Terminal 9

by Patricia H. Rushford

  PATRICIA H. RUSHFORD

  HARRISON JAMES

  TERMINAL 9

  Copyright © 2005 Integrity Publishers.

  Published by Integrity Publishers, a division of Integrity Media, Inc., 5250 Virginia Way, Suite 110, Brentwood, TN 37027.

  HELPING PEOPLE WORLDWIDE EXPERIENCE the MANIFEST PRESENCE of GOD.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  Cover Design: Brand Navigation, LLC | www.brandnavigation.com

  Interior: Inside Out Design & Typesetting

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rushford, Patricia H.

  Terminal nine / by Patricia H. Rushford and Harrison James.

  p. cm.

  Summary: “Book Three of the McAllister Files fiction series. Mac McAllister with new partner, Dana Bennett, investigate murder of an elderly retired railroad worker”—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 1-59145-212-0

  1. McAllister, Mac (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Older people—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Retirees—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Railroads— Employees—Fiction. 5. Police—Oregon—Fiction. 6. Oregon—Fiction.

  I. Title: Terminal 9. II. James, Harrison. III. Title.

  PS3568.U7274T47 2005

  813'.54—dc22

  2004025540

  Printed in the United States of America

  05 06 07 08 09 DELTA 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dedicated to our families and friends

  who unfailingly give support and encouragement

  in our writing endeavors

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ONE

  GOT TO GET HELP. Call 9-1-1.

  Clay had been feeling poorly all day. He should have called earlier, but being the stubborn old man he was, he thought the pain would pass. It had only grown worse. Never had he experienced such agony. Clay had no idea what had caused the pain or the spikes in his blood sugar despite his regular doses of insulin.

  His vision blurred and dimming, eighty-nine-year-old Clay Mullins clutched the back of the kitchen chair and arched his back in an effort to ease the sharp spasms in his side. His breaths came in gasps. Using the chair for a modicum of stability, he scooted it forward on the linoleum floor and shuffled the final steps to the kitchen phone.

  Clay gripped the chair more tightly with his left hand while he reached for the cordless phone with his right. His fingers, now numb and paralytic, refused to punch in the numbers he so desperately needed to press. Still he stabbed at them, hoping to depress the three life-saving numbers.

  Come on. Ring.

  What was wrong? His mind raced with possibilities. Was he having a stroke? He could think of no other reason for his fingers to go numb and refuse to cooperate with the dictates of his mind. His diabetes? Clay glanced at his medical kit on the kitchen counter. He had been testing his blood sugar and administering his insulin as he always did. His blood sugar was too high, but . . . no, this was something else.

  His legs gave way and crumpled beneath him, propelling him to the unforgiving linoleum floor. The phone fell inches from his face, though it might as well have been miles away with his useless fingers clenched and buried in the palms of his hands.

  “Help me!” Clay yelled into the silent phone, hoping his clumsy attempt at dialing had been successful. “This is Clay Mullins. I live in the house by the river at Terminal 9. I think I’m having a stroke.” His words sounded garbled and incoherent.

  Clay waited for a response, hoping to hear sirens in the background as he used what little strength he had left in his thick arms to drag himself to his knees. The pain in his stomach seemed to worsen by the second, and the numbness in his hands had spread to his wrists and forearms.

  Instead of sirens Clay heard only the alarming beep-beep-beep from the phone, indicating it had been off the hook too long.

  The phone was useless to him now. Even if he could manage to dial, they wouldn’t understand him. But there was another way. If he could get to his motorized chair . . .

  Clay took a long, shuddering breath, looking at his four-wheeled scooter in the corner of the kitchen. It was still plugged in to recharge its batteries, but there would be plenty of juice to get him to the rail yard. All he had to do was get himself over to the gall darn thing. C’mon, you old gandy dancer. It’s either get to that chair or die onthe kitchen floor.

  Old as he was, he had no intention of dying, at least not yet. There were still too many things to accomplish. With a grimace and yelp of pain, Clay lurched forward, nearly passing out from the pain. He lurched again, and again. Finally reaching the chair, he somehow managed to crawl up into the seat. The motorized scooter sat facing the front door, set in forward gear the way he always left it—ready to head out at a moment’s notice.

  Breathing a prayer of thanks and offering up a plea for help, Clay leaned over the handlebars and snapped the toggle switch to the on position. Not needing throttle assistance to move, the machine lurched forward on idle. With its four rubber tires, sporting aggressive tread, the scooter easily navigated the kitchen floor and the carpeted living room. Using his clenched fist, Clay punched the automated door opener on the wall by the front door.

  The scooter, now working on its own accord, seemed impatient as it rammed into the doorframe before the door had fully opened. It bumped over the threshold and rumbled down the handicap ramp extending from Clay’s front porch. A harsh east wind tore into his shirt. His breaths turned to clouds of smoke on the chilly March night.

