Game Time Pt. 03

I could not help myself. All the while that I was spraying the poison ivy, my aim was not the best and I also ended up spraying some of the wild blackberry bushes that I had actually wanted to preserve. I guess that it was probably inevitable, since I was trying to look around me often as I sprayed; attempting to discern among the pine trees any sign of someone lurking nearby. Yeah; with the discovery of the past intrusion into my property, I was feeling a bit spooked.

Returning the sprayer to the garden shed that I had had delivered, assembled, and leveled by the delivery team from Home Depot on a spot that I had selected out back of the house, I took a deliberate look at my garden tool rack. It was an upright slotted ceramic-coated metal rack that allowed me to store several long-handled tools upright against the wall of the shed, leaving me plenty of room to park my beloved Manly Yard Tool--a 50-inch zero-turn Cub Cadet riding mower with lap bars instead of a steering wheel.

Within the rack, I had stored a yard rake, a garden cultivator, a garden rake, a spade (for breaking the clay soil as I dug), and a shovel (for moving the clay soil out of the way after it was broken). As a new homeowner, who had just moved to a more rural setting from a major city, I was still pretty fastidious with my tools--I am reasonably sure that this attitude would probably change as I got comfortable with living here, but I was trying to forestall my complacency at least until after my first three years or so of living here. Thus, I would clean my yard tools when I finished with them in the yard, washing them and then hand-rubbing in a light coat of utility oil on the metal surfaces to forestall the onset of rust or any other type of corrosion.

I noted that the spade and the shovel were the only tools that did not appear to be as clean as I had left them the last time that I had used them. There appeared to be a light coating of the red dirt streaks normally left behind by use in the soil around my house. I was pretty sure, at that point, that someone had gotten into the shed and used these implements in some endeavor in the soil of my property.

A rising and falling buzzing sound enticed me to raise my eyes toward the ceiling in order to discern the source of the noise. There--directly above the tool rack--was a clump of the clay that is indigenous to the property on which my house sits. It was red and caked into a shape that resembled either six red-colored link sausages that had become fused adjacent to each other or the beginning of a rack of pipe organ tubes made from clay. The shape was also canted at an angle that allowed the mud daubers that had built it to enter and exit the tube shapes of this obviously-growing clay clump. I could see two of the insects working on the nest and indications from the sounds that there were probably three or more within my hearing, flying around in or near the shed.

The nest was directly above the spot where the shovel and spade were stacked within the tool rack. Thus, there was the possibility that the streaks on the tools had been caused by the residue from the construction by the mud daubers--but somehow I doubted it. I was still pretty well convinced that someone had used my tools for some as-yet-to-be-determined purpose on my property without my knowledge.

I took the opportunity, since I was out there, to use some hornet spray to drive the insects out (what the heck--if it works on hornets and wasps, it would work on mud daubers). They were not pleased, but they vacated pretty quickly. Once they were clear, I took the shovel and scraped the nest off the ceiling where it also met the wall, thus clearing out the big chunks. Following up with a moist towel from my rag pile to clean the residue from the nest, thus leaving the inside surfaces of my shed clean once again, I turned to the tools. I did a once-over cleaning of the ones that had been tainted by the falling dirt from the nest, applied a light coat of oil from the nearby 3-In-One can, and re-racked them.

Locking up the shed, I reminded myself that the sod man's instructions had been for me to wait another week or so before I cut the new sod out back here. The front and side yards, along with the area around the back patio had already settled nicely. I had made the decision to sod back to a point about thirty yards back from the patio this growing season. The new sod covered all the way down the slope from the back of the house to where the lot leveled off leading back toward the woods and the wetlands area. This area included the ground over the slight rise created by my super-dyna-whopping-high-tech Presby Septic system leach mound.

Upon entering the house, I noted that Lana and the four young-uns (as the locals referred to small children around here in the Deep South) were not in the house. Looking out front, I noted that Lana's Honda Odyssey minivan was not in its usual place. I shook my head and smiled in silent admiration at the guts that Lana was displaying with this action.

