Venator Page 10

  46

  Furman Frye’s instincts had been right, they always were. He sat on a bench and watched that delicious piece of eye candy yell that he was a federal agent and run off after some hoodlum. He wasn’t sure exactly what had turned him off about the man. Had it been the off the rack sport coat? The cheap loafers? The obviously dyed blonde hair? Or was it the gait. Yes, that had been it. The man didn’t walk like he was comfortable in his own skin, as if, he’d been playing a part. Yes, that was it exactly.

  Furman got up and threw the remainder of his McDonalds Happy Meal into the garbage. His stomach still wasn’t feeling well from his harrowing ordeal this past weekend. The hearse died on him half way down Snake Mountain Road. Then eyes had appeared from the darkness of the surrounding trees. Furman had screamed in horror as the tribesmen drug him down, their putrid saliva dripping in his face. But to Furman’s amazement it was not the Indians at all who stood panting hungrily over him, it was Rocky’s pack. Rocky, in fact, licked his face while his mates sniffed him all over, apparently deciding that he was of no threat to them. Thank you, Rocky.

  But even Rocky’s pack would be no match for the tribe should they happen upon him. So, Furman began to walk toward town with the strange passel of feral dogs. In a weird way he felt safer with them, even safer than he did when he assumed the role of Death. Had he been mistaken, was this motley crew more than they seemed to be? After crossing the Alligator Bridge some three hours later, they decided to spend the night outside of Crusoe’s Grocery. Furman slept on and off until the dogs left him in the morning. He owed them a great deal.

  And so today was Furman’s first day back on the prowl and what a day it had turned out to be. He quickly made his way into the parking lot. Were they already on to his hearse? The escape from South Park Mall was sloppy, perhaps they had the old hearse on tape? Furman hastened his step.

  There was a woman beside his car. She was writing something down. Furman’s heart leapt up into his throat.

  "Is this your vehicle, sir?" she asked him.

  Furman hesitated, should he run? Should he attack?

  "I’m sorry, but I accidentally side-swiped you pulling in."

  Relief. Furman planted a big smile on his face and shook the woman’s hand, "Quite alright. She’s an old clunker, one more scratch won’t hurt anything."

  "Well, we should still exchange insurance information."

  "I don’t think so," Furman said glancing over his shoulder. Had those federal agents spotted him watching the delicious dye-job? If they had, they might have a few questions for him and if they found that he was driving a hearse… Well, it was definitely time to go.

  "I already called the police," the woman said. "They should be here anytime."

  "Is that right?" Furman stammered, the color running out of his face.

  "Yes, I even wrote down your license plate number in case we had to page you inside the mall."

  "That was certainly thoughtful," You little goody-two-shoes, bitch. "I think I have my policy in the car here." Furman opened the passenger side door of the hearse and quickly rifled through his gym bag. "Yes, its right here," he said, wheeling around with an aerosol can clinched in his fist. He sprayed the woman in the face. She convulsed and staggered away. Furman grabbed her by the back of her blouse, opened the rear door and hauled her into the bed of the hearse.

  47

  Agent Franks slammed the shoplifter's face into a glass display window. Mall Security was right behind him. They cuffed the man and drug him to his feet.

  "Brandon, Security said a woman was just abducted from the parking lot!"

  "What?!"

  "Yeah, they have a witness, an old lady, said she saw the whole thing. A big white guy sprayed a woman in the face with something and took off in a black car."

  "Shit! That’s our boy! Notify local law enforcement, let’s get those road blocks up immediately," Franks yelled into his mic. He flipped open his cell and dialed SAC Tatum’s direct line.

  48

  Furman Frye slowed as took the exit for I-95. He sat in the merge lane for 5 minutes as traffic crawled by. He finally bogarted his way in front of a semi and crept forward until traffic snarled to a stop.

