The Third Wire

By John Britt

The Third Wire is the last chapter of the Dan Roberts trilogy. The novels are independent works, but the author recommends reading in chronological order.

In The Spad Driver Roberts, a young Naval Aviator deals with the realities of the Vietnam War and felony aboard an aircraft carrier.

Helens Challenge finds Roberts in middle age confronted by a retired reporter who had witnessed the unpunished crime Roberts committed.

The Third Wire Roberts wife has died. Elderly and alone, he has lost the will to live. Then a powerful nemesis blackmails him. He reluctantly agrees to investigate the disappearance of a former associate. He soon uncovers layers of deceit, and experiences a final redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491761625

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THE THIRD WIRE

Copyright © 2015 John Britt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-6161-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6162-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015903010

iUniverse rev. date: 02/26/2015

Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

Epilogue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

Author Biography

Prologue

The room was cold. He sat alone and remembered.

Ben Alexander glanced at the one-way mirror. Was there a way out for him? Soon the detective would enter the interrogation room; then it would begin. There would be many questions, and he had few answers. Now Ben understood that Isaacson had been correct about Dan Roberts. Isaacson had anticipated the killings.

The door opened. Now it starts, he thought.

Tell me something, Mr. Alexander, Detective Thorsen said abruptly. Ben frowned; they had been close friends. Tell me something about that man you brought here to kill those people.

Something? Ben sighed.

Now only you endure to tell the tale.

Actually, I lost control from the beginning, Thumper. It started so easy.

Easy as sin on Sunday? Thumper waggled a finger. But you personally planned the killings, didn’t you? Thumper smiled pleasantly.

Plan? Ben remembered it all. You kidding? Not me. Isaacson saw it coming.

But you started it?

I guess. Isaacson sent me to Seattle to fetch Roberts. After that? Hell, Thumper, like lassoing a lightning strike.

Roberts wasn’t in town very long, couple weeks? Thumper asked. His nickname denoted occasional use of bloody coercion. Things happened pretty fast, didn’t they?

Ben was old. He could withstand little thumping. He said, Faster than a sailor on Cinderella liberty, Roberts told me.

Tell me the story, Ben. The homicide detective slid a tape recorder toward Ben. Then maybe I can keep you out of prison. Thumper smiled. Ever done hard time before?

Does Vietnam count?

Only in biker bars and funny farms.

So many dead, Ben sighed. And I didn’t do even one of them. You gotta believe me about that, Thumper.

Doesn’t matter; you’re an accessory. You brought that assassin to our sunny city and started the dustup, didn’t you?

Not exactly, Ben said. It was Roberts. I think he came here to die.

Suicide? Lost the will to live?

No, a loss of harmony. Roberts just didn’t get it. Neither did I.

Get what?

Something. Roberts saw something. I don’t know what. Ben paused, examined his culpable image in the mirror.

Mortality?

He didn’t give a damn about that, Ben said. Truth, maybe.

Truth? Thumper said. Truth can be ugly.

No kidding. This massacre started a lifetime ago, Thumper, before I knew Dan Roberts or Gerald Isaacson.

You blackmailed him, didn’t you?

I …—Ben’s eyes brightened—persuaded him. Isaacson had it planned all along.

Ah, then it was a personal affair? Thumper said.

As personal as a bullet through your ticker.

Better tell me from the beginning, Thumper said. He keyed the tape recorder. Tell me of betrayal and killers of women. It’s your only hope.

Hope? Perhaps truth would save him. Hope’s a fine word. He would tell the story.

Why is that so amusing, Ben?

The tape recorder whirred. Ben looked at the one-way mirror. He hoped the sheriff was observing the interview. They had been friendly associates since the sheriff’s first election campaign.

Never mind, Ben chuckled. He thought of Roberts, the hopeless man. Ben thought of a faraway jungle and sunlight filtering through a glistening forest canopy where he had first witnessed mortality. You civilians just wouldn’t understand, he said.

