The unknown man said, “If you’re thinking of spinning around and playing the hero, my partner’s got you covered. Won’t happen. On your knees.”
I hesitated and then slowly knelt onto the gritty roadway. There was no choice.
The door to my Barracuda opened. Someone else was with him behind me. I heard the second person rummaging through my car, opening and closing compartments, shifting things around.
After a few long moments, the gunman said, “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?” I replied.
“Don’t get cute, Seagraves. You know. The KEL drive. Hand it over, and this might all end up okay for you.”
“I don’t have it. That’s what I’m doing out here … looking for it. You going to tell me who you are?”
Silence was his reply. His partner was equally as talkative. A law enforcement officer would have identified himself by now.
Ahead of me stood the recycling bin, scattered underbrush, and the blackness of the pine forest. To my left, tall marsh grasses stretched into the distance like canyon walls. Beyond the reeds and cattails was Opossum Creek where the sheriff had found the floating body of Richard Kostas just days ago.
“I told you not to turn around,” the gunman snapped.
“I’m not.”
“Put your hands on your head.”
Without making any sudden movements, I complied, unsure of what was coming next. I heard the second person move away from my car and step toward the side, but still behind me — presumably to have a clear shot. The first gunman approached my back and leaned over my shoulder, close enough that I could smell a hint of bourbon and garlic on his breath. I still could not see his face in my peripheral vision. He might have been wearing a dark ski mask. As I looked in the direction of the woods, he frisked me and rifled through my pockets with hands covered in rubber surgical gloves. He dropped my wallet, phone, and pens on the ground until all my pockets were empty.
The gunman stepped back. “The disk drive with the Benton files. That’s all. Not what Richard Kostas tried to pawn off.”
“Like I said, I don’t have it. Believe me, you’re very persuasive. I’d hand it over, if I had it.”
“Lie face down on the ground.”
I looked toward my phone, which was just beyond reach. There was no way I could grab it. The gunman snatched it off the roadway and hurled it over the cattails. It landed in the bay with a kerplunk. I supposed that I needed a new phone anyway.
“Go on,” he said. “Lie down and close your eyes.”
So this was it. If the Remora Shadow was operational, and if submarines started taking each other out and launching nuclear missiles, the death of a small-town lawyer would not even be a footnote in the history books, assuming anyone would be left to write a history book. With a sinking feeling deep within me, I placed the palms of my hands on the cold dirt lane and stretched out flat.
The man pressed the muzzle of his pistol against the base of my skull. I took a deep breath. The unpaved road stunk of briny, damp soil. I was ready.
He said, “Your lucky day, Seagraves. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re gonna get that flash drive for me. When you have it, raise that little red flag on the mailbox in front of your law firm, and then we’ll arrange for you to deliver it to me. And if no follow through, we’ll pick up right here where we left off. Now keep your eyes shut and wait on the ground for thirty minutes, no less. My partner’s gonna hang back to cover you, so don’t even think of moving. Then you can go. Got it?”
“Yeah,” I muttered through a foggy mixture of adrenaline, confusion, and relief.
The gunman started to leave.
I called out, “Hey, wait. Actually, I don’t understand. You’ve got to give me more than that.”
“We’ve told you all you need to know. Like the old saying goes, ‘In quiet lagoons, devils dwell.’ You’ll hear from us again when we’re ready.”
The gunman’s footfalls barely made any sound as he walked away down the roadway. I glanced at my watch to start the thirty-minute wait. Off in the distance, a motor rumbled to a start. The vehicle sounded large, possibly a truck or a van. The reverberation of the engine faded into the night. The second person probably had left with him, but I was not going to take the chance.
Except for drowning my phone, the gunman had left my wallet and the rest of the contents of my pockets on the ground. With any luck, the keys to the Barracuda were still in the ignition. They had to be. Headlights still illuminated the roadway. Nice of him not to chuck the keys into the bay along with my phone. Feeling foolish, I waited prone on the ground for half an hour in the chill of the marsh. Then I got up and collected my things off the road.
I drove to the Chester County Sheriff’s Department and parked in front, but decided not to go inside. Sheriff Tompkins had not been overly helpful with the case, and spending hours in questioning would be a waste of time when I could not identify who had rolled me. I felt safer outside the police station than back home as I collected my thoughts. For some unknown reason, all my muscles ached. The radio played some slow electric blues. After a few mournful songs, I drove to my law firm, wondering if I could afford to install security cameras for my building on a rush basis, but that was out of the question.
Scanning the neighborhood for unusual cars and cautiously entering the office on the first floor, I made sure I was alone, locked all the doors, and checked them twice. I trudged upstairs to my residence on the second floor. There, I collapsed on the bed. To my surprise, I drifted off to sleep almost
