"I've never met a sharp policeman or woman. At least not one sharper than me, or you for that fact."
"I don't think he was a cop. He didn't seem like a cop, didn't introduce himself as one and I don't remember seeing a badge."
"If he was part of the interview, he would have to be some kind of a cop. Do you know his name?"
"He was there but didn't say anything. Him and the FBI agent. His name was Boatman, Bothan or something along those lines. It wasn't a common name."
"I remember the FBI agent, the two main detectives, and a Mexican looking detective who never spoke. Oh wait, there was another man, sat in a chair away from the table, said he was some kind of consultant, dressed better than the others."
"I don't remember a Mexican but yes, he did seem more like us than them."
"I remember thinking he had."
"Had what?"
" Nevermind." I fiddled with the sheet.
"Fitz, you don't have to keep things from me." Walter turned my face to his.
"He had hard eyes like um, like you when you're mad."
"Did he now?" Walter stopped petting me.
"Yes, he stared at me like he wanted to snap my neck in two."
"Pay him no attention Fitz, I'll protect you."
"Thanks." I snuggled myself against the warmth of his legs.
"I still can't believe you killed Harold. And for me no less."
"I did and I'll confess if it comes to it."
"It won't come to that Fitz. I won't let it."
Flights of fancy and flights from prosecution often differ in destination, but not always.
Patty saw her destination in the arrest of Harold’s killer but the boys were not taking her there. The first two days of surveillance reports from the teams tailing young Walter and Jay read like stats for the Tribune's Cubs, exactly what the reader expected. They attended school, worked and went straight home afterwards.
Patty’s desk phone rang. “Detective Jameson,” she said.
“Good, you’re still there,” said Prescott. “Turn on the radio I left, our channel seven.”
Patty snapped at Dave. “Turn on the FBI scanner, channel seven.”
“What’s up?” she asked into the phone.
“Activity with the boys.”
“Boys? As in both Walter and Jay?”
“Yes.”
Dave found the channel. They pulled close listening to one of the surveillance agents. “Tail Number November Foxtrot Whiskey Sierra One repeating November Foxtrot Whiskey Sierra One.”
“Copy, November Foxtrot Whiskey Sierra One.”
“Tail Number?” Patty spoke into the handset. “Tail number to what?”
“It seems our boys have chartered a plane.”
"For what?"
"Um, a vacation?"
“Vacation my ass, they’re making a run to non-extradition country would be my bet.”
“They both have suitcases. Jay drove to Walter’s house and picked him up. That was where we first noticed a suitcase.”
“Can we stop them from going?” Patty asked.
“Short of arresting them I don’t see how we can.”
“Is there a way we can find out where the plane is taking them?” Dave asked Patty.
“That’s what the tail number was about," said Prescott. "We have a call into the FAA to pull the flight plan.”
“How long will that take?”
“Should have it in the next couple of minutes.”
“They could be gone by then.”
“We have an agent in the control tower. They won’t be cleared without our say.”
“Oh good thinking,” Patty said as the radio chattered again.
“Either the flight crew was running late or the boys were extra eager to get out of town,” the agent said.
“Out of the country would be more like it,” Patty thought aloud.
“We have two, pilot and co-pilot. They are loading the luggage into a cargo hold. Waiting for instructions.”
“Continue to hold,” Prescott said over the FBI radio.
“Copy, holding.”
“Flight plan takes them to Cleveland, Ohio then on to Stonington, Maine with a return flight on Sunday,” Prescott spoke into the phone.
The boys had chosen a destination far from expected. “I don’t imagine anyone has ever fled the country from Cleveland before but Maine certainly has promise,” Patty said.
“I can have agency personnel meet the flight in Cleveland and Stonington. It’s your call Detective.”
“I can only imagine what Boson would say if he were here.”
“You can ask him if you’d like, he’s right here.”
“Well - of course he is. I should have known.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Shit Prescott, I don’t know. I’d like to keep them from going but we don’t have enough to hold them. I imagine Bo is saying it could be a ploy to tip our hand, to prove we have them under surveillance.”
Prescott chuckled. “Almost verbatim.”
The voice on the radio cried out in an anxious tone. “They are boarding the plane, what do we do?”
“Let ‘em go,” Patty said. “Let ‘em go.” Her hands waved in frustration.
“Stand down. Do not intervene,” Prescott said over the radio.
“Copy, plane is okay to proceed with two occupants,” the voice appeared easier. “You get that tower.”
“Copy flight line - clear to proceed.”
Patty questioned Dave with body language. He shrugged.
“Let us get on Cleveland and Maine,” Prescott said.
“Okay, thanks for the call. I sure hope they don't pull a D.B. Cooper between here and Cleveland.”
Patty and Dave continued to monitor the scanner until the plane had taken off.
It stands to reason an Army of one can be no more than half as effective as one of two.
Paul considered himself an Army. He also held Peter, his partner in crime, in such regard. Together, he knew they were more. They called themselves mercenaries or soldiers of fortune, with emphasis on the fortune. They were assassins - for hire to the highest bidder and they were under contract when they arrived in Chicago thirty-four hours earlier.
