I was done at half. Half an hour of sitting in the cold. Half the gin and half the cigar consumed. I was half drunk and had half a mind to do something else. I went inside and fired up the gas heater to warm me up for more adventure.
Once I roasted my nuts on the open fire to a point of being warm, I took the smallest boy from his bindings. In deciding his fate, I felt as God must.
Food for thought is often most nourishing to the brain and least affective of the body.
Tuesday evening, Bo donned an apron intent on preparing a first class dinner for Raven. Something other than the food was on his mind. And it was not Raven. He was lifeless.
"Do I need to get out the watermelon?" she asked.
"No." He stared at her with empty eyes. "Watermelon wouldn't go with this." His head jostled in disbelief.
Her eyes rolled as her hands searched the air for his understanding. He had none.
"What is up with you tonight? Where are you?"
He sliced a tomato into chunks for a salad.
Raven walked up behind Bo and rubbed at his shoulders. "Is this the new job you're working because if this is what I should expect for the next six months, I'd, I'd rather have malaria."
"What? Who has malaria?" Bo slapped the knife down.
"Bo Boson!" Raven stomped.
"I'm sorry, you're right I can reinvent the wheel some other time. I should focus my attention on you."
"No you shouldn't."
"I shouldn't?"
"No. You should focus on the pot of water boiling over."
Bo's eyes jumped to the stove. "Oh damn." He pulled the lid and lowered the flame. He pushed aside what had been occupying his every thought long enough to finish dinner. Raven carried her plate to the table and sat.
"So what's on your mind tonight? Something about a wheel I believe you said."
"Oh. No, not an actual wheel. It's the last job."
"The dead kids?"
"Yes."
"They ever find the girl?"
"No but someone saw her in Cleveland a few days ago so that's hopeful."
"Whatever would she be doing in Cleveland if the killers are dead?"
"I'm not satisfied the bodies pulled from the building were the killers."
"Who were they then? Wait, you think the real killers are the ones who shot at you on the roof, that killed the woman detective."
"Yes." Bo picked at the leafy green covered plate.
"Well then I hope they are with the girl in Cleveland."
"Why would you want that?"
"I-I really don't." Raven's head collapsed. "I just prefer them to not be here." She frowned. "You know, taking more shots at you."
"Pretty sure one already came back to have another go."
"What? When?"
"When Gunner and I went west the other day there was a man in the woods with a shotgun and a pistol."
"Oh Bo." Her hand found her mouth as if holding in a scream. "Did you catch him?"
"We did."
"So he can tell you where the other man is so this can be over and done with."
"He's not talking."
Her fist pounded the table. "You make him talk."
Bo covered her fist with a hand. "He's in a coma."
"Oh. Well. I see how that would complicate matters." Raven's plate was growing empty notably faster than Bo's. "Is he in a coma because of you?"
"Yes." Bo poured a third helping of chalky ranch dressing on the remaining salad. He did not feel as though it was helping camouflage the greens in the least."
"So the other one will be even more intent on seeing you dead."
"I'd presume so but they are holding him without a name and in a guarded room."
"Am I in danger?"
Bo went pale as the dressing. He had not considered the prospect. "No you aren't, one's in a coma and the other is evidently in Cleveland," he said.
"Are you sure? You don't seem sure."
He squeezed her hand tighter. "I'm sure I won't let anything happen to you. I just need the typewriter."
"Typewriter? The one in the rich man's train in the woods?"
"Yes."
"Go take it."
Bo stared at her.
"I know, I know, straight and narrow, by the book. Have Gunner do it. He seems like he's bent or broken every rule you've refused. Hell if means I'll be safer, take me out there. I'll throw a rock through a window and climb in after it."
His voice rose. "I need it legally. As evidence."
"Calm down. I'm right here not sitting in the backyard."
"Sorry." Bo rubbed the wood.
"Why won't the cops go get it?"
"Indiana's closed the case on the boys. The FBI is searching for the girl. Without a ransom note, there is no connection between her abduction and the typewriter."
Bo stood and cleared the salad bowl and plates to the counter beside the sink. He dished the main course and sides.
"If they were killing the boys why did they send a ransom note?"
"Only one boy had a ransom note, Harold Haverly. For Grayson they delivered a photo and called the house."
"Harold was the first one right?"
"Right."
"And Grayson he's." Her hand motioned aimlessly. "He's your mega-rich ex's son?"
"Katie." Bo reached over her to place her dinner plate on the table. He rubbed at her shoulders. "It ended a long time ago," he said.
"Mmm - this smells great," she said leaning close, "and looks delicious. If you do windows, I just might keep you." She giggled, rubbed the tip of her nose and returned to the conversation.
Bo laughed.
"She never paid that money right? What was it fifty million or something like that?"
"Yes, and no, no one called back after his rescue hit the news."
"You really think ransom note came from the typewriter on the train?"
"Yes." Bo looked for the salt shaker.
"How would you know for sure?"
"The typewriter used to make the ransom note has letter worn from use. They are like fingerprints."
