by DL Cook
When everyone left, Peggy found that the address was registered to one Meg Marlow. That name rang a bell, but she couldn't remember where saw it.
Duey McCaliker searched for Travis since he captured the Ice Queen's man at the bus station. He got to the trailer after the cops did. By that time Travis was gone.
Duey drove around aimlessly since then, between visits to his new trailer where he kept the prisoner.
The police radio crackled with promising information. “327 Maple Drive, right?” Don bellowed.
“Yes,” said a woman. “House is registered to Meg Marlow. Seems familiar, but I don't know why.”
“Tom says that's Chester's wife,” a new male voice said.
“What's the criminal doing there?” Don said. “Any possibility it could be Travis Quinton?”
“Possibly,” said the woman.
Duey started the van and burned out of his parking spot. That wasn't very far away. He'd get there before the cops if he gunned it.
He was in luck. Don announced that they were stuck in traffic. “What is this crap? Tom, no, Lucus, go out there and direct the cars. How much did they spend on these solar powered traffic lights? And they're cutting our budget?”
Duey cut around the corner, nearly colliding with an SUV. It honked at him as he blasted past it. He screeched to a stop near the house.
Duey jumped out and checked his gun. Bullet in the chamber, safety off. He paused at the front door. Knocking would be stupid. He crept around the side, peering through the windows.
He found them in the kitchen. Two old people and Travis. Eating. Travis put his spoon down and cocked his head. Duey took aim. Travis looked directly at him and pulled his own gun.
Duey ducked and waited for the shot. When it didn't come, he peeked over the window sill. Travis was gone.
He scrambled to the front, just in time to see a car speed away. Duey sprinted to the van. Inside, the woman's voice said, “he's on the move. Just turned off Maple onto Vine.”
“Roger,” Don said. “We got out of the jam. Lucus, leave them. Go ahead and get to the Marlow house. Hopefully there's no dead bodies. But if there are, call Mor—err, Cliff.”
“You got it,” the radio burped.
“Turned from Vine to Willow, heading southeast,” the woman said.
Duey was on it. Maybe he should've been a cop. Probably less trouble than working for the Ice Queen. If only he didn't borrow from that witch, whoever she was. He'd probably still have his Charlene. Rage pumped through his veins and he slammed the gas. As soon as he was done with Travis, he'd beat the Ice Queen's whereabouts out of her man Wallace.
The car in front of his made many turns. Travis killed his lights. Only the occasional break light revealed him. Had it not been for the woman on the radio updating Quinton's position, he'd have lost Duey long ago. Duey grinned, wondering if Travis was freaking out about how Duey managed to stay on his tail.
Three red dots flickered in the darkness ahead and disappeared. “He's stopped,” the woman announced. Duey let go of the gas and coasted, scanning from left to right. His high beams caught the back of the sedan.
Duey got out with his gun drawn, holding it gangsta style. He approached slowly, the gravel beneath his feet almost as loud in his ears as his heart.
The car was empty. The front airbags were deployed. Something rustled in the foliage. Duey fired in that direction.
He thought he heard a howl. More rustling. Duey quickened his pace. Sirens. Duey wiped spiderwebs and other forest crud from his face, plunging into the thicket.
It was too dark. He should've taken a flashlight from the van. Duey stopped and thought about going back. Something grabbed his ankle, dragging him down. He backed away. His butt scraped along the tree roots and dead leaves. Flashing red and white lights illuminated the figure in front of him every half second. It closed upon him. Duey fired. The figure fell on top of him.
Duey was nose to nose with Travis. His mind went blank. All he wanted to say to the man escaped him. As voices from the road said, “this way,” Duey whimpered and crawled out from beneath his enemy. He fled from the voices and lights, too shocked to revel in his victory.
“We need an ambulance here,” Don said into his radio. He shone his light after the fleeing man and then turned it back on the injured one. “That him? Travis Quinton?”
“Yep,” Libby said. “He's hurt real bad.”