Under falsified credentials, they posed as a flight crew delivering a plane from New York. Accomplished pilots, each could fly most anything with wings. They were patriots living and mostly working abroad but always happy to get back to the States when the opportunity and the money presented itself.
The client had arranged food and boarding but they would have to procure tools locally. Friday morning they headed out separately to gather what they required. It was a process they were accustomed to, a friend of a friend of an acquaintance pointed them in a direction and they soon had their fill. Time was money and the client was rich with only one.
By Saturday morning, they had eyes on their prey John Henry Kane. Timberland had long established the Kane family roots in Chicago. The family, dating before the great fire, subdivided and sold the land for neighborhoods, commercial property and corporate parks. They also owned and operated a large number of cemeteries around the greater Chicago area.
They agreed Paul was the better driver. Peter’s tall legs and daily running regimen made John Henry an easy catch. He grabbed the boy, a long hand covering his screams, and pulled him into the waiting van. Paul was off without notice.
Behind him, Peter wrapped a slender right arm around the boy’s thin neck and squeezed. The boy pawed helpless at Peter’s tattooed arm. His hands soon fell limp to the plastic covered floor. His kicking legs grew motionless. It took less time to kill John Henry than take him. Peter took no pleasure in the task. The fifteen year old barely put forth a struggle.
He had killed young boys in the past and girls too. They were fighters though, armed with an AK-47, a pistol, or machete even. Trained to kill their enemies, young as they were they were soldiers. They would surely have killed him if he had not gotten
the better of them.
John Henry was nothing like them.
The van drove toward the empty warehouse they were using. In preparation, Peter had taped the client’s laundry list of details to the back of Paul’s seat. A shield of visqueen hung between the front seats and the expanse of the windowless cargo area.
John Henry was dead. Nothing would bring him back. Peter pushed aside his thoughts and focused on preparing the body. He snapped the pair of eyeglasses from John Henry’s pocket in two and shattered the crystal on his watch. Laying both aside, Peter saved them to place with the body.
He stripped the boy naked carefully placing each piece of clothing in a large garbage bag. They would later burn the bag and its contents. Turning John Henry face down, Peter used a hatchet to bash a hole in the boy’s skull.
When they arrived at the warehouse complex, Paul locked the van inside.
“Kid have any cash on him?” he asked pulling the side doors open.
“A twenty in his sock.”
“And you took it?” Paul said.
Peter glared at Paul then pushed him back and stepped from the van.
“You didn’t did you?”
“You know I won’t so why would you ask?” said Peter.
“Well where is it then?”
“It’s in the bag, where it should stay.”
“Why Peter? It’s not doing anyone any good in the bag, especially not me.”
“You know my feelings on it.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before. We get paid to take lives not money. It’s bad luck. Blah, blah, blah.”
“That’s right Paul.”
“Well maybe I get paid to take both.”
“As long as your bad luck doesn’t rub off on me, you’re welcome to it.”
“When have I ever had bad luck?”
“The old man in Ocho Rios. You took everything from him. All the money he had in the world. Four lousy pesos.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So? That afternoon you rolled the Jeep and wound up in the hospital with three broken ribs and a concussion.”
“Yeah, true. But hey, if I hadn’t rolled the Jeep I would never have met Angelina.”
“Angelina? The same Angelina who stole eight hundred bucks from you and left you needing – a round of penicillin shots.”
“Okay so she wasn’t exactly a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow but that’s only one time. Bet you can’t name another.”
“The woman in London.”
“The Duchess?”
“No, the hefty one, the Greek shipping tycoon’s wife.”
“What about her?”
“You don’t remember? You stole her purse because it was from some high-priced designer.”
“And?”
“You really don’t remember.”
“Evidently not.”
“The rat?”
“Rat? What rat?” Paul’s mouth jumped open. “Oh, the ferret. God, I remember now. I opened the purse after it had been bouncing around the trunk for like a week. That thing was starved and pissed as hell.”
“Bit you in four places from what I remember.”
Paul laughed. “The damn thing ran into that little corner grocery and everybody came pouring out screaming. Funniest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m telling you. It’s bad luck stealing from the dead.”
“Maybe so. I’m hungry.”
“What you thinking.”
“Tacos or fish and chips.”
“Guess it’ll have to be tacos, I don’t imagine there’s a proper fish and chips place around here unless we can find an Arthur Treacher's near.”
The pair had a late lunch. At dusk, they drove to Wolf Lake. They watched the area for some time to make certain it was clear. When all was right, Paul drove close to where he understood the directions instructed. Peter dumped John Henry’s body and the personal items. He then poured hydrochloric acid on his face, stomach and genitals. Their first job complete, they drove to the Jennings’ house.
We sometimes have to go in the wrong direction to learn what the right direction is.
Bo could only wait as the investigation into Harold’s death headed east. The boys, Walter and Jay, had flown on through Cleveland to Stonington, Maine. They slept late and spent Saturday afternoon touring a local seafood packing operation.
