"The band, I do, especially that Robin."
Paul laughed. He rewarded her effort with a fine drive-thru meal. Lightning lit up the sky on the drive to the house. They watched TV and ate ice cream as the storm drew closer.
When Paul said it was time for bed, Miranda sprinted for the master bedroom. She refused to leave the bed and begged him to let her stay with the storm. She suggested a place on the headboard where he could handcuff her if he so wished.
Paul kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed. She slid the pants off under the covers and laid on his chest.
“Good night - Miranda,” he said and kissed the top of her head.
She snuggled closer and they fell asleep.
For being an object of convenience, the telephone often rings at the most inconvenient time.
Three bites into a turkey sandwich, a clanging phone interrupted Bo.
"Ello."
It was Katherine. "I saw the news report about last night," she started. "You said Gunner got hurt. You didn't say anything about him getting stabbed, several times from the sound of it."
"Sorry, didn't see the need in worrying you."
"And I know you said that woman cop got shot but you didn't say anything about it being a sniper."
"Sorry." Bo's chunk of missing shoe came to mind. Another piece of information he would be sorry for not sharing if she ever found out.
Her voice grew strained. "The worry of you. It came flooding over me again. After all this time."
"Katie," he argued.
Raven stood and carried her plate to the kitchen. Like everyone in Chicago, and much of the world, she knew of Katherine Wiseman. Bo didn't speak of Katherine, at least not with Raven.
"It was the woman cop who paged you at dinner last night, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"So last night had something to do with the kidnappings and murders? I thought it was over."
"The police aren't ready to reopen the case."
"Oh my God, those bastards are still out there. Will they go after Grayson again? It's going to start again. More trauma? More terror?"
"I don't expect them to take any more kids."
"Then what was last night about?"
"Loose ends."
"Where did? Wait, what? How are you a loose end?"
"I have continued to investigate."
"So you think whoever kidnapped Grayson is alive?"
"I don't think - I," Bo grew flustered. "I think the people who killed Harold Haverly are different from the ones who took the others."
"Then this detective, what's her name, Jameson, she was helping you investigate?"
"No, quite the opposite. She was helping someone keep us from solving the case. Her purpose in calling me there last night was a trap."
"That bitch! I knew I didn't like her."
Bo laughed into a smile.
"Well I have to say I'm not one bit sorry she took your bullet."
"I think the one that got her was meant for her."
"But you said she was helping them."
"She was. She bragged a little about her involvement before they killed her."
"I don't understand. If she was there to help, why shoot her?"
"Gunner had her at gunpoint and we were about to take her in."
"Oh I see, to shut her up, keep her from talking."
"Literally."
"Can you trace her back to Harold's killer?"
"Don't know yet. Internal Affairs is tearing her life apart. Will have to see what they uncover."
"What are you doing then?"
"Looking for a train."
"Why, you leaving town?"
Bo laughed. "No. I'm trying to determine if the Fitzgerald or Freeman families own any vintage rail cars?"
"Running away didn't sound like you. Wait - vintage rail cars? Like from the old west?"
"Exactly. The old green ones you see in the movies."
“Walter does – or did.”
“Walter Freeman?”
“Yes.” Katherine’s voice pulled away from the phone, “Hey honey.”
Silence.
“Brock? Oh. The Freemans still have those train cars at the camp?"
Bo tried to listen but the voices became muted as if she had covered the microphone. The sounds reminded him of Saturday morning cartoon characters. He waited for her return.
"Walter does,” she said. “He has two trains on property he inherited from his grandfather, the Baron. It's out west on the Fox River. It's been a while since Brock's been there but he said he couldn't imagine Walter selling them."
"You sure?"
"They were friends growing up, Brock and Walter. With other friends, they camped, hunted and fished there until, well, until about the time Walter got married. I’ve heard the stories a thousand times. Walter didn’t go there for a bunch of years but let the others use the property. It wasn’t until he took over running the company that the old group started going twice a year, spring and fall. Last fall’s invite never came. Brock called and Walter’s secretary said there would be no outing. Hasn’t been one since.”
