Camel Club 05 - Hell's Corner Page 14

  Wilder’s face sagged. “But if you ain’t here about them, what are you here about?”

  “You watch the news?”

  “Yeah, I check out ESPN every night.”

  “I mean the real news.”

  “Oh, I mean some days. Why?”

  “Explosion at Lafayette Park?” added Gross. “You hear about that?”

  “Hell yes. It’s all over the place.”

  They all stared at him pointedly and he looked back, puzzled.

  “But what’s that got to do with me?” he finally blurted out.

  “We believe the bomb was planted in the tree that came from this place of business.”

  “Come on, you got to be kidding me.” Wilder grinned weakly. “Wait a minute. You guys ain’t really Feds, right? This is some kind of joke, ain’t it?”

  Gross moved closer to him. “When a bomb goes off that close to the president of the United States, I can’t find anything remotely funny about it, Mr. Wilder. Can you?”

  The smile faded. “So this is the real thing? You guys really are cops?”

  “We really are. And we want to know how a bomb got in one of your trees.”

  As the full weight of what was happening descended on him, Wilder appeared to be hyperventilating. “Oh Jesus. Oh sweet Jesus.” The man started rocking back and forth.

  Stone moved around beside him and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “We’re not accusing you of anything, Mr. Wilder,” he said. “And from your reaction, it seems clear you don’t know anything about it. But you may be able to help us nonetheless. Now take a couple of deep breaths and try to relax.” He squeezed the man’s shoulder.

  Wilder finally calmed and nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you. I mean that. I’m a patriot down to my bones. I’ve been NRA all my life. Hell, my daddy was a union man.”

  Gross sat down across from him while Stone remained standing. Stone said, “Tell us about each of the people who work here.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Wilder pulled out employment records and went over each worker with them.

  “That’s it,” he said when he’d finished. “And there’s not one on that list that’s smart enough to do anything with no bomb. Hard enough to get them to hold the right end of a shovel. Although that may be because my español’s not too good.”

  Stone put his finger on one name on the list. “John Kravitz. He doesn’t sound Latino.”

  “Well, he’s not, of course. But you’re barking up the wrong tree there. No pun intended,” he added hurriedly.

  “Why?” asked Stone.

  “He’s college educated.”

  “I thought you intimated they were all stupid. And nothing against your line of work, but why is a college grad digging up trees?”

  “We do more than that here. John’s degree’s in landscape design, horticulture, stuff like that. He’s a good arborist. Sees stuff no one else does. Why we hired him.”

  “How long has he been with you?” asked Chapman.

  “About seven months. Didn’t expect him to stay that long, but he seems content.”

  “Has he been in to work this week?”

  “Every day like clockwork.”

  “Where is he now? Here?”

  Wilder checked the clock on the wall. “He’ll be here in about thirty minutes. He only lives about five miles down the road in a little trailer park off the highway.”

  “What else can you tell us about him?” asked Gross.

  “He’s about thirty, thin, tall as you,” he said, pointing at Stone. “With brown hair and a goatee.”

  “He get along with everybody?”

  “Look, the other guys can barely put two words of English together and I’m not sure they’re even literate in their own language. Like I said, John is a college boy. He usually spends his lunch hour reading.”

  “Know anything about his personal life? Political beliefs?” asked Gross.

  “No. But I’m telling you John is no bomber.”

  “Does he play basketball by any chance?” asked Gross.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “He told me he played in high school. We have a hoop out back. Boys play at lunchtime if they’re not out making a delivery.”

  “Whose ball do you use?” asked Stone.

  “Ball? We’ve got a couple around here. John I know has one.” Wilder looked flustered. “What’s a basketball got to do with a damn bomb?”

  “We’re going to wait for John. When he gets here you have him come back to your office, okay?” said Gross.

  “Do we really have to—”

  “Okay?” Gross said firmly.

  Wilder managed to whisper, “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 35

  WHILE THEY WERE WAITING for John Kravitz to arrive, Stone and Chapman explored the grounds. A few Latino workers watched them warily from a distance, probably fearing they were from ICE. Stone didn’t pay much attention to them. But something did capture his interest. Over a building behind the office, there were some holes in the wood and the outline of what once had been bolted there. Stone pointed to it, but Chapman only looked quizzical.

  “Basketball hoop,” said Stone. “Or where one used to be.”

  “So someone took it down?”

  “But didn’t fill in the holes or paint over it.”

  When they went back inside and asked Wilder about it, he professed to know nothing about the missing hoop.

  “I know it was up yesterday. Some of the guys were playing.”

  Thirty minutes passed, and while a half dozen other people arrived for work, Kravitz was not among them.

  “We’ll need his address now,” said Gross.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Wilder.

  Stone pulled Gross to the side. “Chapman and I will pay him a visit while you stay here with Wilder.”

  “You think he’s in on it?”

  “I’m not sure what to think right now, so we have to assume he is.”

  Wilder said, “I can call him at home, see if he’s okay. Tell him to come on in.”

  “No,” said Stone. “No calls. Just sit tight with Agent Gross.”

