Blood Trails

by Michael A. Black

  Stretching out his gun in front of him, he scanned the area.

  No sign of Laird. The noise of the train nearly obscured the sound of something else. Something familiar. A rhythmic clacking again, just like back at the hotel.

  Steps. Metal steps.

  Colby got to his feet and ran toward the sound. A banister came into view, followed by a set of stairs going down the other side of the incline. He saw a figure running on the street below briefly illuminated by the overhead glow of the street lights. Colby raised his gun and fired instinctively. The figure jerked but kept going toward the superstructure of massive pipes and cement pumping towers fifty yards away. The odor was unmistakable: an oil refinery.

  Colby descended the steps as fast as he could. He took out the mini-mag and shook it. The light came back on and he shone it over the ground in front of him. Spots of blood on the cement sidewalk marked the way. A blood trail. Colby felt a surge of adrenaline. For the first time in the chase he felt he had the upper hand, but Laird had disappeared.

  At least he had a bullet in him. A wounded man couldn’t go far.

  An eight-foot high cyclone fence surrounded the refinery’s perimeter, and the top was bracketed by three strands of barbed wire. No way Laird could climb over it.

  As Colby drew closer, he saw the break in the fence. The bent, pulled-back section near the support post would easily allow someone to slip through. The crimson trail led right to the opening, smears of blood marking the round post.

  Colby squeezed through, peering around at the massive conglomeration of pipes and ladders, sheet-metal buildings, large cement towers, and chimneys belching out plumes of acrid smoke. The smell of oil and sulfur were heavy in the air, along with a cacophony of loud, clanging sounds. Colby moved up to a trailer and squatted behind its yellow flange.

  Christ, he could be anywhere, Colby thought, trying to assess his next move.

  The area before him was an unending maze of twisting pipes, and narrow corridors, but the lighting was good. Getting to his feet, he jogged to the closest cement tower. An implanted ladder led upward, toward several platforms.

  He reached out and was about to start climbing, hoping to get high enough to see Laird from above, when he spotted the blood trail again: red spots dotted the way on a long, concrete driveway toward a section of lighted buildings. A new fear gripped Colby. If this place were on three shifts then there’d be workers here. That meant he couldn’t shoot at the first thing that looked like a man, but Laird would have no such compunction.

  He cursed his forgotten radio.

  Got to find a phone and get some help, he thought, following the blood trail toward the next cement tower.

  A distant wail of sirens weaved through the ubiquitous hissing and clanging of the refinery. Then in between the intermittent noises, he heard something else. A man’s voice screaming, followed by a shot.

  Colby ran toward the sound. The network of twisting pipes parted to form a widening aisle illuminated by a series of overhead mercury vapor lights. About thirty yards away the aisle opened into a larger, paved area of lighted shacks next to a long driveway. In the middle of it, a man in a hard-hat lay on the ground. Laird was several feet beyond the supine figure, pointing a pistol at a man in a truck and yelling.

  Their words were indecipherable under the canopy of noise, and Colby didn’t waste time yelling any commands. Instead, he raised his pistol, struggling to control his breathing. Bracing against the side of the building, he cocked back the hammer and sighted in on Laird’s back. It was a risky shot, but he knew he had to take it.

  A second later Colby squeezed the trigger and saw Laird jerk forward, take two small, stutter-steps, and fall face-first onto the ground.

  Chapter 1

  Twenty-Eight Years Later

  Colby couldn’t get comfortable in the cushioned chair. The sweat was trickling down from his armpits, and the studio’s bright lights just about blinded him. He glanced quickly toward the phony curtains covering the mock window that supposedly looked out on downtown Chicago. Behind it, he knew, was just more empty space in the TV station’s expansive sound stage.

  “And did you later find out where your shots hit him?” Pierce Nolan, the newscaster for Chicago Today, asked. The guy’s handsome face was the perfect picture of concern, but Colby knew the expression was no more real than the false office facade.

  “My first shot, the one that gave me the blood trail to follow, hit him in the left calf.” Colby waited before adding, “The second one hit his spine.”

