The Flock (14 page)

He put it in the pocket of the short-sleeved shirt he was wearing and tried not think of it. For all he knew, it contained some incriminating evidence against some executive from Berg Brothers. Yes, best to give it back to Dodd as soon as possible.

Quickly, he had locked up the house, climbed into the little Toyota Corolla he owned, five years old and going to have to serve for five more before he bought another one: Fish & Wildlife did not pay as well as Ron had hoped. He headed toward Orlando.

 

In less time than he would have thought, he had pulled off the interstate, on to the big boulevard that paralleled it, and was in the parking lot of the Penta. It was a very nice hotel. Four stars, and very plush. He had stayed there with Mary once, doing the tourist stuff when they weren't having sex, which was only about half the time. She had almost been the one for him. Maybe Kate would be the real thing. He thought of the rest of his life with a woman half a foot taller than he was. Well, they'd turn a lot of heads.

But not as many heads as yours and Mary's dark-skinned children would, eh, you jerk?
Ron shook the subversive thought from his mind and tried to pretend it had never been there.

The evening was dark, no moon, but you'd never have known it. Orlando was, as usual, lit up like the all night party it was. There were people everywhere, going to restaurants, to clubs, to parks, to money traps, to everything one could imagine. He doubted any of them were headed home.

Soon, he was in the lobby of the hotel. If the façade was false marble, and not the real thing, then it was an excellent imitation. The place was all pink and white; carpet and what appeared to be polished stone. Very nice. Again, if you liked that kind of thing. Ron was one of those people who did like it, from time to time. He'd never be able to take a steady diet of it, though. It was good for a laugh, now and again.

He got in a short line at the front desk, waiting his turn. Finally, a lean, dark-headed and cleanly pressed young man indicated with a friendly wave that he could step forward.

“May I help you?” the young man asked.

“Yes,” Ron said. “I'm meeting someone here. Someone who's supposed to have checked in today. Could you ring his room for me? I don't know the room number.”

“Certainly,” the man said, picking up a receiver, his manicured fingers poised above a bright yellow keyboard. “What is the guest's name?”

“Dodd. Tim Dodd.”

The young man's fingers played quickly and expertly over the keyboard, flitting with practiced speed. There was a short pause. Then, “I'm sorry. We don't have anyone by that name registered. Not even a Dodd,” he added.

“Huh,” Ron grunted. “Hmm. How about his company? Maybe he's registered under the company name. He works for the
National Inquirer
.”

The young man's eyebrows perked up at that. “That's interesting,” he said, his fingers already jotting away. And then, “No. Nothing registered to them, either. I'm sorry, but your friend doesn't seem to have checked in yet.”

“Were you guys full today? He was going to come in early this afternoon. Maybe you had no vacancies.”

“No, sir. We've had vacancies all week. This isn't our peak season, you know.” The young man was still smiling, but Ron could tell he wanted to be done with this so that he could deal with paying customers.

“Okay, then. Maybe he just hasn't had time to check in. I'll have a drink at the bar and then come back and see if he comes in.”

“You do that,” he said, already motioning for the next person in line to come forward.

Ron faded away, and found himself on a stool in one of the Penta's less expensive bars. The place had four clubs and three restaurants, all part of a mini-mall attached to the hotel. So, for an hour Ron nursed a couple of beers from chilly to warm as he slowly sipped them, waiting for Dodd.

At last, he went back to the front desk and once more asked the nice young man the same questions. And once more he received a negative reply.

Damn and hell
. He could have spent the evening with Kate. He was really looking forward to getting to know her. To kissing her, in fact. He really wanted to kiss her. “Screw you, Dodd,” he muttered.

And within another hour he was back at home, ready to crash. He was asleep about as soon as his head hit the pillow. He'd even forgotten about the disk, and it sat in the pocket of the shirt, which lay in a heap of sea green cotton fabric on the floor. He dreamed. In his dream, instead of Kate, there was Dodd, muttering to him. “I've got something to tell you,” the scabby-faced dream image was saying.

 

That was when the phone awakened him.

Fumbling out of bed, he looked at the red light digits on his clock. “Seven ay emm,” he groaned. “This is my day off. Who the
hell
is calling me on my day off? This better be good.”

“Hello,” he could not hide the drowsiness in his voice.

“Ron.”

“Kate?” He was perking up already.

“Yeah. Listen. You were supposed to meet Tim Dodd, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, he's dead.”

“What? What?”

“Some Osceola County Mounty stopped a car late last night. Pulled them over for something. Speeding, I think. Something wonky was going on with the license of the guy driving the car, and he tried to make a break for it. Wrong cop. Big chase. He ended up pushing the guy off the road. Somewhere off of twenty-seven, I think. Into a drainage ditch full of water and lily pads. Don't ask me how, but the driver got away. Something about a third car and another suspect. But when they pulled the car out of the ditch and looked in the trunk…”

“Dodd?”

