Piranha (The Falau Files Book 4) Page 3

  Falau thrashed in his bed, his mind Locked on the dream that had taken over in his head. The linens pulled up from the corners of the bed and his pillow knocked to the floor. Sections of the sheets had taken on a darkened color from soaking up the sweat that flowed off his body. A stream of grunts and groans fell from him only to be broken up by the calling out of the name Jennifer.

  An ambulance ripped its way up Massachusetts Avenue making its way to the medical center. The sirens blared off the walls of the tall brownstone apartment building and echoed on top of one another shaking Falau out of his nightmare. The big man’s eyes snapped open from the intensity of his nightmare and the sirens outside. He stared at the ceiling adjusting to being back in the world of reality. His heart rate started to drop with his chest slowing its rapid rising and falling.

  Falau’s mouth formed words without any sound trying to speak to Jennifer. A single word found its way to coherency “Sorry.”

  Wiping the sweat from his forehead Falau blinked his eyes rapidly, bringing the world into view. The sirens still echoed but further down the street. The shadeless window let the daylight in and Falau turned his head and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. Pressing the home button the phone lit up. 11:22 AM flashed onto the screen. Falau let out a small sigh and checked his alarm. It was set for 9:00 pm not AM. A common mistake for the big man. Alcohol had a way of causing errors like that in Falau’s life.

  Sitting up Falau put his feet to the floor and dropped his hands on his lap taking a moment before standing up. If the hangover were to hit, now would be the time. A dull headache came upon him that pushed from the sides of his head but no nausea came with it. Looking down at his hand he could see he had bandaged it with some gauze and medical tape.

  The events of the previous night seemed so long ago after the nightmares that haunted him in his sleep, but the pain of the cut on his right hand started to set in. Falau removed the tape slowly and methodically taking it down to just the gauze that had become blood soaked and partially stuck to his skin. The wound had to be large to produce that much blood. Pulling at the gauze he could feel the dried blood grabbing the bandage and pulling at his skin. Falau knew that the key was to not reopen the cut pulling the gauze off too quickly.

  Working with diligence and skill the gauze was removed to reveal a two inch cut that was jagged and still open despite the blood no longer flowing.

  The bottle thought Falau looking at the cut clearly remembering smashing the bottle over the robber’s head. The shattered glass not only put the intruder within a whisper of death by shattering his skull, the movement of Falau’s hand crashing down on his head caused it to enter into the field of the glass as it shattered. A stray piece dug hard into Falau’s hand not to be removed until Falau reached home and painted his kitchen sink red with his own blood.

  No stitches? I am getting lazy, thought Falau grabbing the antiseptic that sat on the nightstand from the night before. It stung but would keep the wound clean and safe from infection.

  Grabbing the bottle of water that took the last remaining spot on the nightstand he took a long slug from it and pulled himself up to his feet. The air in the bedroom was stale and harsh causing the big man to move to the window and he pulled it open with a hard clunk as it hit the top. The window was old and made of wood. No plastic sills and slick internal mechanics. Just wood on wood that changed sizes in the different seasons and window weights that were used to hold the window open only by their weight equal to the window itself. A technology that was all but dead. Falau insisted on keeping as much of the history and tradition of the old brownstone when he bought it.

  The crisp autumn air hit him hard and he breathed in a full breath letting it fill his lungs breaking away the remaining cobwebs that filled his head.

  The sound of laughter drifted up from down below causing Falau to lean out the window and look who was sitting on his stoop. The tops of two heads looked back at him but they were unmistakable in who they were.

  Tyler and Grady.

  Chapter 5

  FALAU PULLED ON HIS pants and slipped on a T-shirt intrigued with the conversation that Grady and Tyler must be having. The cut on his hand caught the seam of his shirt and a stinging pain shot through his hand and up his arm.

  “Shit!” yelled Falau shaking his hand rapidly and then staring at the cut. Despite his desires to get down the steps as fast as possible, he knew that the wound had to be cared for. A wave of shame fell over Falau knowing if not for the desire for alcohol he would not have the cut to begin with. The words of Tom from the AA meeting the night before echoed in his head “If you have problems because of your drinking you have a drinking problem.”

  The first aid kit from the night before still sat out next to the sink. In the kitchen Falau made quick work of putting a new bandage on his injury. Knowing that Tyler would have questions he kept the first aid to a minimum.

  The big man moved down the steps at more than twice his normal rate and grabbed a set of keys from a hook that sat next to the front door. Falau had been kicked out more than once from the self-locking doors and had developed the habit of making sure the keys were in his pocket any time he walked outside.

  The oversized door swung open causing the two men on the stoop to turn their heads mid laugh.

  “Good morning, sunshine, or is it afternoon yet?” quipped Tyler causing Grady to let out a large laugh.

  “Morning guys. Looks like I am missing out on the fun.” said Falau walking down a few steps and standing in front of his two friends.

  “Falau, why didn’t you tell me this guy was so much fun?” questioned Grady. “He is crazy just like the rest of us.”

