The Lawyer and the Killer Ch. 04

Kia handed her the note, but didn't stay.

Susan opened the note and read it.

Dear Ms. Slattery, if you haven't heard from me then the content of this note is valid. I believe I have secured your safety. You're completely free to return to your apartment and to work. No one will harm you. I've turned the title of the Cherokee over to you. It's you car. Keep it. Sell it. Do what you want. I'm glad I didn't complete the contract. I regret any inconvenience I may have caused. I'm glad you're safe. I wish you well in all you hope to do. Respectfully, Shawn McClellan

Susan read and reread the note. That was all? She didn't know what to expect, but she expected more than this. She thought maybe he'd ask her to see him again. Maybe he'd beg for forgiveness and ask her something, anything but this? It was like, Hey, I kidnapped you, raped you, scared the shit out of you, and nearly ruined your life, but now it's over so let's shake hands and forget anything happened.

She was madder now than before! If he thought that was the end of it, he was in for a rude surprise! She didn't know what to do yet, but she wasn't through with Mr. Shawn McClellan, not by a long shot. He was going to pay for what he did.

Shawn had more unfinished business. He wrote a short letter to Kia and Kim. They'd been his trusted friends for years. He turned the house and all the surrounding property over to them, as well as a sizable amount of money in case there were taxes to pay. That out of the way he had no idea what to do, where he would go, he only knew his life was in great danger. He had some money, not a lot, but at least he had accomplished what he had to do.

He thought he ought to quietly hang around the city for a while. Nobody knew who he was. No one in the syndicate had ever seen him. If any one of them got ideas about crawfishing on the agreement regarding Susan's safety he figured he need to be nearby to intervene.

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For six weeks Shawn hung around. He moved from hotel to hotel, but kept a constant watch on Susan's movements. She was a child of habit so it was easy to track her activities; arriving at work early, long days in the courtroom or at the office, an occasional stop at the corner tavern, a stop over at the grocery store, and back to her apartment.

She always looked nice; well dressed, stylish, hair neatly done up. Somehow, in spite of her long days, she managed to maintain the healthy fresh look of a much younger woman. He wondered how the cat was doing.

There were one or two aberrations. Some older gray haired man occupied a lot of her time for a few days. Shawn didn't like it. He knew men, and this guy was on the prowl. He could tell. It made him a little jealous, though he didn't know why. One time while they were eating lunch together Shawn was afraid he got too close. He inadvertently got in her field of vision. He thought she might have seen him, but she turned away so it was probably a false alarm.

Once or twice he thought he recognized syndicate men hovering a little too close, but nothing came of it. That bothered him. If he had to kill a couple of their goons that would have meant open war.

After six weeks Shawn figured Susan really was in the clear. He had to take of himself. That wasn't going to be easy.

On the Run!

Susan wasn't going to let Shawn off the hook. She scouted around until she found what she considered the best detective agency in town. Financial arrangements were made, and she believed in a short while they'd turn something up.

She planned on tracking him down and turning him over to the police. If he was a hired killer she was sure he had a record. A statement from her might be all they'd need. But that had been nearly two months ago. It was as though the person she'd known as Shawn McClellan never existed.

The detectives had followed every conceivable lead. They'd gone over the Cherokee with a fine tooth comb looking for some kind of evidence, a fingerprint or some DNA evidence, anything. One problem was even if they had come up with something it wouldn't have mattered if their quarry had nothing on record. They visited and revisited the people who owned the farm. Of course, they knew the farm was new to them, a title search proved that, but the prior owner's true identity remained a mystery. They'd secretly returned to the farm and scoured the area looking for any kind of evidence that might have proven helpful. Everything drew a blank. Phone records turned up nothing. Still they pursued every conceivable angle. They knew the man existed, and they knew they'd find him.

It took a novice employee in the agency to run a second search of the Cherokee. He found a single thumb print on one of the connecting wires to the battery that the first check had overlooked. It was on the hot cable and a lousy print, but when they ran it through Interpol they hit pay dirt.

Susan read the report. It was a stunning story. The man who'd been her abductor did indeed have a legitimate career, and what a career it turned out to be. With a single print they'd been able to trace his past back to his college years.

He'd gone to a respected second tier state college on scholarship. From there he'd joined the army, served three years, and was honorably discharged.

He disappeared for a couple years, but reappeared as an employee of an international aid organization loosely affiliated with the United Nations. He became something of a middle level manager of food and medical supplies in various places around the world. Records indicated he was facile when it came to languages so his was often sent as an on site person.

His name turned up in Ethiopia and Berkina-Fasso in Africa. Susan recollected how she may have mentioned something about Berkina-Fasso to him, or maybe she only imagined it. He also turned up in Paraguay working indirectly with Habitat for Humanity. Susan wondered if he'd ever met Jimmy Carter. His last appearance had been in Asia. He'd been in Thailand involved with Cambodian refugees, and he's shown up briefly in Nepal, a country south of Tibet. Susan bet that's where he'd come across Kia, and maybe Kim, though she suspected Kim was Korean.