NO!

Not the guts to go out in and among people, as she had avoided doing for the first few weeks after her discharge from therapy the previous year; but the guts to go out by herself with ALL FOUR KIDS! Wow! That really took guts!

Then I became mildly concerned; and I actually felt badly that I had not been here when she was loading up to leave. I could have at least offered to go with them in order to help with the kids while Lana ran whatever errands she had planned.

Oh, well; I would apologize for my non-availability to her after her return. Meanwhile, I remembered my gamecam that I could feel nudging my thigh from the cargo pocket of my trousers. I went to my home office and woke my laptop; then I plugged the USB connection between the gamecam and the computer and fired up the app that would allow me to view and edit the pictures from the gamecam.

I began to click through the pictures that the gamecam had taken. I reminded myself early on in the viewing that I needed to replace the batteries in the thing, as it had been out there for several months without my checking during this latest episode of use.

There were a few daytime shots of birds of reasonable size and a couple of does and bambis. In the IR shots taken at night, I got a few really good shots of a large raccoon whose presence in our area I had noted in previous outings to retrieve and review the shots on the gamecam.

I had to take a deep breath and grip the desk when the first of several totally unexpected photography subjects popped on the screen of my laptop. Concurrently, the anxiety that I had felt back among the trees and bushes earlier returned, but multiplied now so that it was full-blown fear for the safety of my family and me.

I was looking now at a really good night shot under the IR flash conditions of an adult male. The subject was slightly off-center within the frame of the shot, but he had moved to within the center by the time of the next shot, and had moved across to the other side by the third. He only appeared within those three frames--but that was enough!

Without any additional deep thinking--just by instinct inspired by my fear--I went to Lana's and my bedroom and retrieved my Ruger Blackhawk .357 magnum revolver before returning to review the rest of the pictures from my gamecam. There had been about thirty wildlife shots preceding those involving the shots of the man. There were four more after those shots; evidently, the battery had died shortly after that. The four final shots included two mystery shots--probably set off during the high winds associated with the thunderstorm we had had several nights before. They also included two that partially captured what looked like a person moving out of the lateral viewing range of the gamecam--with a spade over one shoulder.

Well, that was another mystery that I had to deal with--who was the person with my spade? And what was that person doing out there in the dark during the night some days or weeks earlier, way toward the back of my back yard, near the boundary of the wetlands area?

As I indicated, that was 'another' mystery. The first mystery was one that was connected to the case of Lana's years of captivity and her subsequent return.

Special Agent Fife, in his many discussions with me about the case, had confirmed many of the events that Lana had revealed to me. He had also helped me to put faces to some of the personalities involved with the criminal enterprise that had put my wife--and so many women and girls before her--through the hell of human trafficking, sex slavery, and forced prostitution and child-breeding. Despite the strange glare caused by the IR flash on the gamecam, I had recognized the face of the man captured in those night shots as one of the faces that Fife had shown me during and after Lana's return.

Gennady Sokolski!

Lana's voice returned to my head, as I remembered her recounting the horrors she had endured at Gennady's hands: "One man, in particular--I found out later that his name was Gennady--took particular delight in taking me roughly. And, every time he came into the room where I was, he would begin to unbuckle his belt, and, without fail, would happily announce, 'Game time, My Little Slut!' He would then take his pleasure from the sexual abuse of my mouth and my pussy. Only once did he try my ass; but he complained that it was too tight ..."

Gennady was the monster who had overseen the sex-and-breeding-for-profit operation for Vasily Radkevich's organization. He was also the only one of the major players to elude capture when the FBI and other law-enforcement agencies had closed in on the criminal enterprise and arrested or killed all the major participants. Thus, there was always the slim chance that he might surface somewhere to attempt to restart Vasily's style of operation again in another location--or attempt to take vengeance on any and all who had cut him off from his very lucrative lifestyle and leaving him without access to his stashed wealth.