  Stone nodded at Gross and the FBI agent’s hand dipped to the butt of the gun in his belt holster, while Wilder, seeing this, started hyperventilating anew.

  Gross said, “You want me to get some LEOs as backup for you?”

  “Some local cops wouldn’t hurt,” said Stone. “Just tell them no sirens and to stay back until we signal them.”

  Gross nodded. “Good luck.”

  A minute later Stone and Chapman were in the Crown Vic on the way to the trailer park. Stone was driving. The sedan streaked down the highway. They passed a police cruiser going the same way. The cop driving was about to hit his lights at the speeding car when Stone slowed, dropped back and held his badge out the window. The cop in the passenger side slid down his window.

  “You the LEOs they called in for us as backup?” Stone asked.

  The cop nodded. “Possible suspect in the Lafayette Park bombing?”

  Stone nodded. “Just follow our lead. Okay?”

  “Yes sir,” said the obviously excited young deputy.

  Stone rolled his window back up and hit the gas.

  Chapman glanced over and saw the gun in a shoulder holster Stone was wearing.

  “What are you carrying?” she asked.

  “You wouldn’t recognize it.”

  “Why not?”

  “For starters, it’s older than you are.”

  “I know most of the major makes. American and European, Chinese, Russian.”

  “It’s not a major one.”

  “I know some of the lesser-known models.”

  “It wasn’t mass-produced.”

  “Limited run?”

  “You could say that.”

  “How many were made?”

  “One.”

  When they got to the trail
er park, Stone left the car by the side of the road and they made their way to Kravitz’s trailer on foot. The park had about twenty-five trailers mounted on permanent foundations and was bracketed by thick woods. The cops were ten paces back and on either side of the narrow gravel road that constituted the only ingress and egress.

  “If he is the bomber he might have his trailer wired with a booby trap,” noted Chapman.

  “That thought had occurred to me.”

  “So are we going to just knock on his door, then?”

  “We’ll play it by ear.”

  Chapman looked put off. “Okay, pleased to see you have the plan all formulated.”

  “In a situation like this plans usually are for shit. You react professionally to what comes at you. That’s the best plan of all.”

  The trailer was set off by itself, a small patch of gravel in front. An ancient and battered Chevy pickup was parked in front, its metal corroding, its paint disintegrating. They checked to make sure the truck was empty and then took cover behind it.

  Stone eyed the two cops and motioned with his hand where he wanted them to take up position. When they were in place he called out, “John Kravitz?”

  There was no answer.

  “John Kravitz? Federal agents. We need you to come out, hands in clear view. Right now.”

  Nothing.

  Chapman looked at Stone. The two cops stared at him too.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “We do it the hard way,” said Stone.

  “Which is?”

  Stone eyed the white tank attached to the front of the trailer. He took out his gun. “Kravitz, you have five seconds to come out or I’m going to put a round into your propane tank and blow you right to hell.”

  “Are you mental?” hissed Chapman.

  The two cops looked at Stone like they were debating whether to arrest him.

  “Two seconds, Kravitz,” called out Stone.

  He assumed his firing stance and lined the tank up in his sight.

  “Stone!” said Chapman. “You could blow us all up.”

  “One second, Kravitz.”

  The door to the trailer opened and Kravitz came out, his hands in the air. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed. “Don’t shoot,” he said in a pleading voice. “Don’t shoot, I don’t have a gun. Hell, what do you want with me? I just overslept. Do they send the Feds out for that now?”

  Stone saw the flash of light in the reflection of the trailer window. Immediately realizing what it was, he screamed, “Everyone down! Now!” He grabbed Chapman’s arm and pulled her to the ground. From the corner of his eye he saw the two cops hit the dirt. Kravitz still stood upright looking stunned. Stone let go of Chapman and whirled around, pointed his gun at the woods and fired. At the instant he did so a bullet was fired from somewhere deep in the woods. The two shots together sounded like a mini-explosion. Following his lead, Chapman had her gun out in a second and fired off six rounds from her Walther in the same direction.

  The round fired from the woods hit Kravitz squarely in the chest, exiting out the back and smacking into the side of the trailer. Kravitz stood stock-still for about a second, his eyes wide, as though he didn’t even realize he’d been shot. And killed. Then he toppled to the ground. Stone knew he was dead before he hit the gravel. Long-range rifle ordnance was almost always fatal with a center chest shot.

  Before anyone else could move, Stone was up and sprinting toward the woods. He scanned the tree line and called over his shoulder, “See if he’s still breathing. If he is, do what you can and call an ambulance. Then secure the crime scene and call in backup. Chapman, with me, keep low.”

  She raced after him as he entered the woods.

  “That was a long-range rifle round,” he called out. “Look for any movement, five hundred yards and out.”

  “How’d you even know anyone was out here?”

  “Saw the optics signature in the reflection on the trailer window. I had no chance of hitting the sniper with a pistol round. I was just hoping to screw up his shot.”

  After several minutes of searching and coming up empty they ran back toward the trailer. On the way there Chapman said, “You probably saved my life.”

  “You weren’t the target.”