A few days later the agency sent her a second report. They'd indirectly acquired access to information about a person named Shawn McClellan. They're informants on this second level were somewhat obscure and certainly shady. There had been a person named Shawn McClellan raised in several foster homes. It was a stroke of luck, if illegal, but they'd gained access to his records. It was amazing what a little money spread around in the right places could do. Using what they had they'd come across someone who'd briefly provided for a child named Shawn McClellan. The person even had a photograph.

Susan stared at the faded picture in front of her. It was of a young boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen. It was a sad little picture of a sad little boy. It was her Shawn.

Days after that a third report surfaced! It seemed to Susan it was as though when results did turn up they're arrival was torrential.

The agency had uncovered information about the original initiative to have her killed. Someone had indeed paid out $10,000.00 to have her murdered, but a few weeks later the same client paid out $100,000.00 to buy back her life. Her life had appreciated ten fold literally in a matter of days. Even more dumbfounding, reports indicated the second purchase was made with money the buyer never had. Someone had given him $100,000.00 to buy back her life!

Susan wondered as she looked at the wrinkled faded photograph what it must have been like being shunted from home to home. Here was the boy who became the man who'd kidnapped her but couldn't follow through on her murder. Was this the man who'd paid out $100,000.00?

She reflected on the confusion these reports produced; an obviously discarded child, one of the thousands of forgotten children lost in her country's social fabric, then an aid worker, a humanitarian dedicated to saving lives around the world, and last, the ultimate irony, a paid killer hired to take her life but who then may have poured out thousands to save her. How could they all be the same person?

Susan stood up, walked over and looked out the window of her corner suite in the high rise office building where her business was headquartered. She was rich, famous. She had it all, designer clothes, the nicest cars, a summer condominium. She tapped her finely manicured fingers on the mahogany table in front of her. Somewhere out there was a man named Shawn McClellan. Who was he? And why should she even care? She turned around and picked up the cell phone she'd idly thrown on the luxurious sofa in her office. She was going to double the fee to the detective agency. They had to find him.

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Shawn had used the last of his resources. From now on he'd have to find work or skip town. Knowing people were looking for him he realized most job opportunities in the city were out of his purview. He should have used the money he had to leave right away. If he'd been smart he'd left the country, but he'd hung around to make sure Susan was safe. After a month and a half he was reasonably sure not even the syndicate people had any interest in her. Regrettably he'd overstayed his financial capabilities. He went downtown and bought a ticket on a Greyhound bus. He'd head west. He'd start over.

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The syndicate, like Susan, hadn't stopped looking either. They'd hired a man to do a job. He hadn't done it. The alternatives were always the same; stark and honest. Do the job and get the reward. Fuck up and die. The man they'd hired knew what the consequences would be. He also knew sooner or later they'd find him. They'd put out the word. He was a dead man. Everywhere the dregs of society, the scum, the bottom feeders, the nation's offal was on the lookout. They'd get their man. They always did.

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For several months Shawn drifted aimlessly from town to town. The economy was bad, and for people down on their luck things were worse. He managed to stay out of trouble; that meant out of jail. He had no special talents or skills, lousy pool player, no card skills, never hammered a nail what without first smashing a thumb. He made a little money washing dishes, did some detail work cleaning at a car wash. He knew the day his name appeared at the top of the page his number would be up. He kept to himself, moving from odd job to odd job.

He'd started with a suitcase and several changes of clothes. Eventually he found himself down to his last clean pair of jeans, no money, and no prospects. Underwear was always a problem. He hated wearing dirty boxers. But he was no quitter. He'd seen too much suffering, had caused too much suffering.

Every now and then he remembered a young woman struggling down a muddy stream, tattered blouse, exhausted but not beaten. He hoped she'd found everything she was looking for. The last time he saw her she was looking pretty good. It seemed like it had been a hundred years since then. He wondered if she ever thought of him. He doubted it. Even if she did, it was probably with revulsion.

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Susan insisted on weekly reports. He was out there somewhere. Finding him had become an obsession. The more she thought about him, and the greater the span of time between her abduction and his disappearance, the more important his discovery became. Something he'd said kept coming back. He'd said she'd mattered, and that was why she was still alive. Now she realized he mattered.

She reflected on a day she was having lunch with her father. Her dad would come into town for a rare visit. They'd been sitting having lunch when she thought she saw Shawn. It was just for a second. She remembered turning her head. She thought; if it was him, he looked tired, haggard.

For some reason, and she couldn't figure what, his survival, his freedom had become important. She was the only person in the world who knew what his situation was. He was in trouble and she knew it, she just knew it. He'd rescued her. He'd bought her life back. Now she was sure he needed help. He needed her.

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The men in the syndicate weren't having any luck. It was becoming a point of honor. Someone had gotten one over on the system; some nobody had pulled a fast one. It was the principle of the thing. Why had he done it? Why had he let some nameless lawyer live? He hadn't done it for money. In fact, mathematically the whole operation had probably cost him everything he owned. It had certainly cost him the $5,000.00 for the job. Somebody had put up the $100,000.00 to buy the target's life back, they figured he'd never been all that well off. He hadn't turned up anyplace. That meant one thing; he was down on his luck, down and out.