“Hmm,” Bo said digesting the information.
"You know they’re still quite good friends, those two. You really think Four had something to do with Harold’s death?"
"Just following clues."
“Like a bloodhound tracking a scent.”
“Something like that.”
“Oh Bo, that news would kill Junior. Hell it could knock down the entire house of cards.”
“How do you mean?”
“I have no love for Walter III. I find him cruel with his power and money but he is Brock’s friend and I imagine anyone in his situation would be, flawed to the point you feel at least some empathy for him. I think that family has a walk-in closet for their skeletons.” Her voice fell low, “You know Bo, it’s not true what they say, the truth doesn’t always set you free. At least not when it explodes in your face.”
“Katie, what are you not telling me?”
When prey stalks the hunter, each risks all.
Sunday morning found Peter tracking Bo. Using the radio transmitter Patty placed on his Camaro he went unnoticed. He followed the pinging red dot to a rehab facility. The area was familiar, where he and Paul had picked up Grayson’s ancient decoys.
A man waited on the front fender of an ugly green car. From the bandaged left arm, Peter figured the man for the third party Paul encountered the night they killed the crooked woman cop.
He followed the pair west to a tract of wooded land along a small river. The timber reminded him of land his grandfather once owned in southeast Michigan. Peter had to be extra careful to remain unseen. He parked at a closed storefront near the gravel road the blue Camaro had turned on.
Peter shouldered a loaded pump-action shotgun and walked in. A half-mile later, he crossed an overgrown railroad track. Another five hundred feet, he came upon a fence line and a large open gate. Peter stopped and scanned the road ahead for the Camaro or any signs of movement.
A breeze rustled dying leaves and in the distance, the sound of water streamed. Peter recalled hunting trips with his grandfather before minor league baseball enticed him away. A past and future both gone. The woods relaxed him.
The drive continued for another quarter-mile or more. The farther he went the louder the running water became. A tree line to the left separated the road from a clearing nestled against the riverbank. He crawled into the brush for a closer inspection.
Along the southern edge of the clearing, the blue car sat before two green rail cars and a faded brown deck. The train and wood blended into the landscape. They appeared forgotten by time as if the forest had grown to protect them. Peter searched the area and each window for movement. He waited.
The space reminded Peter of the empty lot along the outskirts of Dearborn where he and Joey McAllister and their friends spent the spring and summer playing, being gods and heroes, fools and putzes.
Those days wer
e gone and so were Joey and the friends. Not dead, they moved on from the realities of his current existence. A life so contrary to youthful days, it seemed pages of another’s autobiography. Peter wished he could move back to that life.
The more time passed the more certain he felt they were on to him. Peter wished he had gone with his first thought of hijacking one of those brown trucks. He could have delivered death with the ring of a doorbell. A sense of being prey grew within.
He wondered if Bo knew of the tracking device and had used it to lead him there. The mind ran crazy. Peter wiped sweat from his hands. Exit routes overtook his thoughts. He considered they could have doubled back and left him there panicking over nothing. Peter mopped his sweaty palms again. He cursed Paul for taking John Henry's money.
A patch of white bandage flashed in the undergrowth along the water. The other man was not his primary target. Still Peter would be happy to take him down as he was the reason Paul had not returned. He pulled the butt of the shotgun to his shoulder and took aim. His left eye closed as he centered the bead.
His barrel scanned the area nearby searching for the primary. He hoped one would lead to the other. Peter’s breath quickened in a fit of fear and excitement. He stunk of it. The white held still.
A shot rang out.
The bullet struck the right shoulder from behind. It twisted Peter left. The shock reverberated through his arm. He fired wild, going left of the bandage. The rear driver's side tire of Blue hissed in the pain of a double aught buckshot slug. He rolled to the ground. Lying on his back, he pumped five rounds past his feet. In desperation, luck could sometimes masquerade as skill.