“Dodd.” Silence. “He'd been shot. Once. In the head.”

“Jesus.”

“I think you might want to talk to the cops,” Kate said.

“Grief.” He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, stared at nothing. “Thanks for calling, Kate. But…I'd better go. You're right. I'd better call the cops.”

And now. Now, he thought seriously about the small disk that Dodd had given him. He gazed down at the heap of cotton fabric that was the shirt, and was almost afraid to reach down and retrieve it.

But, finally, he did.

Kate Kwitney was sitting in Vance Holcomb's huge office. The doors were closed tight, the big windows were shuttered, and she knew without having to be told that he'd activated and rechecked all of his safeguards against electronic surveillance. The room was cool, silent, relatively comfortable, and disturbingly silent. She waited for Holcomb to speak.

“What do you make of this?” he asked.

“I couldn't really say,” she told him. “I only know what I've told you so far. Who do you think killed him?”

“I could conjecture, but I'd only be guessing.”

“The studio. It was the studio, wasn't it?” She shrugged. “I can't think that they would be so upset over his little articles, which his editors were probably about to stop running, anyway. I really don't think anyone would kill him over that.”

Holcomb snorted. “Do you have any idea how much money is involved in Salutations USA? Do you?” There was a razor-like anger in his voice.

“No, sir. A lot, I know.”

“We're talking profits in the
billions
of dollars. Long term, in the
many
billions of dollars. These are just the profits, Kate. Not gross.”

“I understand,” she said.

“No. I don't think that you
do
understand.” He moved from his post behind his desk. “Listen. I grew up with these people. My father was one of them. He earned hundreds of millions of dollars doing whatever it took to earn it.” Vance looked over at Kate, his face all but in shadow. “Do you hear me?
Whatever it took
.

“These kinds of men put no value on a human life. A man like Dodd is a minor detail. An extra decimal point misplaced on a page, and to be done away with. Erased. Whited out.

“Do you understand?” He pointed at her.

“Yes. I understand. But what kind of danger would he have posed?”

“I think he saw something,” Holcomb said.

“What do you think he saw?”

“I think he's seen what
we've
seen.”

“How? I don't believe it. There's just no way. No way, at all.”

Holcomb turned his back on her. “What about the dogs missing from Salutations? I think there's something to that. I think what your Mr. Riggs told you confirms it.” He sighed. “Damn. I wish we'd been able to have a look at that dog's foot.”

“I don't know if that's enough evidence that they're coming into the city, Vance.”

“I think so. The red one. The scarlet one. It isn't with the rest, anymore. It's so big, maybe they chased it out of the group.”

“God. I hope not. He's so
huge
. He could be spotted too easily.”

Holcomb moved from behind his desk and walked slowly toward Kate. Finally, he stopped just in front of her. “I think Dodd saw one of them. Maybe the red one. I think he may have taken photographs.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because of the bullet in his head. I think they killed him because he had
proof
of something out there. I think they killed him to
keep
him from being
able
to prove it.” He remained where he was and continued to stare down at Kate.

“Then…” Her hands moved up to her chest. She could feel her heart suddenly pounding at her ribs.

“Then, if they'd kill Tim Dodd, they might as well kill us, too,” he finished for her.

“Do you think they know? I mean, that we're aware of what's living in this wilderness?”

“That would depend on whether or not Dodd had any proof, and whether or not they recovered it from him. And I think the answers to both of those questions are
yes
. Just taking the images from him would not have prevented him from telling anyone, nor would it have prevented him from coming back, with help, to get more proof.

“That's why the bullet in the head.”

“Jesus.” Kate swallowed. The idea of being shot or even the
chance
of it happening was not something she thought that she could deal with. “What should we do?”

“I think…” He stopped short. “I'm not sure, just now. But it might almost be time for us to go public.”

Kate came out of her chair, standing up to face her employer. She was almost as tall as he was. “No. You know what will happen. This place will be crawling with people. We can't have that. Not now. Who knows how they'll react to other humans in their habitat? I mean…the only reason they haven't reacted to us is that our studies have no impact on their lives.”

“Geez-o-Pete,” Ron muttered. It was a mild exclamation he'd picked up from an old girlfriend. He had pulled at his hair until it spiked up on his head like that of some punk or Goth, as he had tried to decide his course of action. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” he whispered to himself.

For a long time he had simply sat on the edge of his bed and had gazed down at the green shirt he'd shed the night before. It lay there harmlessly, the disk in its pocket, looking to Ron like some deadly viper waiting to strike at him. He had no doubt but that Dodd had been killed for the contents of that disk.