They wanted him. He'd bought the target's life. Why? Who cared why? If he wanted her alive, then what better way to solve their problem than to use her to lure him back.

It took a low level thug to dream up the idea. To get at their renegade they needed to kidnap the woman again, put it on the street and wait. Sooner or later it would get back to him. He'd come running! In a meeting one of the operatives in the new scheme laughed, "They weren't just callous killers. They'd make a trade, his life for hers." Then they'd kill her later.

Abducted a Second Time!

Susan was tired but satisfied. It had been another busy day at court. She'd had another success; another scum bucket was being forced to pay up. Men were such trash. She laughed to herself, a good man was really hard to find. That reminded her of Shawn. He wasn't just hard to find, he was impossible.

A man strode up to her in the underground parking lot. It was dark down there. It was always dark in these kinds of places. Some anonymous man was approaching her. He walked over and asked, "Pardon me ma'am. Do you have a set of jumper cables?"

He made her feel uncomfortable. Her little can of mace was deep inside her pocketbook, "No. I'm sorry." That's the last thing she remembered. He jammed a needle in her side. She dropped like a rock.

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Once again Susan woke up in strange surroundings. She knew she was in trouble right away. She could barely move. It was almost impossible to breathe. She felt the sticky duct tape over her mouth. It pressed against her nose partly blocking her breathing. They'd put duct tape over her eyes. Rummaging and nudging around she knew her hands were wrapped tightly in the stuff. More must have been wrapped around her body. She felt its sticky resistance holding her trapped hands against her stomach.

She was cold. She knew most of her clothing had been ripped off. Furtively moving her hands as best she could she realized she was still wearing her panties, but her slacks, jacket, and blouse were certainly gone. They had taped her feet together, and it felt like they'd taped her legs together at her knees. She heard someone speak.

A man's voice sounded out, "She's awake."

Somebody came into the room, "Yeah she's awake."

She heard another voice, "Should we let her loose?"

One of the others said, "Are you kidding? Leave her." She heard more movement. She heard the door slam. She was alone, somewhere in the dark. The place smelled of old clothes, dirty men, stale food, and urine. Oh God! Where was she? They'd done it to her again. But it wasn't like the first time waking up in a comfortable king sized bed on silk sheets in pajamas. This time she knew they really meant it. This time she was in a really bad place. She thought of Shawn.

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Out on the street the word was out. Newspapers started carrying the story of the disappearance of a high profile lawyer. The police were stumped. No one knew what happened. Her car was found untouched still in the parking garage she used.

The media considered it a case of foul play; a beautiful woman had been kidnapped in broad daylight. Everybody reported it was probably the work of some sexual predator. Safety groups started to agitate for better lighting in downtown garages. A member of the Bar Association decried the lack of respect for members of the legal profession. Her office employees did interviews and described her wonderful nature. Some expressed they're lack of understanding as to how anyone so kind could be so foully treated. Social groups denounced the media assumption that the perpetrator was some sex maniac. The police promised there would be a full investigation. No stone would be left unturned.

Five days after her disappearance the football season began. The Ravens had beaten the Jets, the Giants were obliterated, and commentators said Dallas should fire their coach. Her story dropped to the back pages, a few days later it was gone. Unless her body floated ashore somewhere or she was found wrapped in a trash bag in some dumpster she ceased to exist. She had been just one more news flash, another flash in the pan in the twenty-four seven news cycle.

Out in the boondocks, the eternal backwoods that was Middle America, someone heard her story. He had no illusions. They wanted him. This was their call. Her disappearance was intended to bring him back. They knew he'd come.

Shawn had no money so he stole a car. He found one of those highly reliable, good mileage, easily broken into little foreign jobs. He cracked a corner of the window, got the door open and the alarm off before anyone could tell. Slipping under the dashboard he had the ignition wired and engine running in seconds. Off he went. Halfway home, low on gas he performed the same operation again.

He knew not to drive straight into the city. They'd be looking for him. He pulled off and went to his old house. Kia and Kim were already tuned in. They read the papers and watched the news too. Kia was expecting him. Kim had already gone into town and was scouting the terrain. They'd worked together before, they'd work it again.

When Shawn got to the house Kia had a cell phone, fresh clothes, a trusty knife and pistol equipped with silencer, and a wad of cash ready. He took a shower, shaved, and changed. On the phone Kim told him he'd narrowed the field down pretty good. He'd thrown a little money around and the information flowed back quickly. They were expecting him. Shawn got what he needed from Kim over the phone and called his friend off. This was something he had to do alone.

Shawn knew there was no turning back, no negotiation, no trade offs. They wanted him, and they wanted him dead. What was it they used to say? Never bet the Devil your head. The Devil was in the city. He drove in, parked the car and walked the rest of the way. It was dark, a moonless night. The kind of weather he needed.

He'd worked alone like this before. He was no martial artist, but he knew his trade. Kim had seen three; that meant there were probably five men, maybe more. This wasn't going to be easy. It never was. It would be harder than ever this time. He was out of shape, and she was there.

He knew they'd slit her throat just to watch her bleed. But he was there to save her, and this time, after he rescued her, they'd sit down and talk. He'd insist on it.

To be continued...

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