He felt the front of his shoulder and grimaced. The shoulder that underwent three surgeries and eight months of rehab after destroying it in his final minor league game. He was set to move up to the show the following day. The bullet had come through. It was sticky wet and warm. Blood oozed rather than squirting – a good sign.
Peter reached into his shirt to feel the entry wound. There were two holes, one at the tip of his middle finger and another under his thumb. The second hole must have come from the bandaged man while Peter was letting off cover fire. He had not felt the strike. A wheeze in his breath and gathering heaviness in his chest, he felt the second bullet had pierced a lung.
He rolled to his stomach. The ground reeked of pine and iron. Fear and pain provided the adrenaline that fueled his movements. Peter knew the lung would only get worse. He had to get out of there if he was to survive. He was no good to her dead. The left arm inched his body forward as the right followed dragging the shotgun. He made it to a wide trunk of maple and rested.
His breathing grew more labored. It reminded him of trips to the hospital with his little sister. Peter cursed Paul for sending him alone. Paul had the experience and the head for such things. He would not only figure a way out he could flip the whole mess to his favor. Killing was an adventure to Paul. The money a bonus.
Peter sucked in as much air as he could hold and lifted his ass pulling his legs under him. His right arm fumbled with the shotgun bringing it to his side. He used it as a crutch and lifted his right leg to a kneel. Peter coughed and spit blood.
Once baseball was no longer an option, he joined the Army. He met Paul in basic and they had been friends since. Being mercenaries was Paul's idea. It was that or robbing banks when the money ran out. Paul would speak of reputation. Damn the reputations, there was a world full of other identities.
"Put your weapons down and come out," someone said from the right. The voice blocked his escape. Peter wiped at his brow. His shoulder burned and his thoughts came fuzzy. He shook his head trying to clear the fog. Another mouthful of blood found the dirt and leaves. If he had not ruined his career, grandfather would not have had to give up the land.
He took as complete a breath as possible and stood using the long gun to aid. Peter stepped onto the access road. Bringing the shotgun up, he tossed it aside. He staggered and stumbled toward the gate. Peter pulled a .45 from the holster and dropped it to the road. The noise of a cracking branch behind turned him.
The bandaged man stood, a pistol trained on Peter's chest ready to end him. Peter started to raise his hands but collapsed face first into the gravel. He looked for death. Someone approached from his feet and kicked at the road. They bent and turned Peter onto his back. Glints of sunlight burst through the trees like stars in the daylight - like heaven.
"Who hired you?" the man asked.
Peter hoped Paul would send his share of the money home. For her. He wondered who would pay the medical bills. Tears pooled in his eyes, not for the shame of the life he had chosen but for disappointing her.
"Who hired you?" the man asked again.
Peter started to speak but his breath failed him. The bandage picked up the .45 and stood nearby with a gun outstretched in each hand. The man knelt and leaned in close.
"Ro, Rosie," he breathed, blinking heartbeats. "Rosie I'm sor."
Death is solitary.
Bo felt the carotid artery of the man laying in the gravel.
"There's a pulse but it's weak," he said to Gunner.
"I say let the fucker bleed."
"Not with the girl still out there somewhere."
“Damn.” Gunner smirked. "What’d he say?"
“He apologized - to someone named Rosie.”
“Some hot little number I’m sure,” said Gunner. “Rosie? Hmm. Maybe a redhead?” Gunner’s brows lifted in wonder.
Bo rolled his eyes up to Gunner. "Any new holes?"
"No, thanks to the tripwire thingamajig you put out. You?"
"I'm clear but he wounded Blue."
"Yeah I saw that."
"Is this the guy you took the gun from the other night?"
Gunner stepped closer and twisted considering the man. "Nah, that guy was short."