Oh, please educate us, Thumper said. The recorder’s on. We’re waiting.

Had Roberts seen redemption that final bloody morning? Hope, Roberts had said to Ben, was the ultimate refuge for transgressors like Gerald Isaacson and Dan Roberts, men who had gone too far. They were the unforgiven …

1

February

Sometimes a man cannot count on a damned thing.

Emil Rojas looked at the dead man lashed to a saguaro cactus and thought about the fallibility of men. A brilliant February sun washed the desert in shades of brown and green. However, the dead man no longer saw beauty or felt pain or guilt. Emil spat angrily into the white sand.

Ralph, you lying bastard, he murmured. There was no stopping it now. Ralph would never tell another lie.

Pride was the most capricious sin. Ralph Manley had wanted to show off. Even after he had promised to come alone to the desert landing strip, Ralph had brought the woman, and her presence had completely altered the situation. Emil had been unable to control events.

Proud, arrogant, foolish Ralph, hanging like Jesus on the cross. Ralph had wanted to flaunt his stunning younger wife. Had Ralph come alone, they could have settled the business quickly—a few threats, a broken arm or nose. However, Ralph could not resist; he had brought a princess to beguile the serfs.

And the woman? In the many violent years of Emil’s life, women had always been troublesome. He had never experienced the genuine affection of any woman, except his mother. Still, he instinctively liked women. Emil treated the girls at his nightclub with compassion because females were special. His mother had been good to him.

Compassion … That was why he had committed a terrible sin.

A man should never count on a damned thing.

Emil looked south over desert vastness, where a feathery steam billowed on the horizon from a power plant. Clouds rising like ghosts in the cool winter sky. Do ghosts truly exist? If so, he had created many, and Ralph was just another errant spirit. And the woman, what of her? He’d had no choice.

She had begged for her life, and he had nearly relented. Why? Because she had been polite to him in the past? That was true but not truthful. The truth was that Emil had loved her, as a simple man might love any superlative creation unavailable for one so unworthy.

Emil had never killed an innocent woman. But he had orders to recover the money Ralph had stolen. A speedy death was all he could offer her. His associates had planned far worse.

He had trusted a fool, knowing that a man should never count on anything. Now he would clean up the mess and go home. Emil would drink tequila and tuck those memories into a dark niche. The memories of unapproachable beauty would surely fade away.

Emil was almost certain that killing a woman was a grievous sin.

**********

One hour earlier

Where is it, Ralph? Emil asked the pilot. Save us all a lot of trouble. Do you want Sarah to scream and beg too? He pointed at the wife.

Just then, a fierce headache began.

Wait a minute, Emil, Joseph said. Luis said I could have her if she came and Ralph didn’t cooperate. I told Luis I wanted her. Remember?

She wasn’t supposed to be here. Ralph lied to me, Emil growled.

I didn’t lie, Ralph moaned.

You lied about everything.

But I don’t have the money, Ralph whimpered. Sarah struggled to rise to his aid. She was in their Jeep, securely bound. It was stolen … at the airstrip, Ralph said, his voice a dry whisper. In Mexico, he added.

Stolen? Emil chuckled.

I … told Luis everything, Ralph said.

Luis isn’t here, Emil said. "Just me, Joseph, and Billy. The peons."

They had tied Ralph to a tall saguaro. Ralph struggled against the bindings. Blood streaked down his back and arms from thorny punctures. Joseph taunted him occasionally with sharp objects while he hung in the Arizona sun. Billy, the moron, fiddled with a video camera Luis had provided to record the event. Luis detested bloody situations. He was the boss; Emil handled the blood work.

Let Sarah go, Emil, Ralph begged. She doesn’t know … anything.

"I am sorry, amigo. If you had returned the money, none of this—"

I don’t have it, the pilot lied again.

Go get the torch, Billy, Emil said. And put that damned camera away.

Your brother tole me to take some pitchers to show him.