  "Another road block," he thought. He wasn’t worried though. He been through one before and had no problems, this would be no different. He looked at his duffel bag, inside was his cloak and skull mask, inside was Death. But he hadn’t needed Death to take the woman. In fact, he wouldn’t need Death to get him through this roadblock either, not like last time.

  Was he outgrowing the need for his old friend? Was he becoming something else? Or was it Death that was beginning to run the show? What ever was happening, Frye felt like he would not need Death’s accouterments anymore. Furman felt stronger, more confident, better than he had in years. Of course this was thanks to the skull and scythe but now it was as if he and Death were one and the same, as if the voices in his head were finally all speaking the same language.

  Furman smiled as he came to the road block thirty minutes later. He showed the officer his license and registration.

  Answered a few questions, "Long way from home, huh?"

  "Where you headed?"

  "Does the funeral home know your driving their hearse all the way out to Charlotte?" "Oh, its your personal vehicle?"

  "Alright, spell your last name for me, again."

  Furman fought the urge to sink his thumb into the officer’s eye, dig down deep into the runny liquid until he found bone. The officer waved him through and Furman was on his way home. He suddenly had a liberating thought. Furman decided it might be nice to take a walk back out to the green mound where he used to play as a child. Normally this would have been out of the question. What if he were followed by the Indians, what if they surrounded him, attacked him, what if Furman heard the soft whoooosh of a tomahawk? Why Furman Frye would rip them to pieces! He would tear off their pretty red skin and bake it in a macaroni casserole!

  49

  Agent Wheatley!" Emily shouted across the busy conference room. "I think I have something!"

  Wheatley waded his way over and stood behind Emily’s chair, "What is it?"

  "A feeling. I’ve been all over the web looking for a way to obtain BZ gas and then it hit me. A few years ago, I worked with the FBI on a sting during one of those big weapon shows."

  "I think I remember that," Wheatley muttered. "We brought down a huge Anthrax distributer."

  "Yeah, Silas Herman. If I recall, he was selling it to some hardcore militia types under the table."

  "That’s right, he was dealing out of the back of his truck."

  "Well, I searched weapons shows to see if there was one in the area our killer might have visited."

  "And..."

  "There was, ‘The Great Southern Weapons and Gun Show.’ It came to town last October and get this, it’s annual and they have one this weekend."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope, here it is. ‘Your internet warehouse for the widest selection of weapons from around the world at bargain basement prices. October 27th, 28th and 29th at the Richmond International Raceway and Fairground Complex."

  "It's worth staking out. If we don’t run across our boy, we’ll might at least be able to run down his supplier. Print that page out, Sanderson."

  The printer hummed to life.

  "Great job!"

  Emily smiled as Wheatley took the copy and raced off back through the throng of agents and analysts.

  50

  Furman Frye turned on his new generator and went up the back steps. He looked out at the trees with a smug expression, as if daring someone to emerge from the thick foliage. No one did.

  He went inside and turned on the TV for his guest. He inserted the first video tape, which was of poor quality. It showed a 19 year old girl who had come by the house about three weeks after his father’s death. She had been selling encyclopedias.

  "Her name was Kate," Furman said.

  His guest scr
eamed into a mouth full of duck tape.

  Furman opened a dusty trunk in the corner of the room as the tape played. The TV showed Kate bleeding out on the living room rug. Furman wheeled around with a flourish, "This is Kate’s thigh bone. She had great thighs, don’t you think?"

  The woman screamed again. Her red eyes fell to a dark stain on the carpet under her seat. The TV flickered and showed Furman cutting off Kate’s left leg with an axe. The woman sobbed into her duck tape.

  "It's alright," Furman said, petting his prisoner’s head. "I think I’ll keep you around awhile."

  The woman hyper-ventilated into her tape.

  "Let me fix you some dinner," Furman offered, with a smile. "What would you like, a leg, a thigh or a breast?"

  The woman screamed again and Furman screamed with her.