"Ah so if the wear and tear matches?"
"Right."
"Makes sense."
Her plate was again growing empty faster than his.
"Didn't you say the typewriter came from a museum?" she asked.
"It did."
"In Illinois?"
"Yes, Chicago why?"
"Well there's your answer."
"What do you," he started then stopped. "Extraordinary. Stunningly beautiful and smart, you really are the complete package."
Raven smiled, blushed slightly and returned to her dinner. "And yet I don't do windows."
Bo stood from the table.
"Should I wait?" she asked.
He walked to the kitchen. "Hmm?" he said.
"I thought you were going to make a phone call."
"Oh." He opened the fridge and grabbed another drink. "No. Too late for that, I'll call in the morning."
Raven smiled.
They finished dinner over a lighter course of conversation then turned in.
Enticing are the days where your wanna go far exceeds your gotta go.
Bo woke early Wednesday excited by the prospect of accomplishing a goal. Leaving Raven the bed, he grabbed a canned cola from the fridge and stepped onto the cool, fresh patio. He had always enjoyed a crisp fall day, a herald for the coming season of holiday gatherings and celebrations.
He thought of family and friends, alive and gone. The frosty breath carried him home to young winters in smoky mountains. Three geese rubbernecked low across the yard, imitating rush hour traffic. Their honks wrecked his recollections.
Bo realized the chill had snuck within the thick terry robe and he shivered into a shake. He moved inside for the warmth of his office to plot and plan.
Somewhere past nine-thirty, he phoned Mrs. Orgeron’s direct line at the museum.
“Good morning Mr. Boson,” she said in reply.
“I w
onder if I might ask a favor. One I hope will assist the both of us.”
“My my you are particularly focused this morning.”
“I – uh – oh – I’m sorry. How are you?”
“It’s okay Mr. Boson I wasn’t condemning your focus, rather merely taking notice of it.”
There was a moment of silence.
“What is the favor you require?” she continued.
“The typewriter, could you report it missing to the police?”
“Oh that’s no favor a’tall.”
“Sorry.”
“I can’t very well do you a favor when it’s already done now can I?”
“I’m - Mrs. Orgeron - I’m afraid I’m not following you ma’am.”
“Hilda, and I’ve already done your favor. Since discovering the typewriter and paper missing, the staff has begun a complete inventory of the collection. I too like my dots and crosses. I provided the police with an initial listing of items days ago. We are providing updates as we discover additional items.”
“And the typewriter was on that list?”
“The first item.”
“Oh that’s wonderful news. Thank you so much.”
“I don’t believe anyone has ever thanked me so emphatically for doing my job before.”
Bo laughed.
“What is your end?”
“Sorry?”
“You said we both would benefit.”
“Oh. I believe I know where the typewriter is.”
“That would be incredible for me but I fail to see how you benefit, other than being in my good graces for life.”
“I want the person who has it.”
“Oh right, our Jay. You continue to think him related.”
“Yes. I do. Who did you file the report with?”
“Chicago P.D. I have a contact name here if you wish.”
“No. I can take it from there. Friends and all.”
“Of course. Are you certain the typewriter you seek is our missing one?”
“Just a hunch. I’ll know more once I’ve had a chance to examine it.”
“For the sake of seeing it returned I do hope it is.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And - in a way I hope it isn’t if that absolves Jay. I hate to think him as such.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Bo thanked Hilda for her assistance and finished the conversation.
He hung up and immediately dialed John Lancaster. He told John of having seen a typewriter matching the one missing from the museum. Of the woman having reported seeing Jay Fitzgerald taking one from the museum. Bo asked John to get a search warrant for the Fox River camp so he could examine it.
Detective Lancaster had Bo drive to the office to provide a written statement. Bo accompanied the detective when he went before a judge seeking a search warrant. They got their paper.
Lancaster grabbed another detective and dragged him along. Bo sat on the edge of the rear seat. He beamed with anticipation. On the trek west, Lancaster made introductions. Steven Adler, the other detective, had grown up in the area and knew it well.
He directed Lancaster to the local Sheriff’s office. They explained the warrant and their intent. The Sheriff knew of the property and the Freeman family. He provided a pair of uniformed officers to accompany the search party. They followed the unmarked car to the camp.
As the cars stopped before the Pullman cars, the hairs on Bo’s neck bristled with concern. Through it, he bounced with excitement.
A gunshot pierced the crisp afternoon.
Bo's eyes flashed left. The deputy in the passenger seat of the marked unit winced. A high-powered rifle round made meatloaf of the man's right shoulder. Blood and tissue splashed and ran down the side and rear windows. It looked as if a watermelon had exploded in the backseat.
The squad car jumped to life darting away like a spanked dog. Bo and the other detective emptied full clips covering Lancaster's rush chasing the other vehicle. The local police band exploded with urgent, screaming pleas for assistance and medical services for the wounded officer.
Far away from the cozy woods, the machine of response leapt to action. Near the entrance to the clearing, Lancaster turned the car into a blocking position as the other two men continued firing rounds at the unknown suspect.