  Nolan’s brow furrowed. “And that’s the one that paralyzed him?” Colby nodded.

  “Were you at all concerned about shooting Laird in the back?”

  Colby stared at him before answering. The stupidity of the question both angered and amused him. “No, I wasn’t.”

  “I can understand that,” Nolan said, nodding in agreement. “After all, you were trying to take out a vicious killer, weren’t you?”

  “I was trying to stop him,” Colby said. “And to keep him from killing the civilian in the truck.” This interview was turning into one hell of a mess.

  “But you were too late to save the Swanstrom twins.”

  Colby took a deep breath and nodded his head. “Laird subsequently told us where he’d hidden them, but by that time, it was way too late.”

  “And ironically, that was the case that took the death penalty off the table, correct?”

  Colby nodded.

  “And is that the reason you’ve dedicated your book to them? The twins?”

  Colby nodded again. He felt like a puppet, but his throat was too tight to answer.

  “Well,” Nolan said. “That’s quite a story.” He paused and smiled.

  The guy was a lightweight. Colby found himself wishing they’d assigned the black girl, Carmel, to interview him instead of this jerk. She was sharper, not that either of them were interested in anything but their likeability quotients and ratings.

  Holding up the book, the newscaster looked directly into the camera and said, “There you have it folks, the real story from a real-life hero, Chicago Police Detective Roger Colby.” He paused, lowered the book, and resumed what he must have thought was a pensive expression on his face. “Now I have to ask a serious question.”

  Colby waited, his cop instincts taking over. He was essentially a counter-puncher, waiting for the other guy to speak first.

  The newsman’s mouth jerked into a smile. “You’ve described to us how difficult it was for you to bring Morgan Laird to justice twenty-eight years ago.”

  Colby shifted in his chair.

  “And now,” Nolan continued, “he’s been released on parole, back into society.”

  Colby noticed him abruptly shift his gaze away from him and toward the blinding lights. Toward the camera. This guy was a real ham.

  He held up two fingers, ticking off his points. “One, how does that make you feel, and two, do you think that Morgan Laird is still a threat to society? After all, he is confined to a wheelchair.”

  Colby cleared his throat, trying to figure out what to say. The questions hadn’t been among the ones submitted in the pre-interview script.

  I’m here trying to push my book, he thought, and Mr. Blow-dried throws me a curve ball.

  “A man like Laird is always a threat,” Colby managed to say before a voice from off stage interrupted him.

  “He damn sure is. That’s why I taught Detective Colby everything he knows. So he could keep fighting the good fight after I hung up my gloves.”

  The voice was unmistakable. Colby’s head shot around as a grin spread over his face.

  “Dix,” he said, rising.

  Nolan sat there like a grinning fool, but Colby couldn’t have cared less. He walked over and embraced his long-retired partner as the co-anchor, Carmel Washington, walked him across the floor.

  “All I can say is,” Dix gave Colby a light punch on the arm. “You’d better have spelled my name right in that damn book.�
��

  It’d been almost ten years since they’d seen each other. Dix was heavier, with silver hair swept back from his forehead in the styled perfection that only a really good hairpiece could provide. He looked like a beardless Santa, smiling, with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Because if you didn’t,” Dix said, “you’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

  “Detective Colby,” Carmel said, “Mr. Dix contacted us right after we had your interview set up. He insisted he wanted to surprise you. I hope that’s okay.”

  Colby smiled. “It’s great.”

  “He knows I was always the brains of the outfit,” Dix said, sitting in one of the additional chairs. “Like I told you, I’m the guy that taught him everything he knows.”

  “Plus, he took a bullet capturing Morgan Laird,” Colby said.

  “And what you were saying about Laird still being a threat,” Dix continued, “my partner’s absolutely right. The only time he’ll stop being a threat is when he quits breathing.”

  “But perhaps,” Carmel said, “others would argue that the man has served his time. And, the man is in a wheelchair now.”