Ron didn't know if he'd be suspected of having killed Dodd. He could account for most of his whereabouts the previous morning. But of course part of that had been in the company of the murdered man, so what did that get him? And he had told two people that Dodd wanted to meet with him before he'd actually left to do just that. Mary knew him well enough to know he wasn't a murderer, but Kate was barely familiar with him beyond his name and occupation, and knowing that he wanted to date her. And if Dodd had been murdered after Ron had left the hotel, then he had no way of confirming where he'd been or what he'd been doing. It didn't look good.

With a groan, Ron had stood, gripping the disk in his right hand, examining it. Maybe if he looked at what was on the disk
first,
he'd have some idea of what was going on. Cops loved to close the books on a murder, as fast as they could; if they could nail Ron as a prime suspect, then they'd certainly do it. He knew that much about police work. They hated not being able to close a murder case, and they dearly sought after anyone on whom to nail a felony. “What the hell
are
you?” he asked the disk, holding it between thumb and forefinger.

Where could he take it? He knew he only had a couple of hours. Kate had already made the connection between himself and Dodd, so if she was questioned, he'd have to admit that he didn't go to the cops for a while. Well, he wasn't guilty, so maybe he just cleaned up and ate some breakfast. And maybe they'd never get around to asking Kate, anyway. There was no reason for them to, unless she volunteered the information. He'd chance it, if he could decide where to go to have a look at the contents of the disk.

The office was out. He was on a rotating schedule and it was his day off, and he never went there when he was off. His coworkers would be suspicious. At any rate, he'd have to show it to someone there, to see if they had the hardware to download it, and then he'd have to ask someone in the office for help if it proved to be too technical for him. He had a couple of hacker pals, but Ron didn't really want to implicate them. Where, then?

“Kate,” he said. He could take it out to Holcomb's compound. He knew he had seen some impressive computer equipment there. In Levin's lab and in a room he'd passed on his way to Holcomb's office. Surely Kate would give him a hand if he told her what was going on. He'd do it.

Ron went to his desk, where his own computer sat, an ancient 486 that had become obsolete years ago, and of no use for downloading this type of software. But he found a small envelope of thick paper that accommodated the bare disk, and he dropped it in and sealed it shut. He took a pen and scribbled a
D
on it, and dropped it in the top drawer.

After securing the disk, he went back to his bedroom and began to assemble his clothes for the day. He picked out some denims and a white cotton shirt. It would be sufficient if he were going back out to Holcomb's compound. He thought of the place sitting there, so close to Salutations, but so isolated from everything, all of that wilderness looming just beyond. Thinking of that, he got a pair of lightweight hiking boots out of the closet and drew some good thick socks out of the drawer. That would do it.

Quickly, he went to his bathroom and took a hot shower. He didn't linger, as he normally would on a Saturday morning, enjoying the warm water as it washed away the sweat and dirt of the previous hours. For now, all he wanted was to get clean and get out of the house and over to see Kate. In a few minutes he was done, had draped a towel around his hard waist, and was headed back to his bedroom.

And, intent merely on getting out of the house, he did not see the men hiding just beyond the doorway, waiting for him to emerge. Ron walked out, turned toward the bedroom, and was knocked instantly to the floor by the power of a strong sap-carrying right at the base of his skull. He went down, the towel still tight around his waist, his cheek meeting with the hardwood floor. The breath whooshed out of his lungs in a prolonged
oof
.

Before he could do much more than acknowledge that he'd been struck, Ron felt rough hands grip his wrists and peel him from the floor as two men stood him up, slamming him against the wall. Almost immediately, a fist plowed a vertical furrow into his stomach and he doubled, going down again, this time to his knees. He felt a couple of woody splinters driving into the flesh just at the top of his shins. “Oog,” he said.

The men grasped him by the hair and pulled him up that way. His scalp screamed in agony. He almost forgot the pain in the back of his head, in his gut, and in his knees. And he did forget when one of his so far unseen assailants slapped him expertly across the front on his face, splitting both of his lips. Wincing, Ron could taste blood.

“Don't look at us, boy. Keep your eyes shut.”

Ron did not have to be told again. He could feel what might have been a gun barrel stuck in the base of his throat.

“Now, where is it?” The voice was calm, smooth.

Ron swallowed. “Where is
what?
”

The same hand slapped him across the lips again, and Ron tasted a new trickle of copper as the blood burst through his clenched teeth and onto his tongue. “We're not here to play games, son. Just tell us where it is—keep your
fucking
eyes shut!—and you'll live through this. Now,” a fist smashed against his right ear. “Where the
fuck
is it?”

“I—” was all Ron said before he heard the intense
crack
of something wooden against what sounded to be something harder. He heard one of his attackers go down as the second released him, the object at his throat vanishing. He opened his eyes.