The agent leading their surveillance team reported nothing suspect about their actions. Nothing beyond two high school seniors arriving on a private plane and being greeted by the management of a seafood plant with broad smiles and open arms. That evening they had dinner in the finest restaurant in town.
In Chicago, a frantic Father spent the evening trying to convince the police his son was missing. John Henry, a small wiry boy who enjoyed evening jogs around the neighborhood. Despite the signs of a coming cold, he had gone and not returned. The officer taking the call informed Mr. Kane twenty-four hours would have to elapse for the police to consider the boy missing.
Rupert Kane would not accept waiting. Through a common acquaintance, Mr. Kane secured a phone number for Horatio Haverly. Though late in the evening, he called Horatio who provided contact information for several members of the team looking into Harold’s death. The only personal phone number Horatio had was for Bo. At five of eleven, he phoned Bo’s house.
“Ello?” Bo answered, a questioning in his voice.
“Mr. Boson, Bo Boson.”
“Yes this is Bo.”
“Mr. Boson, y-you don’t know me. My name, my name is Rupert Kane. I-I got your phone number from Horatio.”
Bo could hear the concern in the man’s voice. “How can I help you Mr. Kane?”
“Well Mister, Mr. Boson, my boy, John, John Henry, has gone missing and I’m, we're really worried about him.”
The cracks of Rupert Kane’s voice offset the sniffles of the man’s worry. Bo jumped to his feet and began to pace the floor of his in-home office. His hand found the gear within his pants pocket and a finger rubbed at the teeth. “Mr. Kane,” Bo said in a focused, authoritative voice, “How old is, John Henry did you say?”
“Yes, yes, John Henry, ou-our youngest. He’s barely fifteen.”
“I take it he hasn’t done anything like this before.”
“No, not him, not John Henry. We had troubles with Junior but that was some years ago.”
“You’ve spoken to the police?”
“I did.” Anger built in his voice. “They gave me this bullshit about twenty-four hours before they’ll pretend to care.”
“Exactly how long has John Henry been gone?”
Mr. Kane paused then spoke aloud as if thinking his way through the questions. “He always jogs before dinner. On school days, he goes out not long after getting home from school. On the weekends, he’ll go earlier to get a longer run. He’s on the cross-country team. He complained about his sinuses today and hoped the exercise would clear them. I’d say he left around three.”
“And what time.”
“Wait, what’s that dear? Three-thirty? Are you certain? Mr. Boson my wife says it was three-thirty because the Saturday afternoon movie was starting and the TV Guide says it aired at three-thirty.”
“Okay, good. What time does he generally return?” Bo continued pacing the floor.
“He’s never late for dinner at five-thirty. His mother would not stand for it. And she will not allow him to come to the table dirty or sweaty so he always showers before.”
“So five at the latest?”
“I would say so.”
“John Henry have any medical issues? Diabetes? Seizures?”
“No. Other than being thin as a rail, he’s fit as a fiddle.”
“You’re certain, he’s not off somewhere with a girl?”
“Mr. Boson I swear to you I know my son. He would not do this, especially not to his Mother. A part of me hopes this is over a girl or drinking or drugs or anything other than the things going through my head tonight.”
“I
hope so too Mr. Kane. It would be good to laugh about it. Fifteen and jogging? Would he have had any kind of identification with him?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Sometimes he would stuff a folded bill in his sock to purchase a can of lemonade or that diet drink his Mother likes.”
“Tab. If arrested, the police would have contacted you by now. If transported to a hospital and an ID found, they would have contacted you. If unconscious and without identification they would report it to the police. What is your address?”
“3164 Worthington Lane.”
“A general description of John Henry – height, weight, hair color, eye color, any distinguishing marks or features, clothes he was wearing.”
“Five foot two, maybe nintey-three pounds, sandy blond hair, blue eyes, wears prescription glasses, no birthmarks or anything, what else?”
“Clothes.”
“Right. He was wearing his school track gear today wasn’t he dear? Yes? The dark colored tee? Right. Okay a hunter green St. Mark’s Track & Field t-shirt and matching gym shorts, white runners and those white knee-high sport socks with two green stripes. I think it’s two. Yes, two.”
Bo unfolded a Chicago street map on his drafting table and started searching for Worthington Lane. “Let me make a few phone calls. If John Henry returns or you hear from him, call me back.”
“Thank you Mr. Boson. I appreciate you listening.”
“Mr. Kane I will call you back as soon as I can.”
Bo found the Kane residence on his map and located the nearest hospital. He pulled the Greater Chicago Yellow Pages from his bookshelf and looked up the number. He called the Emergency Room and spoke with a nurse. No one fitting John Henry’s description had been in the E.R. recently.
He was finding the number to the second closest hospital when the phone rang. Bo smiled and sighed in relief.
“Ello,” he said cheerful.
“Bo. It’s Prescott.”
“Hey. You must be telepathic, I was about to call you.”
“Oh so you’ve heard.”
“Heard what?”
“We have another victim, another boy at Wolf Lake.”
The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1) Page 10