Lancaster bailed out the driver's door and took a kneeling position at the front tire. Adler followed him out crawling onto the ground. Bo chased behind.
The three men held a quick meeting and decided on a plan to hold their ground until help arrived. Adler would hold the front. Lancaster went to check on the injured officer and Bo worked his way through the woods to cover the back.
After examining the officer's shoulder, Lancaster sent the squad car off to meet the ambulance in route. It screamed away, lights and sirens dragging the noise with it.
The woods fell to a whisper as a gentle breeze tossed dead and dying leaves. The train cars were so quiet, each wondered if a cover shot had found their target.
Does there have to be a Mexican for it to be a true standoff?
I realized in an instant what I had done. I had fucked it up - everything. Walter, how disappointed he would be in my weakness. I should have played it cool and spoke with the cops. Outnumbered five to one, they startled me. It was their fault and one had paid his penance.
When Detective Lancaster called for me to put down my weapon and surrender, I shot at the unmarked car barricading the entrance. Running between the two train cars, I used multiple guns to give the appearance of more than one person. I fired off shot after shot for about five minutes. Having their attention, I figured them stupid enough to fall for a bit of sleight of man.
With a semi-automatic in hand, I opened a door on the back of the dining car. As I turned to descend the ladder a bullet eked past my left ear and plinked a hole in the metal. Fuckers. I dropped the gun and dove for the train car kicking the door shut with my feet. I had waited too long.
I felt trapped like a rat in a cage. I had shot a cop so they would bring every resource to bear. The situation required Walter. I wished he were there. They shot at shadows and movement. I needed a plan to stop them before luck ended me.
"I have hostages," I yelled through broken glass.
The dead boy on the dining car floor would only serve as more trouble for me. There were three live ones chained in the sleeper cabins. If the police had not killed them, they could prove useful. Finally, their life had meaning.
I retrieved one and cuffed his hands behind his back. We checked the other two on the way to the door. Pulling the door open I used him for a shield, a pistol to his neck.
"Tell them your name," I said pushing the barrel into the boy's neck.
The boy spoke in a low tone. "My name is Marco Delgado."
"Louder." I kicked him in the ass with a knee.
Tears filled the boy's face.
I pulled the gun away and knocked his head with the butt of the gun. "Do it!"
In a heavy accent, he screamed through tears. "My name is Marco Delgado."
"Tell them what is going on here."
"I am being held here, kidnapped. Please I."
"Tell them about the others."
"There is another boy on the floor. He is."
I interrupted again and tried to shake some sense into his dumb ass. "The other two," I said.
"Oh. He, He has two more boys like me. There are two more. Please, please help us."
I yanked him in and told him to shut the door. He put an end to their bullets. My shooting privileges remained. It provided time to think. I needed to think.
Though money may be powerful, it is certainly no superpower.
Walter's small car slowed to a stop near the camp road gate. Inside, he sat wide-eyed, leering at the Sheriff cruiser and two uniformed officers. The fear of fight or flight consumed his face. A deputy approached the vehicle.
"Afternoon Officer," Walter said rolling down the window.
"Do you have bus
iness here?"
"I'm going to a camp," he pointed past the car.
"Would that be the first camp on the left sir?"
Walter hesitated his eyes jumping between the officer and the road ahead. "No. Two down on the right," he said.
"I see. And you are?"
"Billingsly," Walter said, "Arthur Billingsly Jr. Has something happened at the Freeman camp?"
"There's something still happening at the Freeman camp Mr. Billingsly. I'm afraid you won't be able to get to your place for quite some time."
A police van, ambulance and two more squad cars screamed past raising a fog of dust.
"What's going on?"
"I'mma get you turned around and headed back for the main road. Be sure to give the right-a-way to any emergency vehicles you encounter."
"Did someone get hurt?"
The officer stepped away from Walter and motioned for him to head in the opposite direction. Walter again hesitated. The second officer started toward the car, a hand on his weapon. Walter waved compliant and made the u-turn. He crept away, his eyes bouncing between the mirrors.
Before reaching the highway, Walter turned right onto a side road out of the view of the police guarding the gate. He went around a tight bend and pulled the car over. At the rear, he opened the trunk and pulled a black satchel close. Zipping it open he removed two pistols, four clips and a silencer from the bag and laid them on the exquisite carpet.
His eyes scanned the area. Walter screwed the silencer onto one gun and returned it to the trunk. He checked the second gun and slipped it into the back of his waistband. The extra clips found pants pockets. A car pulled up behind. Walter turned and looked. It was a police cruiser. He waved to the officer. The policeman climbed out and walked over. Walter turned with a smile and hand out as if to shake the man's hand. He was holding the silenced pistol.
"Hands up," Walter said.
The officer's eyes doubled in size. "Look Mister," he said raising his hands.
"Quiet. Turn around."
The man turned away. Walter pressed the barrel into the officer's back and removed his sidearm. He tossed in the Mercedes' trunk. "Strip," he commanded.
"What?"
"You heard me."
The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1) Page 27