And he watched as Mary Niccols released the short section of two-by-four she was holding so that she could punch a strange man solidly in the face. The blond crewcut invader tried to dodge the blow, but Mary's work-hardened fist met him perfectly in the midst of his big nose and there was the unmistakable sound of cartilage snapping; Ron had heard it enough to know what it was. Broken-nose backpedaled, away from Mary, stumbling over his partner who was trying to rise, his brown-haired scalp ruddy with blood.

“Assholes,”
Mary screamed. Her right foot lashed out and caught the blond assailant full in the rectum. She knew that the man would be passing blood for at least a week. The guy finally did go down, but was up again, scrambling for the front door. His companion, who was a bit slower, due to having been bashed over the head with a two-by-four, found his own ass the target of a renewed and well-planted kick. He grunted once, fell forward and found himself outside as his companion led the way toward their automobile, a dark, late model sedan.

The pair at last made some speed toward the car and climbed inside. Mary latched the front door behind them, and watched as the two cleared out, tires spinning in the sandy soil as they left. Mary waited only to see that they were leaving before going back to assure herself that Ron was not seriously injured.

“You okay, Ron?” She reached out and put her hard hand on Riggs' left shoulder.

Ron ran his tongue across his front teeth. “Yeah. I guess.” He shook his head, damp hair dangling into his eyes.

“You sure you're okay? Looks like they smacked you around pretty good before I stopped them.” She patted Ron's shoulder, reassuring him. “Who were they, anyway?”

“Hell if I know.” He looked up, into Mary's face for the first time. A feeling of guilt shuddered through him when he felt a surge of desire for her. “Did you get their tag?” he asked, doing a good job of ignoring the feeling.

Mary shook her head. “No, man. I was worried about you. Just made sure they were running, is all.”

“Jesus. What the hell is going on here?” Ron reached down and picked up the towel, covering himself. He turned away from Mary and took an uncertain step toward his bedroom.

“Damn. There's going to be a nasty bruise at the base of your skull.”

Ron's fingers traced over the lump there. “Bastards hit me with something when I came out of the bathroom. I didn't even
see
them. Didn't even hear them come in.”

“Who were they?” Mary asked, following Ron. She watched her old boyfriend sit heavily on the side of his bed.

“How the hell should I know? Two jerks hunting for something. They kept asking me where something was.”

“I know. I heard that much while I was sneaking up behind them. Dumb bastards. What were they after? You must have some idea.”

Looking up at Mary, Ron blinked, shook his head to clear it, to assure himself that he was okay. “Yeah, I know what they were after. I don't know
why
they're after it, but I know what it is. At least, I
think
I know what it is.” He paused, blinked again, and looked at Mary. “And what brought
you
here? You haven't been down here in months. Not since I…” He let the statement trail off.

“Well, if you didn't live so far out in the boonies, I'd come around more often. But to answer your question, I heard about that reporter, Dodd. He's dead, you know.”

Sighing, Ron admitted it. “Yeah, I know.”

“I tried to call you. About thirty minutes ago, but I couldn't get an answer. So I figured I'd drive out and see you. I had to come out this way, anyhow. See some people about a problem gator up near Lake Caloosa.”

“Couldn't get an
answer?
I've been right here all morning.” Ron stood up and stepped over to the phone. “It's dead,” he said, staring at it. “They cut the
lines?
” It had to have happened just after he'd talked to Kate.

“What are you into, Ron? What do you know about this Dodd fellow getting killed?”

“I don't know
anything
about him getting killed.
Jesus
. All I did was take that disk from him.
Damn
.” He reached for a pair of briefs and put them on.

“Thanks,” Mary said. “I was getting tired of looking at your bare ass.”

“What the hell were you doing looking at my ass?”

“Hey! I just
saved
your ass.”

“Doesn't give you the right to
look
at it.” He went for the pants, next, and pulled them on. “How does my face look?”

“Looks like you been smoking firecrackers, is what it looks like.”

Riggs felt at his lips, could tell that they were, indeed, swollen. “I guess I should feel lucky that's all I have to worry about.” He looked Niccols in the eye. “Thanks, Mary. I owe you. You really kicked their butts.”

“Don't mention it. For now, at least. I'll wait until I need a heavy-duty favor.” Niccols stood and waited while Ron finished dressing. “So. What are you gonna do, now? Go to the cops?”

“Yeah, I am. But first I'm going to go see someone about what they were after.”

“Who? Where?”

“Gonna go see who's home at the Vance Holcomb residence out past Salutations. See if I can't get a certain young lady out there to take a look at something.”

“At what?” Mary asked.

Ron strode over to his work desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out the white envelope marked with the scrawled
D
. “At this,” he said.

“Mind if I ride along?”

“Hell, no,” Ron told her. “Way things have been going, I might need you either for backup or as a material witness.” He hiked up his jeans, wiped his lips with the damp towel. “You ready?”

“Ready Eddie, they calls me.”

The pair walked out, locking the place behind them.