Interpol circulars on him. But we’re in this because of the federal angle.”
“You have a name?”
“We don’t have a name or even a face. All we have is a modus operandi, and it took years before we were even on to that. What we’ve been able to learn is that he’s some kind of genius with automobiles. Genius driver, genius mechanic, genius car thief, genius on automotive electronics. He can break into any car he wants in about six seconds, drive off in three more. He seems to like Chargers. He’ll steal a car, plates, and so forth. He sets the car up with a heavy-duty suspension, tunes the engine for max power. Then he scopes his quarry out. Waits till they’re on the highway. He understands the physics of the accident, what it takes to knock a car out of equilibrium, where to hit it, which angle to take, that sort of thing. It usually takes only one pass. He hits ’em hard, they overcorrect to keep control, and they lose it. The car flips. It rolls, it bounces, and everyone inside is whiplashed to death in seconds. He’s gone in a flash, the car is never found, there’s no prints, no DNA, nothing. Just paint samples that lead back to a stolen car.”
“You don’t have any idea who he is?”
“There’s stories. Some say he’s a rogue NASCAR guy who killed another driver in a fit of rage and had to make himself scarce. We have seven names like that, all of them accounted for. Some say he pissed off Big Racing by fucking one of the family’s daughters, and they made sure he’d never race a sanctioned event again. Some say he’s just pure psycho, with a gift for automotives. It could be any of those, all of them, none of them. We just know he’s good, very thorough, highly intelligent, the fearless, classic psychotic. But when we heard about Nikki, we set up a task force out of Knoxville. Something’s up, we think.”
“I do too.”
“So what have you got?”
“Well-”
Someone knocked on the door.
The two men exchanged looks.
“Were you followed?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Expecting anyone?”
“No.”
“Let’s be real careful on this one.”
Nick slipped to the right of the door, SIG in hand, tense, ready.
Bob went to the left of the door, drew the Kimber, held it behind him, thumb riding the safety, ready to push it off in a second.
“Yeah?” he demanded loudly.
“UPS,” came the muffled reply.
“Just a sec,” said Bob. He looked through the peep hole.
“He’s in brown. I don’t know, maybe they’re so far into this they have fake UPS uniforms.”
“I don’t know,” said Nick.
“Can you just leave it?”
“Need a signature, sir.”
“Okay,” said Bob.
He opened the door two inches until the chain restrained it, even as he peeled away from it in case somebody fired through it.
But instead a thin cardboard box slipped through the two-inch opening in the doorway. Bob grabbed it, shook it, and tossed it on the floor.
He opened the door, signed his name with a stylus on the computerized notepad, and watched the fellow trundle off, slightly absurd in his short pants and brown socks.
“Those guys always arrive at the wrong time,” said Nick. “They have a gift for it.”
They sat down again, and Bob told the whole story, from start to finish, his arrival in Bristol after his daughter’s accident, his investigation, the sheriff department’s investigation, the opposing conclusions of each, the two critical incidents that left three dead, Bob’s remorse about leaving poor Terry Hepplewhite alone back there as the supposed shooter, the death of Eddie Ferrol, the police politics of Johnson County, the situation as it now was with Nikki awake.
“So let me sum up your findings,” Nick said.
He ticked them off.
The strange economics of methamphetamine in Johnson County.
The Baptist prayer camp, run by an Alton Grumley.
The driver.
The tire-change jack and possible exercises to refine that skill.
The night firing of guns.
The attempts on Bob’s life by Grumleys as he tried to investigate.
“Grumleys are a southern crime family, headquartered near Hot Springs,” Nick explained. “Kind of a family training camp for the criminal skills. Been around for generations. They produce all kinds of mischief, force-based mainly, but also confidence, bunco, extortion, and kidnapping. Very tribal group of bad guys. If they’re involved, I’m suddenly seeing a lot of dough.”
Bob took it in, then continued.
The missing pages in his daughter’s notebook, the crushed car, crushed recording devices.
The trip to the gun store.
And finally, Mark 2:11.
“That’s it,” said Bob. “Now here’s my take. Somehow Nikki picked something up. So she visited the camp but saw through the Reverend. She poked around on her own and she found something. Clearly these Grumleys were involved. But what she found made her think of-I don’t know, here’s where it gets blurry, guns or the Bible or both? She wouldn’t call me to ask about the Bible, that I guarantee you. So maybe it is about guns. She tried to call me but I was out in the horse ring. So she went to the first Baptist minister she heard about, who turned out to be Eddie Ferrol, and asked about Mark 2:11, thinking that fella would know.”
“And the fact that he owns a gun store is coincidental? I don’t buy coincidences that big.”
Bob stopped. “Yeah, this is where it comes apart: the bullet or Bible issue. And she called me first, and I don’t know jerk about Bibles. But the fact that he claims she didn’t go there, and we know that’s a lie…She drives home, and that guy, who’s later killed, somehow gets to the driver, and he’s sent after her. Now he had to be close. So he was clearly at the prayer camp run by old man Grumley. We have his tracks as he raced down 421 to catch up to her.”
“That sounds right. Okay, we don’t have Mark 2:11, but what do we have? Here’s what I’m getting. It seems to me what they’re planning isn’t a conspiracy, a murder, a scheme, a plot. That doesn’t sound Grumley. It’s more of a caper, a one-time thing, some kind of raid or operation. Maybe a robbery. That’s the urgency. That’s why everything has to happen fast, ’cause they’re up against a tight deadline, and what happens happens soon. They have to go at a certain moment, not before, not after. And that information has to be protected. It’s so fragile that even the suspicion of something going on would screw things up. Their plan must depend on total surprise, and even minimum-security upgrades would defeat it. That’s why they go after Nikki. Even if she knows nothing, she might make phone calls or ask questions, and someone else might figure something was up and those upgrades would be made and their plans would be screwed.”
Bob thought, Yeah he’s pretty smart. That’s good for government work.
“Could it be a code, a signal? Let’s Google it again. Maybe we missed something.”
But they came up with nothing except the endless and seemingly fruitless biblical references.
“Let me call this kid Charlie. He’s real smart, maybe he’s come up with something.”
Bob called Charlie; the boy was apologetic, self-doubting and disappointed because he hadn’t come up with anything.
“I even ran it by a guy I know who specializes in codes. He looked at it for numerology, misplaced letters, anagrams, displacements, upside down writing, backwards writing, and he came up zilch.”
“Okay, Charlie. Thanks.”
“Sorry I couldn’t do better for you, Mr. Swagger.”