  51

  A plain burgundy van rolled into the enormous area reserved for parking. The night before some of the Bureau’s techies mounted a pole cam near the front entrance so burgundy van could keep tabs on everyone entering and leaving the raceway complex.

  Jay Will slurped coffee from his mug and offered Emily a weary smile.

  "Why on earth did you volunteer for this detail, Em?" Jay Will asked.

  "I think we’ll have some Hell’s Angels here today that I’d like to get a look at."

  "So what do you do for fun?"

  Emily frowned at him.

  "Okay, just messing with you. Here pop this in your ear, make sure it fits snug."

  Emily took the small earpiece from him and slid it in her ear.

  "Pretty high tech gadgets these feds have," Jay Will continued. "The whole thing is wireless and transmits as clear as a bell."

  The van’s back door opened and Agent Wheatley climbed in. "Do you have her wired yet, Detective?"

  "Just about."

  "Alright, Ms. Sanderson. You will be with me this morning. Just a happy couple shopping for a small caliber weapon for you to target practice with. Okay?"

  "Okay," Emily said, adrenaline already coursing through her blood. "Thank you for letting me tag along. I’ll really be able to gather some useful Intel."

  "Sure, but keep in mind, we’re only here to observe. Nothing more."

  The van door opened again and Provo slipped in, "Morning, boys."

  She turned and winked at Emily. "Everybody ready?"

  52

  Detective DeJesus, can I get a mic check?" An electronic voice whispered in his ear.

  "Alright Dog, holla back!" Eric shook hands with Jay Will and they separated inside the complex building.

  "Thank you, can you adjust the pin camera in your necklace."

  Eric reached down and pulled the gold cross around his neck out from behind two other gold chains.

  "Perfect, you're broadcasting a clear picture now, happy hunting."

  Provo mocked talking on her cell phone as she watched Eric banter with a gun dealer.

  "Agent Provo, can we get a shot of the white man at you three o clock?"

  "So I asked him, where he got off saying that to me."

  "White male, three o clock, bib overalls and red ball cap."

  "I see what you mean, Tracey."

  "Perfect, that’s a great shot."

  Provo cut her eyes behind her sunglasses and watched Eric slip out of sight.

  "I think I lost him, honey."

  "Okay, we’ve got our shot. Agent DeMarco has picked up a visual on DeJesus. Proceed two isles over and pick up Detective Williams.

  Provo continued talking as she squeezed through the crowd. A rouge hand felt her ass as she passed through. Provo rolled her eyes and found Jay Will meandering past a long table of antique rifles.

  "Well I see that now, Tracey."

  "Do you have a visual of Detective Williams?"

  "Of course I do, honey. But do I stay with him this time."

  "Yes, keep a close proximity to Detective Williams, he may have a bite."

  "Oh, I’d love something to eat," Provo said into the phone and pushed through the wall to wall people in an effort not to lose Jay Will.

  53

  Furman Frye pulled his hearse into the Richmond International Raceway Complex parking lot. He didn’t even bring his duffel bag with him. In fact, he couldn’t even remember where he’d put it last night after arriving home. He used his wood axe instead of the scythe and found he enjoyed the entire process more than before.

  Furman slipped out of the car and made his way toward the front gate blissfully unaware of the pole camera recording him or the burgundy van nearby. Furman Frye felt like a new man, he’d even had sex with Kate before grilling her up as a late night snack. It made the meal much more enjoyable. And now that he thought about it, he didn’t even remember glancing at the woods around his house on the way out this morning, let alone worry about who might be watching or if their red skin was painted with warrior's colors.

  Nothing fazed him, he was confident, self assured and brimming with bad intentions. Who's to say he had to follow a victim around for an entire week? Who's to say they always had to be with someone else when he took them? Why did he have to wear a mask and record the whole sordid affair? And why did he always have to take a man? It was simple, he didn’t! And that new freedom of choice was incredible. He could take whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Hell, he could take someone here at the weapons fair. He didn’t have to if he didn’t want to, but the joy was in the fact that he could. He didn’t need Death. He didn’t need some shallow disguise to make him who he was. Furman Frye was a cold-hearted killer who got off on the hunt. Bringing his prey down and making them suffer, scream and plead for mercy.