Yeah, well, Luis isn’t here. I’m the brother-in-charge now.

Emil was tired; fatigue etched his middle-aged Hispanic face. He leaned against the fancy red Jeep and looked down at Sarah Manley. Her hands were bound to the roll bar. Tears streaked down her face.

"Don’t struggle against the ropes, señora. Emil remembered she had served him lunch during a recent visit with Ralph. I really don’t want to hurt you."

Then please don’t, Emil, Sarah pleaded. Ralph’s got a weak heart.

"It’s up to Ralph, señora. Luis just wants our money back. Do you know where Ralph hid it?"

No. If I knew anything, I would tell you. Please believe me.

"Oh, I believe you, Mrs. Manley, but I have played poker with Ralph. He is bluffing. If he tells us where the money is, I will let you go unharmed."

What about Ralph?

He will have to suffer a bit first.

Just keep those men away from me.

I got orders. Emil lit a cigarette. How could he possibly allow her to live? Ralph screamed again. Stop that, Joseph, Emil said wearily. "Look, señora, all we want is the money Ralph stole."

Money? I’ll give you money. We have a great deal of money.

I asked Ralph not to bring you today, Emil said.

Ralph screamed. Sarah looked at Emil. Emil crushed the cigarette under a boot. See, it’s the principle of the thing, he said loudly to cover the screams. We can’t let people steal from us. Sets a bad example.

Hey, Emil, Joseph laughed, Ralph don’t like this torch no more’n he likes them thorns.

Ralph’s face was ashen, and blood streaked down the cactus; he gasped for breath.

Hold it, Joseph, Emil said. He felt Ralph’s pulse and examined his eyes wild with fear.

You really got a bad ticker, Ralph? Emil asked.

Go to hell … Ralph groaned.

Emil lit another cigarette and returned to the Jeep. Sarah was a beautiful woman, blonde and tall. Emil had yearned for her affections.

I’m gonna turn you over to Joseph, Emil told Sarah. Maybe that’ll convince Ralph.

Please don’t, Emil. Please … she wept.

"Then make him talk, dammit." Emil untied Sarah and dragged her to the saguaro. He shoved her onto a blue tarp at Ralph’s feet.

Ralph, listen to me, Sarah pleaded. They’re going to kill us unless—

Okay, Joseph. Emil nodded.

My turn now. Joseph ripped Sarah’s blouse. Hey, Billy, you’re next, he laughed.

Joseph, you goddamn … Ralph shouted. Stop him … Emil. Ralph strained against the bindings. Blood dribbled down his arm.

"That’s up to you, amigo."

I’ll tell … wait … Ralph struggled for breath. His face contorted. It’s … He gasped. Go look out … Ralph collapsed in the blood-soaked bindings.

Ralph? Emil tipped the pilot’s head back. Blank eyes, a cold stare of mortality. You okay?

His heart, Emil, help him, Sarah cried. He’ll die, if you keep at him like that.

Well, you ain’t dead, lady. Joseph pulled her down onto the tarp.

Wait a minute, Joseph, Emil said.

I ain’t finished. I’m gonna—

I said stop. Emil cuffed Joseph onto a thorny cactus.

Luis promised me, Joseph snarled. He was young and strong. His eyes flared with anger. He moved toward Emil, fists curled.

Emil touched the Glock in his waistband. Please tempt me, Joseph, he said. Killing you would balance things out, maybe.

Emil examined Ralph. Vacant eyes, no pulse.

He’s dead, Emil sighed. Sarah screamed. There was no stopping it now.

Sarah … Emil wanted to explain that orders were orders. Loyalty bound him to the firm.

Joseph lunged at the woman.

E … mil … save … me!

Sarah screamed. Emil shot her with his 9 mm Glock. The heavy slug ripped through her breast, and Sarah crumpled onto the tarp.

Joseph touched her still body. Billy giggled nervously, fiddling with the camera as it whirred.

Put that damn thing away, Emil shouted.

