Riders Down

by John McEvoy

  As she began questioning O’Connor, Bledsoe muttered, “So that’s what the son of a bitch looks like.” He watched as O’Connor told the reporter, “The man authorities are looking for, Bledsoe, may well be the key figure in a national race-fixing scandal. We’re all very anxious to talk to Mr. Bledsoe. That’s all I can say at this point.” O’Connor turned away from the camera, then abruptly pivoted to again face the lens, his expression hardened. “What I will say,” he added bitterly, “was that my best friend has been killed, way, way before his time.

  “Why?” Matt said in answer to the reporter’s question. “There have been all kinds of theories, speculation. An embittered bettor. Some lunatic with a grudge against mankind, acting randomly. My guess,” Matt added, turning to again face the camera directly, “is that someone screwed up and my friend died as the result of a case of mistaken identity.”

  Bledsoe turned off the television. His hand shook slightly as he poured a cup of coffee. He felt as if the air had been vacuumed from his lungs. He took a sip of coffee, then hurled the cup against the kitchen wall. “I can’t believe this,” he said loudly. Bledsoe slammed his fist down on the old, wooden kitchen table. The table crumpled in the middle, its legs splaying out across the linoleum floor. He sat for several minutes amid the debris, head in hands, knowing that he would never have the satisfaction of dumping his mound of cash on lawyer Altman’s desk, knowing that Grandma Bledsoe’s $15 million would never be his. Disappearing along with those many millions were his dream of the Claude Bledsoe Chair of Economics. “Damn it,” he said, kicking one of the broken table legs against the far wall. Finally, he took a deep breath and shrugged, now resigned but full of a new resolve. “I’ll just have to make do with my one million,” he said with a bitter laugh.

  He walked to the desk in his bedroom. His computer whirred and gurgled into life. As it did so, he dialed 411 on his phone. “Evanston, Illinois,” he told the operator. “The name is O’Connor, Matt or Matthew. I need the address, too.” She was back within seconds with the information.

  Turning back to his computer, Bledsoe hit Google, then Mapquest. He typed in his address and O’Connor’s. When the directions came up on the screen, he memorized them instantly before shutting down the computer. From his bedroom closet he took a roll of fiber tape, a clear plastic bag, a pair of latex gloves, and two brown duffel bags. After grabbing his car keys he ran down the stairs.

  Matt’s voice rang in his ears, a scathing irritant. “We’re all very anxious to talk to Mr. Bledsoe…”

  “You’ll get your chance, motherfucker,” Bledsoe growled as he settled behind the wheel of the Toyota. “You’ll get your chance.” He heard a siren from blocks away, heading his way, as he accelerated onto the street leading to Highway 51 going east.

  Twenty-seven minutes later, Bledsoe had emptied his safe deposit boxes in the Sun Prairie bank. He placed the bundles of cash in the two duffel bags, each now weighing some fifty-five pounds. In the bank parking lot, he tucked the bags in the tire well of the Toyota’s trunk. He transferred the fiber tape, gloves, and plastic bag into his briefcase, which he placed next to him on the passenger seat. Then he rejoined the eastbound traffic on the highway heading toward Milwaukee. He would bypass that city while heading south into Illinois and to Evanston.

  ***

  With a carryout bag of Chinese food in each arm, Maggie struggled at the door to Matt’s condominium, first locating the correct key on her keychain, then briefly balancing the food in one arm as she turned the key in the lock. She bumped her hip against the door to keep it open as she entered. Before the door had completely closed behind her, a large hand covered her mouth, and she heard a man’s voice say, “Let go of the bags. Right now.” Maggie dropped the bags, the white food cartons spilling from them. She dropped her keychain, too, and heard it bounce on the hardwood floor of the foyer.

  For an instant Maggie thought of Katherine Ross being surprised by Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. But that neat example of expectation reversal did not apply here. It wasn’t Matt’s hand pulling her chin upward so that her jaw strained, nor his other arm propelling her through the living room and to the kitchen at the rear of the unit. It wasn’t Matt pushing her down hard on a wooden chair at the kitchen table. Or stuffing a gag in her mouth and fiber-taping her torso to the chair, actions all carried out so swiftly she could barely register them.

