The Grim Reaper's Dance

“But they were just sitting there!” a man said. “A whole pallet of Wiis. Don’t tell me you can’t unload those.”

“Of course I can,” Yonkers said. “And I can come up with paperwork for them, too. But what if you would have been stopped? What if someone had found those in your load? You don’t have the authorization for them.”

“I hid them way in the front, no one would’ve checked in— Hey, who’s that?”

Casey knew he was talking about her. She held down her fear. Dixon had wanted to let Greene have a crack at her. Would Yonkers allow it? She thought about the pencil hidden in her shirt and wondered how much damage she could do with it before the rest of the guys stopped her.

“That,” Yonkers said, “is someone who crossed me.”

The statement hung in the air.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Greene finally said. “It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

“And your word is so good. Get out of here. And keep your hands off things that aren’t on the orders.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Go.”

Footsteps shuffled, and left.

“Tell me why we hired him, again?” Yonkers, sounding irritated.

“Friend of Dix’s,” Westing said. “Got into trouble for hitting his wife and needed to go underground. Wasn’t a driver, but Dix said the man could learn, and he’s been doing okay.”

“Until tonight. If he does it again we’ll have to cut him loose.”

“I’ll warn him.”

Westing left, and Casey allowed her eyes to open a crack. Yonkers sat behind his desk, shaking his head. All this time she’d been thinking of him as some mysterious, evil man behind a vast trucking conspiracy. Looking at him now, in his suit, surrounded by greenery, it was hard to think of him as being behind anything more evil than killing plants. It was his buddies she had to worry about. They were the loose cannons.

Yonkers closed his eyes and clenched a pen in his hand for several moments before standing suddenly and walking around the desk. Casey closed her eyes and concentrated on being limp.

Yonkers sat in the other lawn chair—Casey could hear it creak—and she felt his breath as he leaned toward her. He grabbed her face in his hand and turned it this way and that before tossing it back toward the chair. “Westing!”

Casey hoped he didn’t see her jump.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going home. She’ll probably wake up in a while. If she does, find out what she knows… without killing her. We don’t need any more bodies.”

“Sure thing. What if she dies anyway?”

Yonkers paused. “You were supposed to keep Dix from—I told you I needed her alive. Preferably able to talk.”

“You know how Dix gets. He was always that way, even in high school.”

“I know. But this time…we can’t do this kind of thing. It’s going to get out. Talk to him, will you?”

“Okay, Yonk.”

“And if something happens…I don’t know. Cover her with mulch and we’ll figure something out.”

Yonkers left, but Casey could feel Westing still with her in the room. He came close, and she concentrated on relaxing, as if she were unconscious.

He poked her with the toe of his shoe. “I don’t know who you are, lady, but I’m telling you–you give us what we want, or you’ll be sorry. So will those precious kids you found. Dix and Mifflin get a little crazy when they get mad. And when they want their money.” He gave her another little shove with his foot, then left the room, closing the door solidly behind him.

Chapter Thirty-One

After Sandy Greene’s truck drove away, it was quiet. Too quiet. Where had all of the men gone? Casey couldn’t imagine they’d left. In fact, Yonkers had told Westing to stay. Casey yearned for some more water, but Mifflin hadn’t left any extra. She worked her mouth, trying to summon up a little saliva, but there was nothing.

What had she been in the process of doing?

Escaping. Right. She looked around the room. There was no way she was leaving through the door. Even as quiet as they were, she knew the men had to be just outside, waiting for her.

It would have to be the window. She took a deep breath, biting her lips together so she wouldn’t cry out, and once again eased herself into a sitting position. She looked around. Death had deserted her. She was completely alone. Gripping the side of the chair, she gradually placed her weight on her feet and pushed herself up from the chair. Her head filled with white noise and she fell forward against the desk, knocking several pens to the floor. She perched there, waiting for running footsteps. No one came.

Once her head cleared she could feel every injury her body had suffered. Her ribs ached with a vengeance, and her head felt as if it were being squashed between two rocks, but at least her joints were moving, and she was starting to get used to the taste of the blood in her mouth from where Dixon has smashed her face against the bricks. Keeping her hands on the desk for support she worked her way around it, toward the window. By the time she reached the other side, she was exhausted, and leaned heavily on the desk. The white noise was coming again.

She eased down into Yonkers’ chair and let her eyes roam across the room. There was nothing much of interest. The wall was filled with photos of Yonkers with celebrities and their purchases—some of the same pictures she’d seen on the Internet. A few plants sat around in the corners, and draped over the tops of file cabinets. The desk had photos, too, and she studied them blankly. His daughter Tara’s senior picture. His son’s graduation. A football team. She laid her head on her arms, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When it did, she raised her head. A football team?

She picked up the picture and looked at it more closely. It was the same photo she’d seen on Pat Parnell’s counter, in a place of honor, along with the shots of his kids. As her eyes focused on the individuals, something connected in her foggy brain. There was Yonkers, in the middle, holding the football. Surrounding him were other familiar faces: Westing, Dixon, Parnell. All of the men she’d dealt with during the past week. She laughed to herself. Evan had given her the clue long ago, when he’d referred to this group as The Team. This was no masterminded gang. No global conspiracy. This was a high school football squad gone bad. And Yonkers was the quarterback.

She looked down at the papers she’d been resting her head on. Smears of her own blood covered up what was printed there—numbers and words. What exactly did they say? She squinted, trying to make them clear. When she succeeded, she saw these were unpaid orders for plants and flowers—seemingly legitimate invoices for Exotic Blooms. No other papers were on the desk, but there were several drawers, two of them large enough for file folders. She pulled one drawer out, the effort causing sweat to pop out on her scalp. There was nothing but information about Exotic Blooms. Shipment after shipment of plants, flowers, seeds, bulbs, trees…all of which would have to pass rigorous tests before being transported from another country, or even across state lines. The Department of Agriculture wasn’t about to let foreign flora bring disease which could wipe out the region’s own crops or plants. So these loads would have to be Class A’s legitimate shipments. The paperwork the authorities would actually see.

Casey pushed a key on the computer keyboard, and the monitor came to life. You’d think with all Yonkers had to hide he’d be a little more careful. She blinked hard, trying to stop the dizziness. Her vision cleared and she looked at the screen, clicking on all the different folders. Again, all about Exotic Blooms, but this time everything she saw pointed to one thing: Exotic Blooms was going under. All of those celebrity customers? Gone. All she could find for the past year and a half were piddley orders from locals. She found a couple invoices dealing with importing a few