  “Oh I know that!” replied Falau.

  “I have been trying to get Tyler to tell me what you two have going but he is like ice water, just so cool.”

  Tyler laughed and slapped the back of Grady. “Never going to tell you Grady. The mystery is better than the truth.”

  Falau raised an eyebrow to Tyler, surprised that he gave his real name to Grady.

  “The one thing that I did tell him was that I am your friend and do not want to see you get hurt.”

  “We both agree on that one.” said Grady standing up and taking one step onto the landing of the steps in front of the door. “I will leave you two to your meeting. Besides, it looks great for me to walk out on you guys. Everyone thinks Tyler is with the Feds and shaking Falau down.”

  Tyler and Falau laughed as Grady went into the brownstone and drifted out of sight.

  “I like what you’re doing with the place. The woodwork on the door is amazing.” said Tyler.

  “It’s all original. It’s taken a lot of elbow grease to clean it up. I will refinish it and make it look like the way it did the day it was put in.”

  “How do you make it so the gangs don’t tag it? They seem to hit everything in the area.”

  “I am a local, not a landlord, so they cut me some slack. If anyone tags it, then it would be a gang from outside the area. It might help that I have you coming to see me, and everyone thinks you’re a cop of some kind.”

  “Glad I can help.”replied Tyler lifting his bottled water in a toasting form. “Speaking of what I do for a living, you think you could use a little work?”

  “Ya, I can use some work. Where do you want to go to talk about it?”

  “We can talk right here. If anyone is listening with equipment they are hearing The Carpenters’ Greatest Hits. I have it pushing through every signal that is used for surveillance.”

  “Nice touch with the music.”

  “If you don’t like the Carpenters, you don’t like music.” Tyler replied. “What I have for you is a straight recon mission. No target to bring back. Very simple. The judges have something that they want more info on and I was thinking that you could use a mission that was relaxed for once.”

  “Hey man, I am ready to rock and roll with the real deal. I am no soft touch.”

  “So $15,000 for a three da
y recon mission is not something you want to do?” questioned Tyler.

  “Fifteen grand? Ya, that sounds like it could be ok.”

  “That’s what I thought.” said Tyler with a smile crossing over his face. “Here is the thing. There is a man down in Guyana named Lawrence Whitmore. He is a self-made millionaire. A big wig in the gold mining trade.”

  “Gold mining down there? I thought that was all from the ice age moving the glaciers down from up north.”

  “Ya, that’s what they say in North America but below the equator there is a gold rush going on that would dwarf any in history. This guy, Whitmore, went down in the early 1980’s and started with nothing and now has a major operation. Thing is that he keeps away from the big equipment and getting mixed up with the government. He has hundreds of workers all doing the mining by hand. If the inspectors get too close they can pull up and move shop any time. They even go onto claims that are in the process of being sold and take them over while nobody is there.”

  “Sounds like a problem for the local police not us. Why do the judges care about this guy?” asked Falau.

  “Well, Whitmore has found a way to bring slave labor back. He gives his workers food and shelter but no money. If they leave him then they are on the street with nothing. There is no way they can walk out on him and survive. He has had generations stuck working for him with no possibility of getting away. Plus there is a lot of talk about abuse on the job with whippings and beatings with night sticks. But the worst part is that he has children working as little as five years old. The job for the kids is to use mercury to roll up the small bits of gold in each pan. The mercury works amazingly well for this. The big problem is that mercury is poisonous and these kids have their hands in it twelve hours a day six days a week.”

  “I thought that mining was done with wash plants that take out the gold. I see that stuff on TV all the time.”

  “No way Whitmore will set up a wash plant. You can’t move it. The kids do a better job anyway and he couldn’t care less that the child mortality rate for the kids that work for him is around 30% and the number of birth defects that occur are 500 times higher than the normal society.”

  “Holy shit!” said Falau looking for the words to express his disdain for what he was hearing. “Why isn’t this a capture mission?”

  “We need proof. That’s where you come in. Want the job?”

  Chapter 6

  THE CANOPY OF THE JUNGLE overhead erased any moonlight that wanted to make its way to the jungle floor. The darkness made the ground look like it had come to life. A stream of insects came and went moving every which way from the insects and animals that ruled the night in the Guyana jungle. Passage in the night was filled with risk and life threatening danger. No matter if it can be seen or not seen the jungle was a place where man was not the pinnacle. Lawrence Whitmore kept his workers’ quarters deep into the jungle. Each night was a system of making sure there were no holes in the screens and that openings around doors and windows were filled with rags to keep the creatures of the night out. More than once in Whitmore’s tenure the workers woke up to find someone dead. Then the search was on for the spider, snake, or poisonous insect that had done the job while the person slept. For Whitmore it was another means of control. Control to keep the workers in and keep intruders out. If one were to face the dangers of the night jungle to get to the workers it would be slim that he could convince any of them to leave with him.

  Father Locke watched each of his steps hit the ground moving at more than four times slower than his normal speed. Foregoing the normal flashlight he used a pen light barely able to cast its beam to the ground. No need to alert any guards thought Locke.