What the hell was Gennady doing in my back yard at night in the recent past? Was Lana in danger--or were my children or I at risk? Then I noted, with a practiced eye, the freshly-cleaned revolver that I had placed on the desk by the laptop.

I remembered that I had left a thumbprint along the cylinder the last time I had been plinking out back at my makeshift range. I had planned to wipe it off before corrosion from the oil in my skin might start, but had been distracted as I had put the weapon away. Now, as I picked up the weapon and rotated the cylinder, I noted that it had been wiped clean--but not by me. The only other person in the house who might have handled the Ruger since I had last shot it was currently out shopping with the kids in the minivan--Lana. I would have to ask her when she returned about the pictures and the revolver.

****

It was about four in the afternoon when Lana and the kids returned to the house from their errands. I had been pacing in the front room, irritated that I could not contact Lana--she still had difficulty in remembering to take her cell phone with her every time she left the house, and this was one of those times when she had left it connected to the charger on the kitchen peninsula. I breathed a sigh of relief when they pulled up, but not until I actually saw them emerge from the vehicle. It was that very vehicle that had caused me to postpone my relief until I actually saw Lana and the older kids walking toward the house, with Baby Nadia on Lana's hip. You see, the vehicle from which they had emerged was NOT Lana's two-year-old Honda Odyssey minivan.

This was a brand new, shiny off-white Cadillac Escalade!

I did not have the opportunity to ask Lana anything before having to deal with two happy boys and a little girl toddler, all scrambling into the house and attempting to grab my legs. All the while, they were hollering, "Daddy," and attempting to say things to me all at once. I had ensured just seconds earlier that I had hidden the Ruger high on a book shelf out of sight and knelt to hug the three of my four children who were walking and yelling in their excitement. Lana was putting down the diaper bag and one other large shopping bag that she had brought in, all the while carrying Baby Nadia on her hip--well, I could not say that she was not regaining her strength.

Nadia was showing signs that she was either about to fall asleep or else she had just been awakened--she had that baby dazed look--as she leaned her head against Lana's shoulder as her mother held Nadia on her hip. My wife turned and gave me a giant smile of joy as she moved within reach in order to give me a hug with her now one free arm.

"A new vehicle?" was all I got out of my mouth before she kissed me long and hard on the lips.

"Yes, Sweetheart; isn't it beautiful? I got it at the car dealership right next door to the one where that country music star, Alan Jackson, used to work before he became famous. And it has so much more room for the kids and all their stuff, and ..." and I simply smiled and went into listen-without-speaking mode as I simply absorbed what she was saying and adored my wife simultaneously; all the while, I was looking into her eyes and seeing the excitement there--excitement that I did not want to diminish by intruding with a sense of fiscal reality. But, when Lana finally wound down enough to take a pause to get her breath and shift Nadia to her other hip, I just had to ask at least one question.

"Do you believe that we can afford that right now; I mean with everything associated with the new family, the new house, the new furniture, and all ...?" I asked looking at her while raising one eyebrow in an expression of genuine inquiry, rather than accusation.

Instead of a sheepish look that would indicate second thoughts on her part, Lana hit me with a confident smirk and said simply, "Oh, don't worry about that, Maddux." Then, as she turned to take Nadia upstairs, either to change her diaper, put her down for a nap, or both, she surprised me by saying, "We could afford a whole fleet of those."

The boys and Angela began pulling on me to go outside with them at that point. Otherwise, I would have followed Lana upstairs to ask her just what she had meant by that comment.

It wasn't until after nine-thirty, with Nadia in her crib and the other kids down for the night, that I had the opportunity to inquire of Lana just exactly what she had meant earlier by her cryptic comment about our being able to afford a fleet of Escalades. She and I were simply relaxing over glasses of Pinot Noir, when I opened my mouth to ask her. But Lana spoke before I could.

"Maddux," she began, placing her wine glass on a coaster on the coffee table that sat between us. "I need to explain something that I am afraid that I left out of my story last summer, when I explained what had happened to me during all of the ..." Here, she shivered and looked away for a second, with a momentary dark expression. "Well, during that time ..."