  Then she heard the male voice say slowly, gloatingly, “That was easier than I thought it would be.”

  The man moved from behind her chair, her purse in his hands. He took out her wallet and flipped it open to her trainer’s license with its ID photo. Then he stood before her, nonchalantly leaning on the kitchen table with one hand, moving her hair away from her eyes with the other, his hand lingering on her forehead. His eyes glittered. I know who this is, Maggie realized, remembering the photo that had been shown on Chicago television the night before. So this is what a murderous fanatic looks like in the flesh. She gave Bledsoe a scornful look and attempted to speak, but the gag muffled her.

  “Let me introduce myself, Ms. Collins,” he said with mocking formality. “I’m Claude Bledsoe. I believe you’ve heard of me.”

  ***

  As usual Bledsoe had come prepared, but he’d been lucky, too, for he had not expected what was obviously O’Connor’s lady friend to walk in on him. He’d come for O’Connor. The woman was a bonus.

  Bledsoe had also been fortunate in gaining entrance to the condo. After parking his Toyota two blocks down the street on Hinman Avenue from Matt’s address, Bledsoe had walked to the rear of the old, brick, eight-unit building and peered around the basement doorway. What he saw was Chester Pocius, the seventy-seven-year-old building maintenance supervisor, deeply asleep in his cramped office, an ancient twelve-inch television set atop the battered desk showing a Jeopardy rerun.

  Bledsoe carefully reached above the old man’s head to the pegboard on which hung keys for each of the building’s units. Pocius snored with a remarkably rhythmic rumble as Bledsoe extracted the key labeled “Unit Seven-O’Connor.” Cautiously backing out of the office, Bledsoe kept an eye on Pocius, thinking, How ironic is it that this old fart will remain alive today because he happened to be sleeping on the job.

  ***

  Maggie heard rain beginning to pelt the roof and windows. Evanston, adjacent to the huge lake and a frequent summer dumping ground for eastward-moving storm clouds, was being hit with a vengeance. A blast of thunder made her wince. The kitchen was dark now and filled with Bledsoe’s presence. Looking at him, Maggie was as afraid as she had ever been in her life. And conflicted, too, because while her only hope seemed to be the arrival of Matt, that possibility frightened her badly. How could her ball-playing newspaperman deal with someone like this monster?

  Bledsoe whistled softly as he moved about the kitchen, restless but poised, enjoying himself. At one point she heard him say, as if he were lecturing her, “If you want revenge, you don’t have to confine yourself to extracting it only from the object of your hatred.” He shook his big head, eyes gleaming with malice as he stared at her. “What you can do,” he said, “is take away what they love.” Maggie’s eyes widened and she twisted violently in the chair. It was no use. He had bound her tightly.

  ***

  Matt drove with one hand on the steering wheel down busy Dempster Street heading east, with the other hand hitting “repeat dial” on his cell phone for the seventh time in the past half-hour. He had thus far failed to reach Maggie on her cell since he’d left the racetrack. His original impulse had been to ask if there was something he needed to pick up to go with their planned Chinese dinner, wine or some beer. But after repeatedly failing to make contact, he had begun to worry. She always answered her phone, for if it wasn’t Matt calling, it could be one of her clients, or perhaps someone back at her barn who needed to talk to her about one of her horses. Matt started to sweat, thinking about a killer on the loose who certainly kn
ew about him and his role in the dead jockeys’ case. Could Bledsoe have gotten Matt’s address? Would he go there? Would Maggie be there when he showed up? The questions ate at him. “Please, God,” he prayed, zooming through a yellow light at McCormick Boulevard on the western edge of Evanston, “don’t let that be so.” For the next twenty-five worry-ridden blocks, before he at last turned right onto Hinman, he had the windshield wipers at top speed as rain pounded down harder.

  ***

  Despite having sprinted the half-block from where he’d parked to the back stairway of his building, Matt’s clothes were sodden. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to wipe his face and hands with his handkerchief. He also dried off the handle of the aluminum softball bat he’d taken from the trunk of his car, the only weapon immediately available to him. He prayed again—that he wouldn’t have to use the bat, that he’d find Maggie humming to herself as she laid out dishware for their dinner, humming as she always did when working alone in the kitchen.