  He still wore the shirt and collar showing him to be a catholic priest but his normal gear from the waist down was exchanged for some hip waders that were made of thick rubber. They were a staple to the local fishermen who could deal with various nasty creatures roaming the rivers and water channels around the country. For Locke they kept the risk of being bitten to a minimum and if one of God’s creatures did climb on him for the ride it would have to scale his body before finding an entrance to his skin at his neck line.

  Locke froze in place hearing the heavy crackling of brush off to his side more than ten feet away but no more than twenty. Wanting to squat down he resisted the urge turning the flashlight off and concentrating on the sound.

  Crack. Snap. Crack.

  Years in the jungle as a boy told him that the sound was not a man on two feet but something on four feet and it didn’t have much weight to it. The sounds developed into a scurry rather than a methodical stalking sound that the mighty jaguar produced. This was much smaller probably a capybara rummaging for food thought Locke clicking his light back on.

  Working his way through the jungle Locke could hear the similar sound of chatter and singing in the workers’ quarters. When people had nothing, song was often the means for entertainment.

  The image of sitting on his mother’s knee listening to her singing with the other women as he cuddled into her breast finding a comfortable spot to sleep filled his mind. The gentle look in her eye gazing down to him and smiling. The soft kiss she would lay upon his head as he squeezed her tight. The rhythmic motion of her body as it swayed side to side with the songs. Locke felt himself jump back in time even if just for a moment.

  An oversized millipede moved over his foot like it was a simple speed bump in a parking lot and shook him out of his dream. His mother now five years dead never found the courage to leave Whitmore and the mining operation. Her death was never recorded with the state and Whitmore said she died of old age, but Locke still had friends in the mining operation and knew that exposure to mercury had compromised her significantly. Her body was in no condition to fight the skin cancer and it spread rapidly leading to her death.

  Locke let out a low slow whistle that could not be mistaken for any animal of the jungle. The chatter slowed, and the singing stopped. Again the man of God let the whistle slide out cutting the air like a knife. Within seconds the whistle was returned with a jump to a high note at the end signaling that all was clear to come up to the quarters.

  “Kerick! Welcome back!” said a tall strong man opening the door to his longtime friend.

  “Thomas, it is so good to see you. How is your family?”

  “Good. Good. Come in and sit down. You know everyone here.”

  Doing as he was asked Locke looked over his young friends seeing that their faces were drawn and much of the enthusiasm was drained from them. Children had obvious birth defects that could easily be seen. Missing fingers, deformed features and drifting eyes jumped out at him. None of the children looked to be doing well and had been placed with the middle aged workers rather than their parents.

  Sitting down at a table Locke turned the chair to face the room. All the eyes that he spent so many years with looked to him with anticipation.

  “He said no.” said Locke cold and firm.

  “He said no to what? The money?” questioned Thomas.

  “He said no to everything. No money. No better treatment. No to me coming in and holding mass for all of you. He is not willing to let you pick the god you want to worship.”

  “Why?” asked an elderly woman rocking a child in her arms.

  “Whitmore thinks that he is your savior. He thinks that he gives you life and without him you would all die.”

  “He takes life too.” said the woman holding the baby. “He didn’t talk about that did he. Nothing about the beatings. The threats. The sexual abuse to the children and women.”

  “What?” asked Locke leaning forward in his chair and his mouth hanging slightly open. “The children and the women. Has he come here and fouled you!”

  “Not him.” replied Thomas cold and hard twisting a cane in his hands he had picked up next to the door. “He needs to keep a strong workforce so shortly after you left he started pulling women from the quarters at night. Young girls about 18 years old. The str
onger and bigger ones. When they returned they said he had men come in from town to have their way with them. He would keep the women up at the house until they were pregnant and then send them back to the fields until they had their babies. The men were all big in stature and strong from what the women said. He was breeding them.”

  “God bless these women.” said Locke making the sign of the cross on his chest.

  “I am not done Father. You need to save that blessing.” Thomas continued banging the cane hard down into the floor. “The children. Just a few but still children have been taken never to return. Most say sold into an adoption company sending kids to the United States, Canada, and Europe. Other kids were not so lucky. When they returned they were not the same ever again. They carried the physical signs of having their innocence stripped from them!”

  Locke’s hand formed a fist and crashed down on the table as anger filled his heart and tears filled his eyes. “My teachings tell me to pray forgiveness for any man and anything he has done, but I will not give that grace to Whitmore. I would rather default on my vow to God than grant forgiveness to that man.”

  “There is nothing you or anyone else can do about it. He is the law. He is the controller of all we have.” said the woman with the child not breaking the rhythm of her rocking.

  “You must leave. Revolt! If you all go in mass he cannot survive without you. You will crush him!”

  “And we will crush ourselves at the same time.” continued the woman. “Where will we go and what will we do? Your church cannot handle caring for all of us. There are no jobs for us. This is what we have for life. This is the waiting area for death.”