“Don't touch him. Who knows what diseases he has,” Don lightly slapped her hands away. He looked at the man's face. “Who's the Ice Queen?” he demanded. “Help is on the way, but you have to tell us.”
Travis murmured something. Blood streamed down the side of his mouth.
“What?” Don leaned in closer.
“My mom,” Travis gurgled and died.
“What did he say?” His wife's eyes were wide.
“Nothing,” he replied.
“I thought he said something.”
“He called for his mom.” Don pressed a button on his radio. “Cancel that ambulance. Get someone over here to pick up a body. Peggy, we'll need Duncan. The terrain isn't good for your chair. No need to bring a van, we found the one that was missing.”
“Will do,” Peggy said.
“Suspect Travis Quinton was shot by an unknown person. Didn't identify the shooter,” he said into his radio.
Don saw Libby wave her hand like a handkerchief. She was crying. Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, he pulled her toward him. Her soft cheek pressed against his collar bone.
“So sad,” she said quietly.
“He was a scumbag,” Don consoled her.
“Doesn't make it not sad. So sad. So sad...”
“A rapist, a murderer, and God knows what else.”
Libby pressed her wet cheek against Don until backup arrived.
“Right this way, Ms. Quinton,” Don held the swinging morgue door open for her. She had come to identify her son's body.
An Asian looking guy lifted the covering to reveal her Travis' face.
“Yeah, that's him.”
“Once again, my condolences for your loss,” Don said.
She shrugged it off like it was no matter, though inside she was broken. “We weren't on good terms anyway. How did you find him?”
“We tracked his phone.”
Ingrid closed her eyes for a moment. Her stupid boy. He didn't want to change phones. “How did you know his number?”
“We found it as part of our investigation of the warehouse.”
Was it the phone Ingrid dumped there? Hadn't she broken it? Did she use it to call Travis?
“He fell in with the wrong crowd,” the husky cop began.
Ingrid saved him the trouble. “I understand why you had to shoot him.”
“It wasn't us, ma'am. He was shot and killed by an unseen assailant. We have reason to believe it was Duey McCaliker. We'll find him, rest assured. He's already beaten one murder rap and escaped from prison. But we'll put him back behind bars.” The cop scratched his head uncomfortably. “On account of your estrangement, I thought maybe it would comfort you to know that Travis called out for you before he passed,” Don said behind her as she headed for the door.
She stopped. “What did he say, exactly?”
“'My mom,' I believe. I asked him a question and he just called out for you.”
“What was the question,” Ingrid asked.
“Oh, I'm not sure that matters.”
“Please tell me, Commissioner.”
“Well, like I said, Travis fell in with the wrong crowd. We believe he was part of a gang headed by someone called the Ice Queen. I asked him who the Ice Queen was. Your son, instead of answering the question, said 'my mom.'”
Adrenaline flashed through Ingrid's body. “I see. Thank you, detective.” She left the cold room. As the door swung behind her the cop began, “if there's anything I can do...” but she ignored him.
He knew too much, even if he didn't know it yet. He, or someone he conversed
with, would figure it out eventually. It was time to change tacks. Ingrid would use Don to force his wife to destroy the evidence. Then Ingrid would dispose of the both of them.
Two men waited by her car in the dark parking lot. “I'm driving myself home,” she told them. “When the fat cop comes out, I want you to take him. Get rid of his phone, radio, weapons. Get rid of his car. Bring him to the hills and wait there for further instructions. Don't hurt him too much. That's my department.”
“Yes, miss,” one of them said.
Ingrid drove a ways off, so she could watch the abduction from a safe distance. As her goons waited by the sides of the front door, one of them disabled the security cameras.
Don came out a few minutes later. One of her guys tried to clock him in the head from behind. At that very moment the cop bent down to adjust his shoe laces. The goon missed and the cop noticed him. With a speed belied by his full figure, the cop rolled away and scrambled for the door. The goons gave chase, grabbing him at the entrance. One of them stumbled back from Don's hit. The cop turned around and shot that man. From the way he hopped around, Ingrid judged it a superficial leg wound.
