Chapter XI

he night they served the search warrant on the home of Russell Adams, they came away pretty much disappointed.  It didn't look as if he'd ever been married, and the house did not support any evidence of a woman being around.

While it wasn't filthy, it wasn't clean either.  It did have an odd smell to it, but they just discounted it as a result of his pets roaming the house with no access to the outside, no pet door and no one picking up after them.  The animals were small, but several times there had been an 'accident.'

In a stuffy house the odors can magnify.  It was an older house set up off the ground much the same way of Will and Sharon's own house.

There wasn't much furniture, and there wasn't much to keep a bachelor busy.  But his clothes were immaculate.  Was he doing the laundry himself?  A check in the washroom where the lack of a washing machine and clothes dryer would be placed set that story straight.  If he was doing the wash himself, he certainly didn't do it at home.

Sharon pondered the situation on the way back to Lanes office.  She had personally walked into the Police station to check the prisoners for herself.  None of them was Russell Adams.

When she inquired at the dispatcher, she said "he's been released on his own recognizance.  The release forms should be in his file.  His file would be in the first filing cabinet on the left."

Sharon went through the entire filing cabinet thinking the forms might have been misplaced.  But they simply were not there.  He had slipped through their fingers too easily.  And, if his story was anything like what they role played in several 'what-if' situations, there would be a whole new scandal.

As it was, Stillwell Creek Township had been rocked by scandal after scandal.  Several folks lost their homes in bogus money making real estate opportunities.  People had died, businesses lost . . . it went on and on.  "Somewhere, there has to be a stopping point" she thought.

But they all had an idea that some kingpin was running the township behind scenes.  But who?  Who could have that much power?  Who had that much opportunity?  There were a few men running around town that could fit the bill, but somehow, her mind kept returning to one man.  Mayor Mason Ludlow.

Melinda disagreed.  She thought it had be a multi-millionaire who lived close to the top of Strickland mountain.  The mountain had gotten it's name from his grandmother, Doris Strickland.

Len sided with Sharon, and William agreed with Melinda.  "This is getting to be a mixed up mess" said Sharon.  "What evidence do we have of any of these people being the kingpin?"

They sat around the breakfast table of the diner on Main St.  "I understand there is a disagreement of the kingpin, but currently, he is the least of our problems.  Until we find Russell Adams and those discs, if he still has them, or if he ever had them, we've got nothing."  Lane was stirring his coffee as he talked.  "For sure, our current priority is Russell."

William was going through another of his melancholy notions when he spoke up.  "I think I may know where he hid those discs.  More than once I felt as if someone was watching me, but put it off as paranoia as a result of the hypnosis.  But if my notion is right, those discs are one of two places.  Exactly where I hid them myself, but the difference would be, at his own house."

With that, he got up and dumped the tray while Sharon gathered her things and made a beeline for the restroom.  Len and Melinda were making ready to leave as well.  Lane grumbled "I just got here.  Don't leave just because I arrived."

"Well, to make you feel better, we'll let you pick up the tab for breakfast.  See you in a bit" William chuckled as he sauntered off.

"Gee, thanks a lot." Lane said as he waved to his friends.  Within ten minutes, Lane left.  None of them took notice of the bearded man in the corner booth.  But he had certainly noticed them and had also heard their conversation.

Russell Adams figured it was about time he left town, and for good!  His only thoughts was getting the discs and making sure they came with him; and the weapons as well.  When he thought Lane had vacated the street in front of the Diner, he got up, dropped his tip on the table, dropped a ten spot along with the bill at the register and walked out.

He berated himself for waiting this long to get out of town.  Nancy, his girlfriend, had secreted a key for him when she went down to 'get some information from an inmate.'  That scenario was incorrect procedure, and had those around her been more observant they probably would have inquired as to the uncommon situation.

The common procedure was to gather the information from the start, but if more is needed, they are brought to an interrogation room where they are both monitored and recorded.  But Nancy was the one with the longest tenure of the Police Force.  She had went no further up the ladder than dispatcher.  The job suited her, and, she suited the job.

She also had some uncommon connections with the Police Force, and of course, there was always the rumor mill.  And, rumor had it, that she and the Mayor had enjoyed a fling back in the day.  She had just laughed it off one day when the subject came up through a little girl visiting the Precinct with her class.  She said "Hi Mrs. Wilhelm.  Are you coming to visit daddy this week?"

The teacher was appalled and hurried the children out as fast as she could.  For a while Nancy was teased by her colleagues about 'going to see my daddy . . .'  She would just laugh and never let on like it had or had not happened.  But a couple of the other women had more than just a suspicion.

While is wasn't all that uncommon for men to have a mistress, it was uncommon for the Mayor of the city to be frolicking with the Police Dispatcher.  Too many 'favors' could be bought.  Russell, being a favorite of Nancy, learned of this link and exploited it to his favor.  Theirs had been a very financially successful 'business venture.'

To his knowledge, Russell didn't think anyone else was aware of the connection he had not only with Nancy, but the Mayor as well.  He had helped the Mayor several times and the Mayor had always seen to it that there was an envelope with some cash in a little box office at the North end of town.

When the mayor learned of the problems Russell Adams was having, that he had quit the Police Force, at a time when he needed him most, and at a time when Russell could have helped him the most, it didn't sit well at all.  The mayor was getting quite a stuffy feeling about this connection, like things were closing in him.  Yes, he knew Victor Bension, and had voted to have Walter as the Chief of Police, so he had gotten a mark of approval from Victor when the Mayor wanted Russell.