She looked at me for a second and I nodded for her to continue.

"Remember," she continued, "when I told you about tracking the movements of Vasily's money around the world, in order to pinpoint where it was going?" I nodded and she went on. "Well, when I realized that Emmett Van Horn was using that information to reposition those funds into accounts for himself and not just for the Bureau, I decided to do some--shall we say--creative, yet preventive, accounting and redirection in order to keep Emmett from being too successful." When I looked at her in obvious ignorance, she smiled at me and spoke again.

"I caused quite a bit of Emmett's money--stolen from Vasily; who originally stole it or earned it illicitly in all of his various criminal enterprises--to disappear from the financial radar." She picked up her glass and took a sip of her wine, this time not looking at me as she spoke. "But it did not disappear from my ability to go back to it and retrieve it whenever I felt like it." Here, she actually smirked at me and said, "And whenever I had the connectivity to reach out for it."

"You mean," I asked, starting to realize just what she was saying, "to tell me that you caused Vasily's criminal money to move into Van Horn's possession, supposedly on behalf of the FBI at the time. Then, you unknowingly, at first, moved some of the money into Van Horn's personal accounts. Now you are saying that you then deliberately moved a lot of THAT dirty money into accounts for which only YOU have access? Do I have that about right?"

I was more surprised and concerned at that point about the possibility that my wife was involved in illegality that could land her in Federal prison, than elated at her having access to resources that could make us financially independent for the rest of our lives. I had been without Lana for three excruciating years, and I did not want her involved in any activity that might cause her to be taken away from me again--this time by legal authorities--in order to serve prison time.

"Oh, Maddux," Lana said with a grin, "do not worry; Barney knows about my moving the money and about my shifting it away from Van Horn and into my own accounts. In fact," she set the now-empty wine glass down and moved over to put her sweet ass in my lap and her arm around my shoulders as she continued, "he said that, as long as I had paid the tax on it, there was some Bureau regulation associated with rewarding the one finding criminal money with a portion of that money. It is just like the confiscatory statutes in the law that legalize the DEA's being allowed to keep the high-priced vehicles, boats, and other equipment that had belonged to the drug dealers and distributors that they bust; as sort of a 'bounty' that accompanies the arrest and conviction."

She kissed me lightly once and went on before I could get my thoughts into words, "And this money is sort of like my 'bounty' for my efforts on behalf of the Bureau. And it is all ours now."

"So," I finally got in edgewise, "you have already paid the taxes on all of this money, so that we now have it free and clear?"

"Yes, My Darling," Lana said with a somewhat wise look, "we have it free and clear. And I have paid the taxes on all the funds that come under U.S. tax law." Here she paused and smiled strangely.

"You mean there is more?" I asked, now seeing the light in her eyes.

"Well, let us simply say that the banking and tax laws of other countries are not as--uhm; comprehensive--as they are here in the U.S." Now, Lana stood and retrieved her wine glass and went to refill it as I sat there and digested all that she had revealed to me this evening.

Finally, I sighed and asked her, "So, Vasily was correct in demanding that you tell him where you parked his--what was it--three-point-six million dollars?"

I was startled with Lana almost dropped her wine glass as she began to laugh; no--not simply laugh. She actually cackled!

"Oh, Maddux," Lana said between gulps to get her breath back, "he was nowhere near being correct. You see," she said, as she got her breathing back under control; but her smile was so big that it appeared that it was about to split her face, "I did not take three-point-six million dollars of Vasily's money."

I simply nodded and waited for Lana to continue. She put her wine glass down again and came to me, wrapping her arms around me and kissing me deeply before she continued; this time with a husky sound to her words.

"I took nine-point-two million dollars of Vasily's money."

I realized that my eyebrows must be reaching almost to the back of my head as a result of my surprise at hearing this astounding fact, as she went on, "but I paid the U.S. taxes on the three-point-six million dollars that the FBI knows about officially."