Chapter Fifteen
He slipped through the tangle of stacked inventory items placed on floor-to-ceiling shelves. The dim lighting, shelves, and piled packing boxes kept him hidden. The new shipment of custom-made packing crates with their Styrofoam inserts was stored at the far edge of this huge space. He liked low light, hiding places, and big spaces.
In his hand, he clutched a printout with a series of numbers. The expected shipment had arrived. His job now, one the boss trusted him not to screw up, was important. Remove the extra material and repack the inserts made to fit the navigator’s marine compasses for which Northland was famous.
He found the first section numbers, removed the inserts, found the packages, and placed them into an outgoing shipping box. He moved on to another section, located the numbered box and followed the same procedure. After he unloaded the sixth and last packing box of its contents, he slipped further into the shadows. Time for a final check of his numbers and the contents of his packing box.
Everything matched. He stuffed the sheets beneath another stack of papers on his clipboard. A shuffling sound, not usual for the night-settling building, caused him to look up. The new maintenance man met his gaze.
“What d’ya want here?” His cigarette gruff voice growled the question.
“I heard sounds. Saw lights that shouldn’t be on, at least according to my list. Just checkin’. No offense, man.” The new guy held up his hands in a surrender gesture.
“Things git done here when they git done. Lights go on when we work. No questions asked. Got that?”
The maintenance man nodded. “Got it.” He extended his hand. “I’m new here. Name’s Hank Stokes. Yours?”
Refusing to shake hands, he spat on the floor instead. “John Smith. Bein’ new’s no excuse, so you better learn now. No one comes in here unless asked—by us. Not even janitors. Understand?”
“Hey, no problem, man. Less work for me. Any reason for that?”
“Hell, yeah. Security—keeps theft down.” Marking his territory, he hacked deep in his throat and spit again. Bull’s eye, it landed right in front of the janitor’s boot.
Hank nodded and backed away. “Makes sense to me. Hey man, what’s that smell in here?”
“Nothin’ you need to clean up.”
“Okay, I’m outta here.” Hank beat a hasty retreat.
“Dumbass jerk. Ain’t got the brains of a snake.” He sneered at the retreating janitor. The guy was too damn easy to stomp on.
Ten minutes he crouched near the side door. Horace would be checking that door at nine thirty during his rounds. The man checked his watch—nine twenty-nine now. Sure as clockwork, he heard Horace checking doors and shuffling along in his distinctive way. The guard walked to the door, checked the lock, looked outside, and flashed his light into the shadowed alcoves.
“Shit, if he’s this particular, he’ll catch me sure,” he mumbled, breaking the stillness around him. He slithered to the side and squeezed behind some large metal bins. Horace flashed the light but didn’t see him, before continuing on. After waiting another five minutes, he slipped outside and placed a rock to hold the door open. He headed immediately for a black truck, its huge wheels making it look more dangerous.
Without wasting a motion, he slid underneath his truck and stuffed the contents of the shipping box into a carefully concealed, lead-lined rectangular box. That took three minutes. In another two, he had re-entered the building. Carrying the empty box and feeling more relaxed without his loot, he greeted Horace making his rounds near the Human Resources offices.
“Someday I’ll get that old geezer,” he mumbled to himself, snarling at the friendly greeting Horace gave him. The man stashed the packing box on a table near the supervisor’s office when Dan Hall approached him.
“What’s that for?” the night supervisor asked as he looked over the packing box.
“Someone wanted a box for packing stuff. How the hell do I know for what? I just do what I’m told.” He lumbered off, this time toward the infirmary. Checking it out for later. Back in the shipping area, like a wolf seeking its den, he breathed the familiar air.
Two hours later, the building emptied with the end of second shift. The plant was like he’d clicked mute on his remote. Only a few lights remained on. Perfect cover for his work in the infirmary. Pulling a credit card from his shirt pocket, he slipped it between the door jamb and lock and wriggled it a few times. His gloved hand then turned the handle and he entered the room. The only light came from his penlight.
Carefully working around the tall gurney bed, a standing metal instrument tray, and some crappy medical stuff, he headed for the medicine cabinet. Breaking the glass with the end of his flashlight, he pawed its contents and threw sample packets of various non-prescription drugs onto the floor. He pocketed some of the better ones.
Next, he headed for the file cabinets. Dude Man told him they were never locked. He opened them one at a time, looking for specific files. And found nothing. “Fuck.” He kicked the cabinet and looked again, throwing folders and files on the floor while he searched.
Gone. All the files he was told to get. Dude Man would be pissed.
Angry, he slammed file drawers and kicked the cabinet again. Stupid move. Too noisy. He looked around. Where else would that nurse bitch keep files? He ransacked the desk and was heading toward what looked like a small file when the outer door opened.
The infirmary lights blinked on.
“Shit,” he growled and turned toward the door.
Horace.
He watched the guard take in the broken cabinet, spot the strewn drugs but not radio for help. He breathed easier and laughed. That’d cost the old shit.
Horace entered the unlit inner office, his hand groping for the light switch when a rubber-gloved hand grabbed the guard’s wrist. Caught unaware, the guard was turned further toward his attacker. With a quick thrust, he kneed the guard in the groin, followed by several solid body blows. He kicked the old man with his steel-toed boots until Horace flopped to the floor, oozing blood from his face. Beating the shit out of the guy turned his dick hard.
He fingered the hunting knife at his side. “Should I? Naw, ain’t worth it. But damn where is that stuff.”
In frustration, he kicked the form lying in a heap on the floor.
When he couldn’t find what he was looking for, he kicked the guard again, adding three more hits to take the edge off his anger.
Then he got the hell out.