  “That’s justice.” Dix patted Colby on the shoulder. “But only because my partner was such a good shot.”

  Colby remained silent, his mind racing back over those split-seconds: aiming, estimating the trajectory, trying to control his trigger pull, his breathing.

  “He shoulda been in another chair,” Dix added. “The one they used to call Old Sparky.”

  “I think they’d switched to lethal injection back then,” Colby managed to say.

  “Either one of them would’ve been fine with me,” Dix snorted. “Better than what we got now.”

  “We’ll have to save the debate about the abolition of the death penalty for another show, gentlemen,” Carmel said, turning to smile into the camera. “Attorney Lance Fontaine has been quoted as saying that Mr. Laird lived up to the arrangement that was made, and he’s now paid the debt that society ascribed to him.”

  Dix snorted again. “At the time, we all thought the son-of-a-bitch would be behind bars forever.” He shook his head. “They assured us he’d never be released.”

  Great, Colby thought. This was spiraling out of control. He tried in vain to glance over to check if the copy of his book was still standing upright.

  “We’re out of time,” Carmel said, her smile seeming a bit strained now, but still dazzling, nonetheless. “Once again, we’ve been talking to police detective-turned-author, Roger Colby, about his new book, Blood Trails, which describes the track-down and capture of paroled serial killer Morgan Laird.”

  Dix reached down, grabbed the book, held it toward the camera, and grinned. “And I’m Fred Dix, the real hero of the story.”

  Carmel smiled, this time more genuinely, as the cameraman counted them down and then out. She stood and smoothed out her skirt. Colby saw Dix checking out her legs.

  “Thanks again for the interview,” Colby said, extending his hand toward Nolan and then Carmel.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Too bad they let that man out of prison. But at least he doesn’t seem to be capable of causing any major hurt.”

  “Never underestimate a criminal, my dear,” Dix said, stepping between Carmel and Colby. “In fact, he could be lurking in your parking garage. You should let an experienced law enforcement professional like myself walk you to your car.”

  She smiled. “We have our own security, sir.”

  “Sir? Please, call me Dix. How about I escort you for lunch, then?” He raised his eyebrows a couple times. “We could get a drink or two and I could tell some real good stories.”

  “What would your grandkids say?” Carmel asked, smiling as she walked away.

  Colby placed an arm around Dix’s shoulders and steered him off the sound stage. “Come on, partner, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and we can catch up.”

  Dix went along, looking over his shoulder to ogle Carmel in her tight skirt. He turned back to Colby. “Maybe I should tell her there’s snow on the roof, but there’s fire in the furnace. I think she’s got the hots for me.”

  “Yeah, right,” Colby said. “Only she don’t know it yet. What’d you do, stick up a Viagra van?”

  Before Dix could answer two figures stepped into the aisle next to the heavy, floor-length curtains. The man and woman were both conservatively dressed—him in a dark blue suit and her in a blue pantsuit.

  Suits, thought Colby. That can only mean one thing.

  “Detective Colby,” the man said, holding up a wallet-sized, black leather case with a gold FBI shield affixed to it. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Pearson, and this is Special Agent O’Keefe. We’re with the Bureau.” He paused, obviously for the maximum effect, then added, “We need to talk with you.”

  “About what?”

  Pearson’s face was impassive. “We can discuss that at our office.”

  Knox edged the BMW up to the sign that warned all firearms must be declared before entering Canada. He reflected that bringing his Walther across the border would have made the upcoming task much easier, but he couldn’t afford to take the chance it might be discovered at this check point. Besides, he thought, the knife made things more up-close-and-personal. It was a bit more problematic in the grand scheme of things, but after all, his specialty was solving problems.

  The lane opened up in front of him and he gathered his long, blond hair into a pony-tail and secured it with a band as he pulled up to the booth. He wanted to make sure his face matched the picture on the passport. He’d get a crew-cut afterward. The mustache and goatee would have to go as well, when he got back to Chicago.

  The pretty, dark-haired Canuck smiled at him and said, “Welcome to Canada,” the girl said. She looked about twenty-five. Nice teeth. Nice neck, too. “May I see your passport or identification, sir?”

