy, guys. This is my case. My prisoner. Wait outside.”
Roberts said nothing. He turned and left the gas station. Rousey followed, but paused first and stared at Widow again.
“That guy’s got a stick up his butt.”
Rower said, “They’ve got tough jobs. They all have sticks up their butts.”
Rower signaled for Widow to follow her and she walked to the register. The manager moved behind them and skirted her way behind a complex of display cases and impulse buys until she was standing behind the guy behind the register.
The manager moved in front and waited as if she was needed to wait on the FBI over an hourly employee.
“What else can I do for you?” she asked.
“Where’s the coffee?”
“Back counter.”
Rower nodded a thank you and led Widow down a junk food aisle until they were at the coffee station, which was as he remembered it from the night before.
“Can you pour your own cup in those?”
“I can. But…”
“What?”
“I don’t have any money.”
“I told you. I’m buying.”
Widow nodded and smiled. He stepped up, took a medium cup and set it down. He picked up a half-full pot and poured it, carefully into the cup. Then he returned the pot.
“You didn’t spill any.”
Widow smiled and said, “Not my first time.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“No. Coffee is perfect already. You don’t add to something that’s perfect already.”
Rower nodded, stepped up, and grabbed a lid for the cup.
“Better put that on. Those deputies aren’t going to be happy that you have an open container of hot coffee. It could be seen as a weapon.”
“It is a weapon. Hot coffee is like a grenade only instead of shrapnel; it sprays hot liquid.”
“Are you trying to make me regret buying it?”
“No. Thank you.”
Rower signaled for Widow to step ahead of her, back to the front.
“You’re not going to get some for yourself?” he asked.
“I don’t drink coffee.”
Widow froze. His face finally turned to an expression that she had expected on the man in the surveillance video when his ride abandoned him. It was an automatic reaction of disappointment. It was almost one of being insulted.
“You don’t like coffee?”
“It’s not good for you.”
“Pretty good for me.”
“It’s bad for the heart.”
“If you say so.”
“Come on.”
They returned to the front. Rower moved in front of Widow to the cashier and the manager.
“That’s all. How much?”
The manager said, “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Anything for law enforcement.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“Of course. We’re just glad you get guys like this off the street.”
Widow’s face returned to emotionless. He was often misunderstood and feared for no reason. Not the first time, wouldn’t be the last time. There was no reason to make a big deal out of the erroneous opinions of complete strangers.
Rower felt differently.
She said, “He’s not a criminal.”
“Why he in handcuffs then?”
Rower shrugged, said, “That’s merely a formality. For your local boys, out there.”
The manager said nothing to that, which was probably because she didn’t know what to say. But her face said a lot, more than Widow’s had been saying, that was for sure.
She looked like she just realized that Rower was an outsider and she wasn’t that fond of outsiders, an ironic disposition for someone running a service station on an interstate where practically every patron who stopped for gas was an outsider.
Widow made no comment about it.
Rower did not wait for a reply. She signaled for Widow to follow her and they walked back out to the lot.
“Wait for us,” she ordered the deputies.
They made no protest, but they started to walk over to the Explorer.
Rower put up a hand.
“Not here. Wait over there somewhere.”
She continued back to the Explorer.
Widow followed and stopped.
Rower leaned against the rear tire of the vehicle and waited for Widow.
He stopped five feet away, stayed out in the lot and pulled the coffee up to his lips, took a pull. It was hot, as advertised.
“So, you’re telling the truth? So far.”
“I got no reason to lie.”
“We’ll go check out the road in a few minutes.”
“What is this? Bad cop, good FBI agent?”
Rower paused a short beat.
“I believe you’re telling the truth.”
“So why the song and dance?”
“Your story is insane, that’s why. You just happened to wander down a dirt road in the middle of the night, middle of nowhere, and stumbled upon a dumped woman that someone tried to kill?”
“That’s what happened.”
“It’s unbelievable. You gotta admit.”
Widow stepped slowly, kicked up some dirt with his boot. He stayed back a few more feet from Rower, still thinking in the back of his head that he might get shot by one of the deputies.
He asked, “What’s her name?”
“Her name is Laine Olsen.”
“She gonna be okay?”
Rower looked off at the forest, her eyes laid out over the snow-covered treetops, and back at Widow.
“I think so. Are you telling us the truth?”
“I am telling the truth.”
Widow took a long, double pull from his coffee, realizing that she might be waiting for him to finish it before getting into the vehicle with him.
“I am telling the truth.”
She was quiet for a moment and then she said, “I believe you. You saved that girl’s life.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“Come on. Finish up. Let’s get this over with.”
Widow took another drink.
“Why is the FBI here?”
“This case falls under our jurisdiction.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“Why?”
“For a couple of reasons.”
“Like?”
“Where you found the body, might be federal land.”
“Federal land?”
“Yeah. Ever heard of the Black Hills?”
“That’s the mountain range over that way,” he said and pointed two-handed with the coffee cup.
“It’s more than that. It’s a national forest.”
“Why?”
She looked at him like a schoolteacher looking at a student asking a dumb question on purpose.
“What?” he asked.
“Think about it. What’s famous around here?”
“Rushmore.”
“Rushmore,” she nodded.
“Shit. I didn’t even think about it.”
She nodded and said, “That’s why it falls under FBI jurisdiction.”
“You could pass it off.”
“I could.”
“Why don’t you? What else is going on?”
“Did you notice bandages on Laine Olsen’s body when you found her?”
“I did.”
“Not only did someone try to kill her; they took her kidney.”
Widow froze and stared at Rower.
Chapter 18
R OWER STARED OFF into the Black Hills, over the forests and the mountains.
Widow asked, “What else are you not saying? What is it that you didn’t want the deputies to hear?”
“What makes you think that?”
“You don’t know me from Adam. These local boys don’t want to believe me, but you just said you did.”
“The security footage corroborates your story so far. Why wouldn’t I believe you?”
“You didn’t tell them to wait back there for me. You told them so you could tell me about the kidney. What’s going on?”
She turned and said, “Jack Widow. Former Navy SEAL.”
“I already told them that.”
“But you didn’t mention that you were really an undercover NCIS investigator.”
“I didn’t think it was needed.”
“They’d let you out faster. Probably.”
“They’ll let me out anyway. I didn’t take that girl’s kidney.”
“I know. I believe you. But we gotta go look at the road where you found her anyway.”
“You didn’t answer my question. What else is going on?”
“The FBI has an ongoing case.”
“About what?”
“Organ trafficking.”
Widow paused a beat, and then he asked, “That’s a real thing?”
“Of course it’s real. Haven’t you heard of it?”