Luis said to take lots of—

Emil punched hard. Billy sprawled on the sand, shook nervously, and wiped at a bloody nose.

Now finish your goddamn movies, Emil said. Then go start digging. He pointed at a sand bank.

Emil eased Sarah onto the blue tarp. He folded her arms gently over the torn blouse.

Sarah, Emil whispered. He had revered Sarah Manley. A merciful death. His gift of devotion.

Emil Rojas quickly buried the Manleys.

She had been a fine woman, and Emil had coveted Sarah Manley. But she was young, blonde, and rich. And he had hungered after a goddess.

Emil prayed that night. Something he’d neglected since he’d been a young marine in Vietnam. He waited until nightfall and then prayed silently to a long-forgotten God. It was not proper to kill an innocent woman; he was almost certain of that.

A migraine blossomed into fiery pain. He wept.

2

February, one year later

That night Roberts dreamed of the ship.

Wind whipped across the aircraft carrier’s flight deck and swirled through lanyards and tie-downs, the musical strains of a dark seaborne melody. He kicked a tire and looked up at the waiting aircraft before the midnight launch. Bombs and rockets adorned the wings. His aircraft was dirty, oil and grease smeared aft of the engine cowling. Dark smudges speckled the fuselage. This was not a pretty aircraft but a deadly, efficient killing machine intended for war, not air shows.

A deckhand walked by and gave a thumbs-up greeting. He said something, which Roberts did not hear. Roberts nodded, since they were shipmates. The launch was moments away, but Roberts delayed to savor the pleasant night coolness of gulf air. Soon, the noise would start. Now he wanted the silence, a rare event aboard an aircraft carrier. Roberts waved to Commander Gerald Isaacson, his flight leader, and received an impersonal nod in return.

Dan Roberts stepped up to a foothold, grasped the canopy rail and heaved himself into the cockpit. He saw the lighted tower of a trailing destroyer. The plane guard. It would pick up any unfortunate pilot who found himself in the sea after an unsuccessful catapult launch.

A bomber started on the starboard catapult, within minutes it would cross the shoreline of North Vietnam into the hostile embrace of enemy gunners. Warm oily jet exhaust wafted over the aft deck area. Now a yellowshirt signaled for engine start. Roberts must hurry. Gloved hands danced over cockpit switches. Lights jumped to life. A crewman waved a circular motion. He pushed the starter switch, tapped the primer button. Propeller whirled. Engine coughed; a bright flame burst from the Skyraider’s exhaust stacks. Engine gauges vibrated to attention. Manifold pressure. Oil pressure. Tachometer hurried to life, and the Wright 3350 began a monstrous roar.

He taxied forward to the port catapult. Deck crewmen hurriedly coupled his aircraft to the launch bridle. He prepared for launch into fierce blackness.

Ensign Dan Roberts had been young and strong then—had everything to live for—and had survived the war. Now, a half century later, Roberts knew nothing but disturbed dreams, desperate loneliness, and quiet despair.

**********

Dan …

A sweet voice in the darkness. However, Roberts did not want to wake up, not yet. Time for the deep sleep of early morning.

No, he murmured.

Dan …

Helen, I’m still … Roberts drifted into soothing blackness, but he could smell rich coffee vapors rising from the kitchen. Had she made it to tempt him from slumber? To bring him from quiet solitude? To greet him with the day?

Roberts loved coffee, but she had not made it. Helen would never again bring forth the morning with coffee and beauty. He had set the percolator timer before going to bed. Now he refused the dawn, avoiding the emptiness while resisting the fears of the night and delaying the loneliness of daylight.

Helen … he murmured and reached across the bed for her, to start the day with reassurance of loving commitment.

Then he woke slowly to the clear knowledge of solitude. Roberts groaned and yearned to return to peaceful sleep. He reached again into emptiness.

Helen Roberts was not there.

Now every day was the same, hours of loneliness. He was old, and he had outlived the desire to live. Roberts had spent much