  He handed her the passport listing his name as Vernon Krems.

  She looked at it and typed something into her keyboard. Knox knew the name would come back clear, with a valid driver’s license.

  “Your destination, Mr. Krems?”

  “Toronto,” he said.

  “And what’s the purpose of your visit?” She looked at him. Obviously, she had run a check on the license plate, which would have come back to New Genesis. Knox thought for a moment before answering.

  “Sir, the purpose of your visit?” the girl persisted. “Business or pleasure?”

  If she only knew.

  He flashed a benign smile. “Business,” he said, shifting and suddenly feeling the solid pressure of the knife’s metallic hardness against his left side as he shifted in the seat. “But some pleasure, too, I hope.”

  The girl glanced back at the screen and typed something else, then handed him back the phony passport.

  “Enjoy your stay,” she said, her mouth forming a cute smile.

  “I’m sure I will,” Knox said.

  Colby glanced at his watch as he shifted in the uncomfortable chair. They’d kept him waiting in this outer office for twenty-five minutes, after saying they’d be “right back.”

  Right back my ass, he thought. The secretary looked up from her computer keyboard and smiled nervously, as if she could read his thoughts.

  Colby stretched, felt the relief of a few pops in his back, and stood up.

  The hell with this. He took out one of his cards and approached the nervous looking girl at the computer monitor.

  “I’m going to shove off,” he said, holding out the card. “Tell Agent Pearson to give me a call—”

  Just as he was speaking, a shadow came up on the other side of the glass door that separated the office area from this waiting room. Pearson stepped out and motioned for Colby to enter.

  The guy was holding a copy of Blood Trails.

  Maybe he wants my autograph, Colby thought.

  “I thought you forgot about me,” he said, pocketing the card in his jacket.

  “Hardly,” Pearson said. “A call from Quantico.” He t
ucked the book under a file he was carrying.

  Quantico, Colby thought. As if that explained everything. Pearson led him down a hallway with offices on each side. Most of the doors were open, but the offices looked empty. A far cry from his own station-house where everybody was busy.

  Of course, for the most part, the Feds had the luxury of picking and choosing which cases they wanted to investigate.

  And I wonder what they want with me, he thought.

  “In here,” Pearson said, pausing and opening a door at the end of the corridor. As soon as Colby entered he knew it had to be one of their interview rooms. No outside-view windows, no pictures on the walls, no desk, no phone. Just a nondescript table and a couple of chairs. Colby glanced at his reflection in the mirrored section on the left wall. One-way glass.

  The next thing, they’d be handing me a rights-waiver form, he thought.

  The female agent from the studio stood in a corner by the glass window.

  “Sit down,” Pearson said, indicating the “hot seat” chair. Colby frowned and looked at Agent O’Keefe.

  She was kind of pretty, he thought. In an official, federal sort of way. Pearson, on the other hand, looked like Timmy from Lassie, all grown up.

  Colby remained standing. “You want to clue me in about this?”

  Pearson ignored him, fiddling with something inside the manila file folder.

  “Excuse me.” Colby was making no effort to hide the irritation in his voice now. “I asked you a question.”

  “If you don’t mind, Officer Colby,” Pearson said, “we’ll ask the questions.”

  “Fine. Then ask them, because I got a lot of work to do. So far, this has been a big waste of my time.”

  Pearson’s eyes shot toward O’Keefe, who raised her eyebrows.

  They do more non verbals than Penn and Teller, Colby thought. And they were almost as irritating.

  “In your interview this morning you mentioned you thought the handling of the Laird case was a miscarriage of justice,” O’Keefe said.

  Colby nodded, and then waited for a follow-up. When none came, he added, “Yeah, it was. The State’s Attorney’s Office took the death sentence off the table if he’d show us where the other bodies were buried. They guaranteed that he’d die in prison, but now he’s out. I’d call that an abortion, not a miscarriage, but I didn’t want to use those words on TV.”