Her other goon missed a punch and almost got shot too. Don changed his mind about which way to go. Ingrid gritted her teeth and held her head as she watched the cop make for his car. He shot behind him, shattering the glass doors. He managed to start his car. A goon held on to the door. The car dragged him across the parking lot.
Ingrid buckled her seat belt and made a one eighty back into the lot. Her engine roared as her car gained speed. She slammed into the police cruiser's side. Glass shattered and metal crunched. Her airbag cushioned the impact.
One of her goons hopped up to them as she got out. “Take his gun and phone. Put the cop in my trunk,” she told him. Her other goon lay dead on the other side.
Once Don was inside the trunk, Ingrid instructed Barry (she thought) to dump the other goon's body along with the cop car. He complained about his leg.
So hard to find good help, Ingrid thought. What happened to America?
“You'll be fine as long as you do what I say.” After a couple of tries her damaged car coughed to life. It rumbled out of the parking lot, squeaking with every turn.
Episode Seven
“Follow the Scent”
Not knowing what else to do, Libby dialed 911. Dispatch answered on the sixth ring. “Police emergency,” Jackie said with a yawn.
“My husband didn't come home last night and I'm worried,” Libby said.
“You sure he's not with another woman or lying drunk somewheres in the gutter?”
Libby narrowed her eyes. “He better not be.” No, Don wouldn't do that. “I'm really worried. He didn't call or anything. Can you track his cell phone please?”
“Miss, we don't do that.”
“Yes you do.”
Jackie snorted. “So you're one of those. Hold on, let me see if Tom's on duty yet.” Some papers shuffled in the background. “Okay, I'm transferring you over to an officer. He's into conspiracies too.”
The phone beeped in Libby's ear.
“Yellow,” Tom said.
“My husband's missing,” Libby told him. “Help.”
“Libby, buddy, is that you?”
“Yeah. Hi bro. You left the house early today.”
“I tried to hit the gym.” Libby heard him clap on his gut. “I got as far as the deli, where I got a burrito. It was delicious.”
Libby was too worried for talk about food. “Don didn't come home last night.”
“I was wondering why he didn't reply to my emails.”
“He's not at the station?”
“Haven't seen him.” Tom swallowed and burped.
“What should we do?”
“I don't know, dude,” Tom chewed on something else, probably one of those old cupcakes in the small fridge by Don's desk. Libby hoped Tom didn't find her ice cream stash. “If Don's missing, that means you're in charge. Maybe the dogs can find him. That's what they do, right?”
“That's a great idea,” Libby exclaimed. She had wanted to name the two dogs Hunter and Drew, for her favorite kids when she was a summer camp counselor. Now she reconsidered. As Don would've wanted, “I'm gonna name the doggies after the greatest composers who ever lived.”
“Freddie Mercury and Cindy Lauper?” Tom asked.
“No, silly. Wolfgang and Ludvig.”
“Never heard of them,” Tom burped.
After she hung up, Libby searched for something of Don's that would bear his scent. Just as he had file piles at the station, Don kept several hills of clothes at home. He had a “system” here too, and she was not allowed to tidy up without incurring his crankiness. She forgot which was the clean pile and which was slated for the laundry. But one particular garment called out to her. Clumped together sweatpants and t-shirt, in its own pile behind the door. On one of Libby's many attempts to get them to exercise she actually got Don to jog with her. She smiled at the memory: Don complaining about the exercise, then running behind her and pinching her butt as they struggled up a gentle incline. He was against washing his exercise clothes because “they'll just get sweaty again, so it's a waste of effort.”
Libby got the shirt and pants off the floor and called the older dog. “Here Ludvig. Here boy.” The pit bull waddled over, a goofy grin on his face. She petted and kissed his forehead. “We're gonna find Don. We're gonna find your daddy.”
She positioned the clothes next to Ludvig's nose. Although he didn't have any beagle blood like his son, Libby thought the dog would get a good whiff and find the trail. Instead, the pit bull whimpered and ran away. He bound down the stairs. Libby heard him skid on the first floor landing.
