WE PULLED INTO THE HOOVER Dam Recreational Area. According to the sign, the park closed at dusk, and it appeared that everyone except Little Freddie and me obliged. Little Freddie sat with his back against the rear door, facing Banks, his 9mm resting on his thigh. I left the car to survey our options. I’d hoped to find a building, a clearing or something where Little Freddie could do what he needed to do. A sidewalk led from the parking lot, through a picnic area and across the top of the dam. The dam itself was maybe one hundred feet high and less than a quarter mile long. Water gushed from the top of the dam into Big Walnut Creek and the reservoir below. The rushing water overpowered my ears and the echo effect almost took my balance, but the water’s cold spray knocked me back into equilibrium.
I ran the length of the dam and found a padlocked access door. Equal parts rust and luck held it in place. I pulled my .45 and, keeping my finger off the trigger, drove the handle down hard. The padlock snapped off and shattered into three pieces on the ground. On the other side of the door, a stairwell led down to a concrete room about fifty feet square. I felt around the wall until I found a light switch, which powered eight dim lights. They flickered on one at a time. In front of me stood six cylinders, maybe pumps of some kind, about eight feet tall and as big around as a whiskey barrel.
My legs took the steps two at a time on the way back up the stairwell and my nerves turned my tongue to sandpaper by the time I made it back across the dam and to the car. For a moment I thought Little Freddie had already started in on Banks. He had the time. But when I arrived, they were in the same place I’d left them. Both silent.
I waved and Little Freddie grabbed his duffle from the floor and then motioned Banks to step out of the SUV. We started toward the dam.
“Same rules apply,” said Little Freddie. “You run, I shoot.”
Banks didn’t answer.
When we got to the door, we sent Banks down first and then Little Freddie and I followed.
Little Freddie pointed to the center of the room. While Banks walked, Little Freddie removed his jacket, folded it and laid it against the concrete wall. He placed his 9mm on top of the jacket and unzipped the duffle. Banks’ eyes followed his every move. Little Freddie pulled something from the duffle and slipped it into his pocket. Then, he took something else out and gripped it in his palm, but I couldn’t make it out under the dim fluorescents. The water cascading over the dam on top of us sounded like an eighteen-wheeler barreling down the highway.
Little Freddie circled Banks like a shark exploring a meal. “You know why you’re here?” said Little Freddie.
“No, I don’t.”
“Bishop sent us.”
Banks studied Little Freddie as he circled. “I don’t know who that is.”
Little Freddie snapped his wrist, extending a steel baton from its handle. He slammed the baton into Banks’ left knee. It sounded like a firecracker, a quick pop and then a crack. Then, a scream. He grabbed his knee and tumbled to his side on the concrete floor. He screamed again, but the rushing water overwhelmed the sound, locking it inside the concrete tomb. Little Freddie left him twisting on the floor until his screams descended into a low moan.
Little Freddie tapped the baton against the concrete floor. “You want to lose that other knee?” he said.
“No.” Banks’ words fought to escape as he drew in deep breaths.
“I’ll ask one more time,” said Banks. “Do you know why we’re here?”
“The website. The money.”
“That’s right,” said Little Freddie. “The coins my friend here took from your place. Is that everything that Bishop gave you, or is there more?”
Banks watched Little Freddie as he twirled the steel baton in his hand. “It’s all there.”
“That’s good,” said Little Freddie. “Now, we still have the problem of the breech. Bishop wants to know how you did it. And you’re gonna tell me so we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Banks gripped his knee with both hands. His face was a landscape of terror and pain. “I used a—”
Little Freddie threw up his hand. “Hang on there, buddy. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Little Freddie tucked the baton under his left armpit and pulled a small red digital voice recorder from his pocket. He pressed a button and it beeped. Little Freddie held it in front of Banks’ face. “Okay, now go ahead. All the details, please.”
Banks inhaled and explained step by step how he hacked Bishop’s site. More Chinese algebra to me. After five minutes, Little Freddie had recorded how Banks got into the site, how he gained administrator access and obtained all the information he downloaded. He also explained how Bishop could update the website code to stonewall another similar attack.