"Everyone looks taller laying in the road."
Gunner chuckled.
Bo patted at the man's pants and pulled a ring of keys from his right pocket. "Find his vehicle, it has to be close."
Gunner grabbed the keys. Bo held tight.
"Be careful of his partner."
"I will."
Gunner took the keys and ran off. Bo clutched a fistful of the man's shirt, lifted the dead weight onto his shoulder, and stood. He carried the man through the trees and undergrowth. Bo laid the unconscious man flat at the back of the Camaro and cut his shirt open with a pocketknife.
He examined the wounds and felt the man's chest and stomach. Bo slapped him several times trying to revive him. There was no response. He found his pulse to be fast.
Bo rolled the man onto his stomach and pressed his ear against each side. The injured man's breathing was shallow and congested on the right side leading Bo to think collapsed lung.
The tripwire remote buzzed a quick pair of vibrations in Bo’s jacket pocket. The sound of a vehicle screaming up the road grabbed his attention. The Colt came out as Bo twisted and moved himself behind Blue. A van turned into the clearing, Gunner in the driver’s seat.
He yanked the wheel hard and stomped the brakes spinning the ass end of the van around in a cloud of dust and grass. Gunner jumped out and opened the back doors. Together they loaded the man into the van. Bo climbed in back and Gunner returned to the driver's seat. Bo recognized the two green camo field packs with the red cross on them.
Gunner drove like an ambulance driver carting his own mother to the hospital. Bo rifled through the bags searching for a large syringe with at least a two inch needle to remove the trapped fluid. He came across clotting powder and set two packets aside. Bo found the syringe and rolled his patient onto his side facing away.
"I need ten seconds," said Bo.
The van veered hard to the right and screeched to a stop. Gunner waited.
Bo inserted the needle above a rib hunting for the sweet spot. "I'm in."
The van leapt back into traffic. Bo packed clotting powder into three holes and pushed the man onto his stom
ach to keep the needle from impaling him on a sharp turn. He put his ear to the back but there was too much noise to judge.
Three blocks from the hospital, a police car took notice of Gunner's driving and gave chase. He turned on the emergency flashers and continued. The cops chased them right to the Emergency Room doors.
The man appeared to be breathing better but remained unconscious as they loaded him onto a stretcher. Gunner followed him in while Bo spoke with the police. He provided his credentials then asked them to contact Detective Lancaster. Inside, he phoned Prescott.
Lancaster instructed the uniform officers to stay with the hospitalized man until he or a security detail arrived. Prescott dispatched a group of agents to question the man and examine the van. He wanted to know about any involvement in the kidnappings and determine the girl's location. Bo and Gunner took the van to pick up his car before someone recognized it.
On the ride back, Bo noticed the radio signal receiver on the engine cover. He turned the unit on and soon realized it was leading straight to Blue. At the camp, Bo searched the Camaro for the transmitter. Gunner had a look around the camp.
Bo found the device attached to the inside of the rear bumper with a magnet. He then worked on changing the flat tire.
Gunner became excited. "There's an old typewriter," he said pointing to the dining car on the right.
"Show me."
Gunner led Bo to a deck running the length of the dining car. He climbed the stairs and pushed his face to a window. Gunner directed his eye.
"You see it? There." Gunner tapped on the glass.
"I do." Bo squinted. Paint covered the windows behind the typewriter.
"Is it the one you're searching for?"
"It could be. It's the right type."
"What now?"
"Back to the hospital. The FBI will be wanting the van and hopefully Prescott will be there."
At the hospital, Gunner turned the van over to FBI Crime Lab personnel. Bo provided the valve handle Gunner retrieved from Wolf Lake after Harold's death. The lab would examine it for blood and, if they found any, compare it to Harold Haverly, the dead suspects, and the Freeman and Fitzgerald boys. The FBI requested a court order to draw a blood sample from the unconscious man in the hospital.
The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1) Page 25