“What's the matter with him?” Libby wondered and blinked. She sniffed at the clothes. “Oh my God,” she gagged. With burning eyes she dropped the exercise outfit into the hamper.
Lucus went to the County Clerk's as soon as he left his house in the morning. The records clerk greeted him as if for the first time, the previous night's interview forgotten. Lucus and Tom had found Chester and his wife at dinner. Tom accepted Mrs. Marlow's invitation to the table. As they ate (it was only polite that Lucus also join them) weird thumping noises came from upstairs.
Mrs. Marlow said it was just the wind, but Lucus decided to check anyway. Perhaps Travis Quinton or whoever they'd been tracking had an accomplice. He drew his gun and crept up the stairs. The thumping came from behind a closed door. It was locked.
Lucus kicked it in and found a bound and gagged woman. She stared at him and tried to hop away with her chair. All she managed, however, was to fall backward. He removed her gag. “Who did this to you?”
“Duey McCaliker,” she said through chapped lips.
Back downstairs, Lucus asked Mrs. Marlow why she hadn't told him about the imprisoned woman. “Duey told us not to. Such a nice young man. Best case worker we've had in some time. This one,” she pointed at the other woman, now untied and rubbing her wrists, “was stealing from us. She had me tied to a chair. Serves her right for having the same done to her.”
The other woman hobbled out the door. Lucus gave chase. Corn on the cob eating Tom stayed behind, “to protect the Marlows.” It was easy enough to catch the thief and put her in the squad car, as that's where she ran.
Chester smiled from behind the counter at Lucus.
“I'm looking for copies of certain deeds,” Lucus said and showed the man a list. His wife would be in the station later that day to make a formal statement against the intruder in her home, Candice Witmore.
Chester continued smiling, but made no move to retrieve anything. With Tom not there to stop him, Lucus entered the records room. It took him a while to understand how everything was organized. Eventually he located the properties in question and examined copies of the deeds.
Mort's name wasn't on any of them. Lucus flushed as he wrote down the new names. They kept the poor bastard in a jail cell overnight. Don wouldn't be happy either, si
nce it was Lucus' work that cast suspicion on the ME. He should've known better, or found it at least somewhat suspicious that someone was back here “helping” Chester.
“Does the property clerk have an assistant, usually?” he asked the receptionist at the front door.
“No,” she shook her head.
“Happen to know who that guy was with him yesterday?”
“Duey something,” she said.
“Thanks,” Lucus headed for the exit. He paused at the door. He pulled out his cell phone and found the Travis Quinton mugshot Don sent everyone through an APB. “Was this the man?” Lucus returned to the counter.
The woman examined Travis' photo. “Might be him,” she said.
Lucus thanked her.
He thought about it as he drove to the station. The phone they were tracking was almost certainly Quinton's. It was found on his body, after all. That meant he was in the Marlow house. Both Mrs. Marlow and Candice Witmore referred to someone in that house as Duey McCaliker. The most likely explanation was that Travis told these people he was Duey. He also told the receptionist at the County Clerk's.
It was Travis that handed Chester the forged property transaction records. He must have been the one to forge them, printing them out in the records room. The man they'd been hunting was not ten feet away from them and they missed him.
Lucus hit the steering wheel. How could they be so stupid?
So, what? Travis was living with the Marlows? Then Duey found him somehow and chased him into the woods, where he shot him?
Lucus pulled over to write all this down.
How did Duey know where Travis was? He had the ME van. Did that have a radio?
Lucus put the car back in gear and on the road. A minute later he pulled over again.
Why did Travis alter the property records to implicate Mort? He scrolled through his contacts for Clyde's number. It went straight to voicemail. Lucus tried calling Duncan.
“Hey bro.”
“Hey Dunk, you at the warehouse?”
“No man. Just finishing up here in the woods where that guy Quinton died.”
“Who's at the warehouse?”
“Um,” Duncan sounded like a kid the teacher caught sleeping. “A couple of uniforms. That guy who always complains about everything.”
“Kurt?”
“Yeah, I think so. Also I think the fat guy too. The one with the girlish face.”