I was glad that Little Freddie thought to record it because I didn’t know what Banks had explained, nor did I have the brain cells to relay it back to Bishop in a coherent manner.
Little Freddie slipped the recorder back into his pocket. “Is that it?” he said.
“That’s it.”
“Anything else you want to say?”
“No.” He still cradled his knee. “Just that I’m sorry I did it, and it won’t happen again.” He looked up at Little Freddie. “Can I go home now?”
Little Freddie turned to me. “He wants to go home. What do you think? Should we take him home?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Look around, you piece of shit,” said Little Freddie. “You’re going to die here tonight.”
“But you ...” Little Freddie drove his right foot into Banks’ chest, crushing at least one rib. The snap reminded me of the sound his knee made. Banks grabbed his chest and searched for his breath while Little Freddie returned to his duffle. He replaced the baton and took out a pair of pliers.
The continuous rumbling of the water overhead convinced me no one would hear Banks. I was more concerned that a park ranger or patrolman might run our plates in the parking lot, since the SUV was in the lot after hours, or perhaps a maintenance worker might be out checking the locks on the substation doors.
I looked up at the substation door. “Let’s get this over with,” I said. “We got what we need.”
“We got plenty of time.”
Banks crawled toward me. Toward the stairs. He looked up at me. “Why are you letting this happen?” he said.
Before I could think to answer, Little Freddie was back on him. He sat on Banks’ back and punched him in the back of the head, knocking it against the concrete floor and breaking several teeth, which scattered in front of him. He grabbed Banks’ right hand, held his arm out straight and slipped the pliers around Banks’ thumb. Little Freddie drove his knee into Banks’ back and squeezed the pliers. The bone crunched. Not as loud as the knee. More like kindling crackling in a fire. Banks screamed again. Little Freddie moved fast, cracking each finger in rapid succession. When he finished with Banks’ right hand, he stood up to admire the mangled fingers, each pointing in a different direction.
I looked down at the floor. “That’s enough,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll tell you when it’s time to go,” said Little Freddie. He returned to his duffle again and swapped the pliers for a knife the size of a bowling pin. He pulled the blade from its sheath. “I’m gonna carve this fucker up.”
Banks looked up at me. His face smeared with blood, saliva and small bits of broken teeth. Little Freddie started toward him, the knife raised high. Before I realized what had happened, I’d pulled my .45 and buried a slug in Banks’ forehead.
Little Freddie looked at me like I’d just pissed in his ice cream. “What the fuck?” he said. “I was just getting started.”
I kept the .45 out, but pointed it at the floor, in case Little Freddie charged me. “It’s enough. We got what we needed. It’s too risky to stay here longer than we have to.”
His eyebrows arched, his eyes squinted, and it looked like he was sizing me up. Then, he slid the knife back into the duffle and pulled out a plastic drop cloth and a role of duct tape. I returned the .45 to the holster under my jacket, pocketed the shell casing and helped Little Freddie wrap the body. We used half the roll of tape to secure the plastic. Little Freddie grabbed his duffle as I wiped the light switch clean. Then, we carried Banks’ body up the steps.
I opened the door and checked the top of the dam. Still clear. Little Freddie said something, but the water cascading over the top of the damn took his words into the reservoir below. I wiped the doorknob clean and we carried Banks’ body into the woods that surrounded the park and rolled him down a steep ravine. We’d be long gone before anyone found the body, and there was nothing to tie us to Banks when they did.
We ran back toward the SUV, and I felt the half pot of coffee and the turkey sandwich I’d had for dinner mixing together and climbing my throat. I reached the car just in time to see what was left of my dinner splatter onto the gravel parking lot.
Little Freddie smiled. “Guess you don’t have the stomach for this type of work,” he said as he tossed the duffle into the back seat and climbed through the passenger door.
I handed him my cell to call Bishop and tell him it was done. Then, I wiped my sleeve across my mouth, hit the ignition, pointed the car south and we headed back to Cincinnati.
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