  “But still.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  When they got back to the trailer Stone said to the cops, “Anything?”

  One cop shook his head. “Dead. We called in backup.”

  “Okay, set up roadblocks and search teams along a mile perimeter. It’s probably too late, but we have to try.”

  The cop grabbed his radio to do this.

  Stone said to Chapman, “Keep low and follow me.”

  They made their way stealthily up to the body. Kravitz was lying on his back, his arms and legs splayed, his eyes open and staring lifeless up at a blue sky. A patch of crimson was on his shirt where the bullet had gone in.

  “Single tap,” observed Stone. “LV.”

  “LV?”

  “Left ventricle. For torso shots I preferred the aorta myself.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Stone didn’t even glance at her; his gaze was skimming over Kravitz. “Working knowledge of the human body is part of any good sniper’s curriculum.”

  “Well, I guess we know now that Kravitz was part of the bombing plot.”

  “And somebody shot him to keep him from talking to us. That seems clear. The part that isn’t so clear is how they knew we were coming for him this morning.”

  Chapman looked around. “I see what you mean. We haven’t told anyone. Gross picked us up at the park on the spur of the moment. Wilder couldn’t have called anyone because Gross is with him.”

  Stone stiffened. “Damn it!”

  “What?”

  Stone didn’t answer. He punched in the number for the FBI agent. The phone rang and rang and then went to voice mail. Instructing the cops to stay at the crime scene and wait for their backup, Stone did a hundred on the way back to the tree farm while Chapman white-knuckled the armrest. Along the way he called in more LEOs to meet them at the tree farm. When they pulled in the parking lot, he knew something was wrong. He pointed to the tread marks on the parking lot asphalt. “Those weren’t there when we left. Somebody got out of here in a hell of a hurry.”

  Stone didn’t wait for the other cops to arrive. He pulled his gun and kicked open the door to the office. The woman who’d ushered them in to see Wilder was lying on the floor, a bullet hole in the middle of her forehead. Stone motioned to Chapman to cover him as he approached the door to the interior office. Crouched down, and using the wall as a shield, he turned the knob with his free hand and pushed the door inward. Then he backed away and took up position where he had a clear firing line into the office.

  From her vantage point Chapman had already seen it. She caught a quick breath as Stone moved next to her.

  Wilder was on the floor just inside the office. Even as far away as they were, Stone and Chapman could see that a good portion of his face was gone.

  “Shotgun,” said Stone.

  He moved forward, keeping his gun trained straight ahead, ready to fire in an instant if something came at him. A few seconds later he gave the all clear.

  Chapman joined him as he gazed down at the body of Special Agent Tom Gross where it lay behind the desk, his gun in his hand. There were two bullet holes in his broad chest. Stone knelt and checked the man’s pulse. He shook his head. “He’s gone. Shit! Damn it!”

  “What the hell is going on?” said Chapman as she stared down at the dead man.

  Stone looked around. “They split us up and played us out,” he said. “It’s like they know what we’re going to do even before we do.” He knelt down and touched the barrel of the gun. “Warm. He fired it, very recently.”

  “Maybe he hit one of them.”

  “Maybe.” He scanned the room for other signs of blood but found none. He pointed to the opposite wall where a bullet h
ad lodged. “Probably Gross’s one shot before he went down. At least he died fighting.”

  “What the hell do we do now?”

  They heard sirens coming.

  “I don’t know,” said Stone. “I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “WHOSE IDEA WAS IT to leave Special Agent Gross alone?”

  Stone and Chapman were at the FBI’s WFO, where they sat on one side of a long table and four grim men and one dour woman sat on the other side.

  Stone said, “It was my idea. Agent Chapman and I went to the trailer to find John Kravitz and Agent Gross stayed behind with Lloyd Wilder.”

  “Did you know whether any of the other workers at the tree farm were involved in the bombing conspiracy?” asked the woman, who had identified herself as Special Agent Laura Ashburn. She was dressed in a black suit and her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. About forty, she was of medium height, had pleasant features and a trim figure, but her eyes were black dots that bored through everything in their path. And right now the only thing in that path was Stone.

  “We didn’t know that. And we still don’t.”

  “And yet you left him there with no backup?” said one of the male agents.

  Before Stone could answer another man said, “You left with Agent Chapman and you also had LEO support. And yet Tom Gross had none of that. He was alone.”

  “I should have had Agent Chapman stay with Gross and then called in backup for them while I went to the trailer park,” conceded Stone.

  Chapman interjected, “There was nothing stopping Agent Gross from doing that.”

  All five FBI agents looked at her. One said, “When you’re trying to control a potential hostile situation and you have one potential bomber in your presence, you don’t really have time to yak on your phone.”

  This same man turned back to Stone. “I understand that you are a recent hire by the adjunct agency to NSC.”

  “I am.”

  “But you’re a little old to be jumping into the game, aren’t you?”

  Stone said nothing to this because what could he say, really?

  Ashburn opened a file and added, “Can’t find much on you, Oliver Stone. Other than an illustrious film career.” The derision in her voice was mirrored in the expression of her four colleagues.