  Moving quickly and quietly, Matt went up the stairs, careful to avoid brushing against the locked bicycles on the second-floor landing, stepping past the tarpaulin-covered barbecue grill on the third. Nearing the back porch of his condo unit, he slowed and crept carefully up the last few steps. Rain drummed on the roof above him.

  Matt crawled across the porch floor to the kitchen window. It had been raised only an inch or two, not enough to allow the rain in, but enough so that he could hear Bledsoe’s thin tenor voice. Bledsoe’s broad back was turned to Matt. He was speaking to Maggie. Matt heard him say, “Your boyfriend was too good at snooping. Too good for your good, anyway, and for his own, too. You’re going to pay for it first. He’ll be the second note come due once he shows up here.” For a moment Maggie switched her defiant gaze from Bledsoe. She saw Matt through the kitchen window. Her eyes widened, but she quickly shifted them back to Bledsoe.

  “Smart girl,” Matt whispered, as he pulled away from the window and crawled to the back entrance of the condo. The main door was open, the screen door closed but unlatched. Both led into a long corridor that ran to the front of the unit. On the right, ten feet inside the doorway, was an entryway to one of the condo’s two bedrooms, the one Matt used as an office. Directly across the hallway from it was the kitchen. Matt remembered how, in response to Maggie’s urging, he had only the previous weekend sprayed the screen door’s squeaking hinges with the last of his can of WD-40. At the time, he had kidded Maggie for being “too sensitive to inconsequential noises.” Now, he was grateful he’d done her maintenance bidding.

  Matt crawled into the hallway and silently closed the screen door behind him. Careful to keep the aluminum bat from touching the floor, he inched forward, shaking his head to get the sweat out of his eyes. His heart was galloping. Matt could hear Bledsoe more clearly now. Bledsoe was on a self-justifying roll, talking as much to himself as to Maggie. “Those jockeys,” he said, “they were all disposable people, professional athletes. Rock stars, talk show hosts, politicians…same deal. Why would any truly intelligent person give a damn about any of them being removed from the world?”

  Maggie grunted a reply from behind the tape, but Bledsoe paid no attention. “If those jockeys had believed me in the first place, none of them would have had to die. But they didn’t. And then your boyfriend started recognizing a pattern of fixed races, and writing about it, evidently spurring on the authorities. And things started to get away from me. How unlucky could I get?” he lamented as Matt listened, thinking bitterly of Rick Rothmeyer lying in a closed coffin, feeling himself astonished at the obviously enormous distance between the self-pitying Bledsoe and normality.

  Suddenly Bledsoe laughed, the whining tone gone from his voice, confident again. “Will I still get away with it? You bet your cute little ass. I pulled off some of the biggest scores in horse racing history. Stood racing on its ear. Me, who didn’t know Smarty Jones from Paula Jones when I began this project. As crimes go, this one floats atop a layer of crème de la crème.”

  Creeping closer to the kitchen doorway, Matt viewed the scene from floor level. He could see Bledsoe’s big shoes on the side of the table nearest him, pointing the other way, toward where Maggie sat, her ankles crossed, as if in protection from this looming menace across from her.

  Bledsoe’s rant continued. “I’m going to be long gone from here before any of those thick-headed cops get close, but I’m going to leave them something to remember me by. Besides the jockey killings, besides the betting coups, I’m going to leave them you and, after he shows up here, your meddling boyfriend. Sorry about this, my dear,” Bledsoe said, “but you go first. Nice and quick and quiet. Just like I did Marnie Rankin.” Maggie’s eyes widened again as she recalled the unexpected death of the crippled ex-jockey. Bledsoe reached into his duffel and removed a clear plastic bag. He was taking his time, enjoying it, as Maggie struggled helplessly in her chair.

  “After O’Connor arrives and gets his treatment from me, I’ll take my million and be long gone. I’ll be in my own ‘protection program.’ Witnessing myself disappear,” he added with a laugh.

  The phone on the kitchen counter rang. All three of them froze. Bledsoe made no move to answer it. After four rings, Matt’s recorded voice came on the answering machine, saying “Speak.” The caller was Detective Popp. “Matt, when you get this, be on the lookout for Bledsoe. The Madison police say there’s no sign of him up there. He could be heading your way. This is a real nutcake, dangerous as hell, so be careful. If you want, I’ll send a couple of my men over to your condo. I’ll try you on your cell phone. Call me if you get this first.”