  With Clay unable to squeeze the hand brake, the machine picked up speed as it hummed over the wooden ramp onto the packed gravel path. Clay wasn’t concerned about the speed though, as he’d taken this same route hundreds of times from his riverfront home near the train yard in St. Helens, Oregon, to Terminal 9. Having worked at the Western Pacific Rail Head at Terminal 9 for more than forty years, he instinctively aimed his vehicle at the twenty-four-hour hub, hoping to find someone there who would call for an ambulance.

  Clay heaved his body forward, pressing his forearms against the handlebars to steer the scooter away from the path that led down to the Columbia River and onto the trail leading to the rail yard. The glaring lights and deafening sound of the train brakes guide
d him more surely than his fading sight. His neck muscles collapsed and his head drooped and bobbed around like that of an unstrung puppet.

  A convulsion tore through him. Warm vomit erupted from his stomach and dribbled out of his open mouth, down his chin, and onto his shirt.

  Almost there. Clay crossed the footbridge at the first rail crossing that marked the edge of his private acreage and bordered the rail yard property. The right front tire caught in the second rail groove and flipped the scooter on its side, efficiently dumping Clay onto the track.

  No. Not now. Please, not now. Tires spun and the chair whirred in protest. Cries for help died in his throat. His tongue felt thick and dry. He saw no one in the hazy dusk, but then he hadn’t really expected to. He was lying on a deadhead track—a diversion rail that stored empty boxcars waiting to be placed into service. Clay pulled his knees to his chest as the wicked pain in his abdomen and chest worsened. Two quick blasts on a distant air horn and the vibration in the track told him the deadheads were being moved to the terminal on the very track on which he lay. The yard goat would not see his darkened shadow—and even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop an engine pushing thirty deadheads.

  Soon the old gandy dancer would be crushed beneath the wheels of the train. Ironic, in a way. He’d been born a railroad man—hung around the rail yards all his life. Now he would die here.

  The lonely horn from the diesel engine and the vibration on the tracks from the train’s rumble would startle most people—terrify them if they lay in its path as Clay did. But the sounds and vibrations only served to comfort him as he ceased his struggle and gave in to the inevitable.

  TWO

  OREGON STATE POLICE DETEC TIVE Antonio “Mac” McAllister had just finished a ten-hour shift and was looking forward to an evening watching basketball in his easy chair with Lucy, his eight-year-old golden retriever. Buried in reports, he’d spent the bulk of Tuesday’s shift inside his detective cubicle within the agency’s Portland patrol office.

  “What do we have here, Lucy?” Mac patted the friendly dog on the forehead and scratched her ears as he thumbed through the mail. “Junk mail, junk mail, and what’s this?” He turned the envelope over and sighed. “Junk mail.” Mac tossed the pile of advertisements and credit card offers into the recycling bin under his kitchen sink.

  Lucy, determined not to let her master break contact, followed him through the small apartment as he flipped on lights and turned the thermostat up to seventy degrees. Although the seasons were changing, March in the Pacific Northwest still offered some cool evenings, and tonight was one of them.

  “The Blazers play the Cavs at six, Lucy.” Mac glanced at the clock on the mantel as he pulled off his tie and tossed it over the sofa, next to the sports coat he’d shed as he walked in the door. “We’ve still got fifteen minutes. Should we get some takeout or rough it?”

  Mac slipped out of his shoulder holster, wrapping the leather straps over his .40-caliber Glock before setting the rig on top of his refrigerator. He opened the freezer door wide to look for something worth eating. While rifling through the meager contents, he unclipped his badge from his belt and tossed it on the counter. His spare magazine pouch followed, holding an extra fifteen rounds for his handgun.

  “Nothing in here,” Mac muttered. He really needed to go to the grocery store. He peered inside the refrigerator, knowing it would yield the same results. Besides a door full of condiments, he had nothing but pop and a bag of prepackaged, wilting salad mix inside the crisper drawer.

  “Hmm. Think I’ll call Leong’s and order a little Chinese tonight.” Mac pulled the pager off his belt, setting the alarm mode from vibrate to audible before putting it on the counter next to his phone. A magnet on the refrigerator door held a takeout menu for his favorite Asian restaurant, but Mac ignored that as he picked up the phone. He had the restaurant’s number on speed dial and always ordered the same thing: hot and sour soup, Kung Pao chicken, fried rice, sweet and sour spare ribs, and broccoli beef. Mac placed his order with the woman who always answered. There was no need to give his address; the delivery person knew exactly where Mac lived.

  After hanging up, Mac yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. Using the remote that lay on the coffee table, he clicked on the television set and walked back into the bedroom.

  Lucy dutifully followed, her thick tail tapping the hallway wall. The answering machine next to his bed blinked its red eye, and the digital screen indicated he had two messages. He’d been meaning to get a wider notepad to place next to his bed, to document the details of those late-night calls from work. The two-inch square Post-it notes sitting there now barely had enough space to write a phone number, let alone detailed scribbles from a sleepy hand. “Come on, Lucy, let’s get a new notepad while I’m thinking about it.”

  Lucy backed down the hallway as Mac turned on his heels and headed toward the kitchen.