Walter was not a dirty cop; that is, he wasn't a greedy cop.  But, he had helped a few friends out a little bit, and sometimes above and beyond the call of duty.  Why he had been killed the Mayor had no clue, neither did he know that Tack had personally beat him to death.  Tack knew that Walter had been close to William and figured he knew something about the discs.

But in comparison to Victor, Walter was a pussy cat.  Victor was a tiger and had the mental aptitude to making his way seem right to everyone around him.

Although the Mayor never had a crossways moment with Victor, he meant to keep it that way.  But he felt the connection with Russell Adams was going to cost him big time.  All of the Mayors hit men were in jail, thanks to Tack, the Team and that blasted lawyer, Lane Wardlow.  He needed Adams gone, and it looked as if he was going to have to do it himself.

The Mayor was in the office of Lane Wardlow the day that kid, William Travis made a fool out of the FBI agent Boslo Wilson.  Boslo was a man in the pocket of the Mayor.  He'd often wondered if the discs were really erased, or, if they had been copied somewhere.

And through Nancy, he had learned of the weapons used in the Crawley Caper case were missing from the bank.  He was beginning to search for the name of the person who had the opportunity to accomplish that and had come up with the one person who could pull that off, and it was only one man; Russell Adams.

So, around ten o'clock that morning, he made a call on a secure line to Russell.  He spoke with him a couple of moments and asked if he could take care of a little matter for him.  It seems there was a certain woman who kept calling him from San Diego, and he wanted her to go away.  Can you take care of that for me?

"Well sir," Russell responded.  He then took a long breath and said "I'm leaving town.  For good."

"Well then, that is perfect" said the mayor.  "Come by the house on your way out and park out back.  I'll have the back gate open, and you can come on into the house.  Don't ring the doorbell, and be as quiet as you can.  I have an envelope on the counter with the woman's picture, address, name and phone number in it.

"Take care of this matter and you can be on your way.  When I see her name in the paper listed as deceased, I'll forward an extra twenty thousand to you that same night.  OK?"

"Okay, I can do that.  I'll be there at your place seven o'clock sharp" Russell assured him.

Some sixth sense made Russell nervous.  The skin prickled as he considered the picking up of the envelope.  There was supposed to be ten thousand dollars there with the picture of some unknown person.  He was being paid to 'make her disappear.'

It rankled Russell to know he had become little more than a contract assassin.  Was there any honor to it?  There certainly was no honor itself in the act of killing, but there was certainly a 'clique of assassins'.  The method, the more sequestered and protected the victim was, identity of the victim, the weapon, the range, ambient factors, terrain . . . all was tall cotton conversation, especially among snipers.

The art of ridding the world of known bad people was exactly that: an art form.  There have been whole books written on one kill.  To be considered in the category of the sniper was a glory all to itself.  The really good ones did not gloat.  In all actuality, it was murder.

But, it is much the same as war.  Or probably even closer to capital punishment.  The difference?  Somewhere a group of people had gotten together with a few facts, and had proclaimed themselves Judge and Jury.  When the decision was made of the who, when, where and time, the order was handed down through the proper channels, and the sniper, the assassin . . . or the killer would carry out the command.

War was different.  Individuals thrown together in a mix fighting to the death for a common cause.  It was the indiscriminate killing of the enemy.  You knew absolutely nothing about the man in the sights of your weapon other than one simple fact: he was the enemy, and he was out to kill you.  In every opportunity you had, you killed the man in your sights.  And you had to do it first or you would not walk away.

Your only chance of survival?  Fight or flight.  Since there was no honor, just disgrace in flight and, besides, there was no where to run; you fight or die.  You kill him before he kills you.  Only the victor lives to fight another day.

In this manner, the group or person who had ordered the hit, was far detached and rarely wanted to see or hear details.  Their only interest was usually, that the mission was a success.  Period.  They didn't want the cumbersome weight of remorse yoked to them for the remainder of their lives.  That was wholly the job of the assassin.

Russell was getting bogged down with all this thought.  It was nearly enough to make one change his mind, but, it all boils down to the single passage in the Bible, "the root of all evil is the love of money."  But for him it was a little more than the love of money, it was a necessity.

He shook his head of all the thoughts and deliberately changed his subject matter to the mission at hand.  He decided things were getting a little too hot for him here, and besides, he couldn't peddle the merchandise here.  He would have a better chance at it abroad.  With the money from the Mayor hit, he could change some things, and get out of the country.

Russell rented a small moving van and started loading the stuff from the storage with the idea of driving away.  He then brought out the box that William had built with the motor stator and carried the discs strapped inside it. By wiring the leads together, there was no way to get any kind of power surge into the stator, so it was actually quite safe.

The satchel, or briefcase was a very nice set up and carried the weapons fast and hard.  It was very easy to see he would want to show them off, but to whom?  That was always a problem to the thief or to a purchaser of fine art in many forms which were stolen.  You can't show it to just anybody.  The viewer had to be of like mind and be trusted enough to keep the secret.

But then, doubt would set in, and paranoia would sometimes get the best of the trusted one, and they themselves would become endangered simply because they knew someone's dirty secret.  Many, many times, people have lost their lives simply because they knew too much.  And tonight would be no exception for Russell Adams.

© 2000 - 2025