Sail Cat Road, the sequel to No Good End, continues below. It is being posted tweet-by-tweet daily on Twitter (http://twitter.com/ttaylordude). I will post each chapter here (in chronological order). Thank you for your time.
Chapter 11
Drinking a diet Coke, Ritko scribbled thoughts on a small notepad. His writing was only legible to him.
The abductors wanted Bren alive, but damaged. Maybe they wanted her to know fear like her father had put into people in Jersey.
Ritko knew about her father, Lemuel, and her brother, Zeke – arms dealers. He knew about the stint in prison for Lemuel. Zeke was clean.
At least he was clean on paper. He had a file with the bureau, but no convictions. Matter of time, thought Ritko.
Bren’s family had many enemies, but so did Gus and Jimmy. Maybe the enemies were the same people, maybe not. “Zapata family,” wrote Ritko.
He drew a circle around the names on his pad, then a question mark. Ritko always thought clearer when he could see the words in writing.
Someone wanted Jimmy dead, no doubt, and they needed Gus as a decoy while they dangled Bren. More scribbling and lines drawn between names.
Someone probably wanted Gus dead. But they wanted Bren alive. They could have killed Gus easily when they took Bren from his hospital room.
Her father would send someone for Bren. Jimmy Gantt might emerge. Mr. Zapata might even send Jimmy. Jimmy would leave a mess to clean up.
Ritko wrote his own name. He was in the middle of this because Jimmy asked him to watch Gus. It was wickedly tangled for such a small town.
Ritko rolled the scenarios in his head. The kidnappers would not kill Bren. She was worth something – either money or something else.
Bren’s father, Lemuel, was a careful man. Zeke, her brother, was less so. Ritko figured Jimmy would never walk into a trap. Then it hit him.
All the characters were lining up except one – Jolene. Ritko wrote her name. The wild card. She had taken a lot of money and disappeared.
If they wanted Jolene, taking Bren would be a good way to stir the pot, cause Gus to react stupidly, which would draw out Jimmy.
Jolene had Jimmy Gantt’s blood in her veins that was a fact that required no scribbling on his pad. If she showed, trouble came with her.
Gus’ murdered brother, Ab, had Jimmy’s genes. But he was careless. That’s why he was dead. Hard to ambush a careful killer. They got him.
Why was Gus such a true, blue believer in justice? Why was he so void of the family tendencies? Maybe Gus’s mother was the good one.
But she was a drunk, not a murderer, so it was hard to tell what coursed in her arteries beyond any kind of liquor she could fanagle.
Ritko’s phone rang at the same time the nurse walked in with a message. The call and the nurse delivered the same news, and it was not good.
The nurse looked shaken. “Excuse me, Agent Ritko,” she said. “You need to go to the ER, now.” She left before he could react.
He watched her walk away, almost at a trot out the hallway exit, then continued listening to his cell. “Agent Ritko here,” he said.
The woman’s voice on the phone said, “We have a package for you. It’s wrapped in an agent’s uniform. I hope you like it.” Click.
The screen on the phone gave no number. It read, “Restricted.” Ritko ran down the stairs that emptied into the lobby of the screaming ER.
Two women wailed in a corner, one on her knees, blood splotching her face and blouse. The other stood, crying and heaving into the room.
A young man sat in a chair, blank-faced and ashen white with his mouth agape. Nurses ran diagonally, threading the connected seating.
Three nurses huddled over a body. One yelled medical terms he did not understand. Agent James lay in the door with a bullet in his head.
Black and white images of Bobby Kennedy – wide-eyed and soaking in a bloody pool on the floor of the Ambassador Hotel – filled his memory.
The difference was the color of this horrible scene, vibrant and yet washed in fluorescent pain, sweaty and yet air-conditioned cold.
Ritko felt of his gun from instinct as if everything and everyone was a threat. He regretted arguing with Agent James. It did not matter now.
Ritko speed dialed the Mobile, Alabama field office on his cell. “Agent Mikal Ritko here.” He waited, then gave his 12-digit badge number.
Sirens approached outside. People ran through the parking lot. The urgent activity around Agent James slowed and ceased. He was dead.
“Get me Agent Emanuel,” said Ritko. “I need a trace.” He walked briskly out a side door into the frantic approaching of sheriffs’ cruisers.
“Emanuel here,” grunted the voice on his phone. “What’s going on up there, Ritko? We’re picking up chatter even down here.”
“Agent James was shot at the hospital,” said Ritko. “He’s dead. I got a strange call about the time of the shooting. I need a trace.”
“I’m checking it now,” said Emanuel. Ritko heard keys clicking in the background. Emanuel whispered to himself. “A restricted number.”
“That’s why I need the trace,” said Ritko, impatiently. “Tell Mobley and Ord to get here now. Local officers are already roaming the place.”
“Got it. The number is –” Ritko’s cell went dead. He glanced at the screen. He had forgotten to charge the battery the night before.