  While looking through the kitchen junk drawer by the phone, Mac’s department pager went off with the all-too-familiar beep. Mac stopped searching and slammed the drawer closed. “Oh, no. Not now. You know what that means, girl. Work.”

  The dog wagged her tail, raised her nose in the air, and pushed her head against Mac’s hand for a pat. Mac complied as he pulled the digital pager from the black plastic belt clip and read the display. Call 11-50 at the office for an assignment.

  “Sergeant Evans. Why is he still at the office?”

  Lucy tilted her head and looked at Mac as though she wondered the same thing.

  “Looks like I’m definitely going back to work.”

  Mac dialed his office to speak to his supervisor, Detective Sergeant Frank Evans. The old workhorse was always the first one to arrive at the patrol office and the last to leave. Frank ran the small squad of Oregon State Police detectives who were assigned to investigate violent person crimes, primarily death investigations. Mac was one of five detectives assigned to Sergeant Evans. However, one of those officers, Mac’s ex-partner and mentor, Kevin Bledsoe, was working modified duty while he battled prostate cancer.

  Kevin had taught Mac nearly everything he knew about homicide investigations. Then at the first of the year, Kevin had learned about the cancer and began chemotherapy. Having no intention of taking early retirement, Kevin opted to work various light-duty assignments at the office when he could—primarily administrative backgrounds and evidence.

  When the automated attendant answered, Mac punched in Frank’s extension. He heaved a huge sigh as he looked over at the basketball game that was just starting. Mac hurried over to the coffee table, picked up the remote, and muted the set as Frank’s extension rang.

  “Sergeant Evans,” the gruff voice answered after five rings.

  “Yeah, Sarge, this is Mac. I got a page from dispatch to call you.”

  “Yeah, Mac, sorry about the delay. I’ve had this phone screwed in my ear for half an hour. I need you to head out to Columbia County on a twelve-forty-nine. Some old guy got clipped by a train, and the district attorney wants us to take a look at it. It was probably an accident, but there are some loose ends that need to be tied up before we can clear the case. You able to respond?” The sergeant asked the question as a formality, fully expecting an affirmative answer.

  Mac looked longingly at the television set and then down at his canine companion. “Sure. I had plans, but I can take off if you need me.”

  “What’s that?” Frank said. “I was putting you on speakerphone and missed what you said.”

  “Nothing,” Mac sighed. “Just wondering where we’re staging.”

  He clipped his pager back on his belt.

  “That’s what I’m looking for. I wrote it down here somewhere.”

  Mac could picture Frank pacing around his office. He wondered why the sergeant even had a chair.

  “Here it is. You need to meet the D.A. down at Terminal 9 in St.

  Helens. It’s between Highway 30 and the river. I’ve got the address here somewhere.”

  “Th
at’s okay, Sarge. I know the place. It lights up the area like a football stadium at night, so I won’t have any trouble. We’re going to be on the big clock. Do you want Dana on overtime too?” Mac asked, knowing the sergeant was as tight with agency money as he was his own checkbook.

  “Yeah,” he said after a long moment. “Better take her along for the experience. Don’t go making a fuss on this one, Mac. If nothing’s there, hang it up. If it looks like an accident, then call it and get out of there. Let the local P.D. clean this fish. We’re only involved because the D.A. wants us to take a look at it.”

  “Got it. I’ll give Dana a call and we’ll get going.”

  “Good. Leave me a voice mail on your progress if you aren’t going to be in the office on time tomorrow morning—in case you pull an all-nighter.”

  “Yes sir.” Mac heard a click on the other end, indicating Frank had ended the call. He set down the phone and hunkered down to rub Lucy’s head. “C’mon, girl. Back to your kennel.” Mac made his way back to the utility room and opened the door. Lucy walked in without complaint and, after rounding and adjusting her thick pad, settled inside the oversized kennel.

  Mac hated to keep her in there, but she scratched at the front door when he was away. His neighbor, Carl, had a key to the apartment in case Mac worked overtime and needed someone to let Lucy out. Carl was a doting dog lover, often coming in to let Lucy free just so he could spend time with her. “I’ll see you later, girl.” Mac shut the door to the room, walked back to the kitchen phone, and dialed Dana’s home phone.

  He got the machine. “Come on, Dana; it’s Mac. If you’re there, pick up.” She didn’t answer.

  He frowned.Wonder where she is. We left work at the same time.

  Dana, Mac’s new partner and old friend, lived in the Fairview Apartments on his side of the river in Vancouver,Washington. She should have been home by now. He dialed her pager with 9-1-1 at the end of his number.

  Fresh out of patrol and still on probation, Dana had been partnered with Mac after Kevin went on light duty in February. Although Mac enjoyed working with Dana, he hoped Kevin would be back in the saddle soon. Mac was a fairly new detective to the homicide division too, and he had hoped to spend a few more years working with the veteran, instead of a rookie detective. Not that she didn’t have experience. She’d spent the last year on patrol and had studied and worked hard to get into the department. Mac wasn’t exactly a newcomer either, having worked for several years on patrol and as a detective in property crimes, as well as the Child Abuse Unit.