  Matt nearly jumped, remembering the cell phone attached to his belt. Quickly, he turned it off. He removed it from his belt and placed it on the floor. Matt was crouched at the kitchen doorway now, Bledsoe’s back to him. Maggie could see Matt but averted her gaze from him. Bledsoe unfolded the plastic bag. He started to move around the table toward her, rolling his big shoulders, as if he needed to loosen up in order to suffocate this woman. His big, bald head gleamed beneath the kitchen light. He was acting cool, but Matt could see that Bledsoe was sweating, too.

  Getting to his feet, Matt quickly took one long step into the small room, moving toward Bledsoe’s right. The big man heard him and turned to look over his right shoulder, astonished at what he saw. Matt bent his knees and dropped his hands. He swung the bat left-handed as hard as he could against the side of Bledsoe’s left knee. The entire joint shot sideways. Bledsoe roared in pain. He went down on his other knee with a crash that rattled the dishes in the sink. Matt struck one more time. The second blow caught Bledsoe high on the left side of his head. It made a whocking sound and drove Bledsoe face down onto the floor. Amazingly, Bledsoe attempted to rise. He half turned his body, reaching up toward Matt with his right hand. Then his circuits closed down. He was out.

  Matt snatched a bread knife from the kitchen drawer. He ran halfway down the hall to a closet, where he cut the cord off of his vacuum cleaner before hurrying back to the kitchen. “In a minute, Maggie, in a minute,” he said as he went to Bledsoe, who was beginning to moan. Matt quickly bound Bledsoe’s hands behind him with part of the rubberized cord. He used the rest to tie Bledsoe’s feet together. Then he went to Maggie, cut her loose and, as gently as he could, removed the tape from across her mouth. Her skin was white where the tape had pressed. Matt reached for her as she got unsteadily to her feet, then fell against him. He wiped tears from her face and held her as she shuddered, her face turned away from the sight of the battered, bleeding man on the kitchen floor.

  Minutes passed before Maggie was still. His hands lightly on her arms, Matt stepped back slightly and smiled down at her, trying to break the tense mood. He nodded toward the prostrate Bledsoe. “That’s what you can do with aluminum,” Matt said. “Wood, I don’t know. Might not have worked on this creature from hell.”

  Matt gave Maggie another squeeze, then he took her hand and led her into his office. Drained, sh
e sank onto his desk chair. Matt reached across her to the phone. “I’ve got to call this in,” he said, “911, then the paper.” He glanced back out the doorway, toward where Bledsoe lay. “Maybe the paper first,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “Maggie Collins,” said track announcer Trevor Durkin over the loudspeaker system, “has sent out the winners of both daily double races on this closing-day card at Heartland Downs.” There was a smattering of applause in the Heartland Downs stands in recognition of this achievement. The date was September 19, Claude Bledsoe’s fiftieth birthday and two weeks to the day after his capture.

  Each of the winning horses trained by Maggie was owned by a new client. After the second one won, Matt walked out on the press box porch. He knew Maggie would look in his direction once the winner’s circle photo had been taken. She did, waving widely, smiling up into the afternoon sun. Perhaps spurred by the publicity of their climactic confrontation with Bledsoe, Maggie’s training business had picked up greatly in recent days. Matt, too, had enjoyed what editor Harry Cobabe had to admit was a career boost. “But,” Cobabe hastily added, “don’t be looking for a pay raise at this time.”

  Matt’s reportage of the events leading to Bledsoe being suspected of race-fixing, and his ultimate capture, arrest, and arraignment, had appeared on Racing Daily’s front page for days. And the story had legs beyond the borders of horse racing journalism, primarily because of Matt’s first-person account of his finding, then overcoming Bledsoe in his condo’s kitchen. Matt played it straight, understating if anything his description of the violent events that took place that rainy afternoon. He neither downplayed Maggie’s pluckiness nor overplayed Bledsoe’s gloating menace. He just reported, from his unique standpoint as a frightened man having to use a baseball bat to save the life of his beloved. It was a powerful story, and it attracted national media attention.