  Furman entered the complex in search of his BZ gas distributer.

  54

  Vladimir Volkov sipped a bit from his tired flask and winced, fucking American vodka. He already wanted to be on a plane back to Moscow but there was still some unfinished business left to be dealt with.

  Bearweapons.com had a small link on the weapons mall home page, mostly patrons were only aware of it due to word of mouth. They placed orders with Volkov and he arranged pickups at annual weapons conventions. All in all he made five to ten trips a year to the US to attend various gun shows and sell his wares to the highest bidder. The web page was a way to advertise to a world wide market as opposed to only his Russian brothers.

  Volkov was waiting on three American patrons this weekend and then he could leave this god-forsaken country on a plane as opposed to steaming over on a boat. There were, of course, lawmen that needed to be bribed in order to sell his one-of-a-kind merchandise here in the states. And it was always easier to do so when you arrived by boat. No pesky metal detectors or sniffing dogs to deal with.

  The first man he was expecting was screen name rebeldogclan18, who would be purchasing a new ultra-light and extremely powerful plastic explosive which German scientists had developed a few years ago. The IRA were Volkov’s best customers when it came to the German plastic, but now it seemed the Klu Klux Klan was going to start taking a more proactive approach in their stand against minorities and were buying as much plastic as they could get their hands on.

  The second customer was abbysdad2329, he would obviously be a towel head sympathizer as he was only interested in bulk amounts of anthrax. Vladimir’s brother, Alexander was already doing time in an American prison for distributing the white powder a few months ago. But Alexander was a dumbkov. Vladimir was perfectly aware of the undercover cops at the show. They were so obvious, even to Volkov, a career criminal whose survival depended on sniffing out the undercover KGB operatives looking to take a cut out of his pie and the secret police who wanted to put their competition out of business.

  And here was Volkov’s third customer now, Vladimir had met the man twice before at the annual weapons show and the guy creeped him out every time. Which was saying something in Volkov’s view. He had worked with some sick bastards in his day and done business with some who were even worse, but this joker definitely took the cake.
>
  Deathhunter strolled up to Vladimir and gave him the password.

  "Good morning, I seem to have misplaced my parcel, have you seen it?"

  "Yes," Vladimir said in strained English. "Come behind the table and see if this is it?"

  Vladimir surveyed his customer. The man was huge. His thick muscles protruding up from under his black turtleneck. The disheveled greasy black hair and unshaven stubble. The man reeked of stale sweat and death. Volkov knew the odor well and didn’t doubt his patron’s screen name a bit.

  Furman Frye leaned down and laid a thick envelope on the floor under the table.

  "Let me help you with that, comrade."

  "Thank you," Furman replied.

  Volkov knelt down under the table and quickly checked the cash in the envelope, "There, it seems you have it."

  "Yes, well thank you again, my friend," Furman said walking away.

  "Of course, my... friend," Volkov managed as he quickly surveyed the crowd. There was a petite blonde who seemed a little too interested in their brief conversation.

  Volkov cursed and ran.

  Provo yelled instructions into her hidden mic.

  Jay Will craned his neck around looking for the Russian.

  Eric leapt onto a table and did the same.

  Wheatley grabbed Emily by the arm, "We're getting out of here, now."

  Emily saw Provo race after a tall man in a black turtle neck. The next time she would see the pair, one of them would be dead.

  55

  Volkov pushed his way through the crowd yelling, "Fire! Fire!"

  Soon everything was chaos. Mass panic griped the convention hall and people began flooding the exits. Jay Will caught sight of the Russian slipping out one of the side exits. he tried to force his way through the mob but it was no use. The sea of humanity was flowing in the opposite direction and he was carried away.