“You’re right. I’ll call you in a few months when I’m up and running.”
“I look forward to it.”
CHAPTER 31
Jackson checked his rearview mirror and spotted Evans’ car behind him. Should he have asked Schak to accompany him instead? Evans was smart and good at thinking ahead, so her responses were fast and often brilliant. But sometimes authority and intimidation were more important, and because of his gender and bulk, Schak was better backup in those situations. This suspect was deeply troubled and therefore unpredictable, so Jackson had no idea what to expect. Quince and Agent River would show up eventually, but if they found a witness or got stalled for some reason, it could take a while. He put in his earpiece, called the desk clerk, and asked for patrol backup.
The drive along Coburg Road was slow and congested until he crossed under the expressway and passed Costco. After that, the landscape turned rural with open fields and old homes tucked into clusters of trees. After passing the county park, he slowed and watched for Meadow Lane. He used voice commands—a skill he’d finally mastered—to call Evans. “Hang back,” he instructed. “Gibson could be anywhere around here, and two dark sedans traveling together could tip him off.”
“I was just thinking that.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror again and saw her pull off into a private driveway. Was that a white van coming up the road behind them? Jackson sped up, thinking he would get off the road when he could find a place to get his car out of sight. If that was Gibson, it would be better to follow him home.
Meadow Lane was suddenly ahead on his right. Jackson passed it, then slowed and watched in his rearview mirror. The white rig closed the distance, but the road curved and he lost sight of it. After a mile, he turned off at an antique store on the outskirts of Coburg and parked. The white van didn’t pass by. It must have exited somewhere.
Jackson got back on the road and punched the accelerator. His phone rang, and he pressed his earpiece to answer.
“It’s Evans. A white van with blue-and-yellow lettering passed me, then turned down Meadow Lane. Where are you?”
“Coming back from farther up the road. That must be the Morning Glory delivery truck. He’s headed home.”
“Right before I get to his property, I’ll stop and wait for you.”
“I’ve got patrol backup coming too,” Jackson added. “Gibson could be armed.” He wished they had more information about the suspect. But they didn’t have time to dig it up. Just because Evans had stopped a batch of Hightones brownies from going out to retailers didn’t mean the public was safe. There could be other pot-product kitchens Gibson had sold to. The industry was flourishing, and not everyone bothered to register with the state.
He made the turn down the lane, but didn’t see Evans’ vehicle. The road curved ahead, so he wasn’t worried. He had the address. This area was out of his jurisdiction, but it didn’t matter. He could apprehend a suspect anywhere. If the takedown went sideways and they had to shoot Gibson, he would have to call the sheriff’s office and give them the opportunity to investigate. But none of that would happen. He and Evans would handle this with a light touch—simply ask Gibson to come in and answer questions. If Agent River’s profile was correct and the troubled man wanted to be caught, he would probably come with them without trouble, eager for a chance to be heard.
Jackson’s gut tightened in a painful squeeze. His body wasn’t buying it. After Jackson rounded a long curve, the road straightened, and he spotted Evans’ car parked in the driveway of an older home on the right. He called her as he passed. “I’m heading into his property.”
“Right behind you.”
He heard her tires on the gravel as the suspect’s house came into view on the left. Ranch style with red-clay roof tiles. Jackson spotted several exterior buildings behind the home and a cluster of small structures inside a fenced garden. Beehives. A queasy feeling wormed through his guts. Please don’t let him be out there with the bees.
Jackson turned into the gravel driveway and parked under a giant silk tree. While he waited for Evans, he called Quince and updated him. “We just followed Gibson home. Did you find a witness who saw him make the call?”
“I think so. But we need to do a lineup to use it in court.”
“Where are you now?”
“On my way to you.”
They hung up, and Evans pulled in beside him. As Jackson stepped out, he touched his weapon under his jacket, then moved toward Evans.
Chickens wandered by as they approached the front door. “We’re using a soft touch with him,” Jackson whispered. “Unless he’s uncooperative.” He knocked on the door, relieved not to hear a barking dog.
No one responded. After a minute, Jackson spotted the doorbell and pushed it. Nothing. He checked the knob. Locked.
The faint sound of singing drifted by on a breeze. The suspect was in his backyard. Jackson started across the parking area, and Evans followed. He rounded the end of the house and ran into a three-foot-tall white fence. The barrier extended to the edge of the property and curved back to a garden area, where it morphed into a taller wire fence. He scanned the property and looked for Gibson, or whoever was singing. The sound was coming from the garden—where he’d seen the stacked beehives. Oh crap. The shrubs and miniature silk trees around the perimeter created visual barriers. No gate on the fence that he could see. Time to just go over.
Evans went for it, making the vault look easy. He’d planned to use a more cautious approach, but now he felt shamed into proving he could still vault a barrier too. He ran at the fence, then leapt and grabbed the top horizontal board. The pain in his gut shocked him back into reality, and at the last minute, he scrambled over with his feet, landing with some dignity on the other side. Evans glanced back, and he nodded and strode to catch up.
They hurried down a flagstone path bordered by low-growing mint, the intensely pleasant smell wafting up as they walked. The garden took up nearly an acre and was bordered by a six-foot deer-proof fence. The back portion was completely enclosed in a tight, wire mesh that looked like a giant cage. To keep bees contained?
The garden gate opened easily, and they stepped inside. The singing came from an area near the left back corner. Jackson followed the gravel path, which curved around tall shrubs, in that direction. Were these the plants that had produced the toxic nectar and honey? They couldn’t be. Otherwise all of Gibson’s honey products would be poisonous. Creating the deadly batch of honey had to have been deliberate—a careful placement of a small hive inside an area with only poisonous flower blooms to feed on. And he had to have engineered it last spring. So Gibson had planned the assault months earlier. But why had he waited until now?
They reached the enclosure he had spotted, a garden within the garden, filled with shrubs and a single beehive. Gibson stood nearby. He wasn’t wearing protective gear, except gloves. Was he crazy? Or did beekeepers only suit up when they were collecting honey? The suspect turned at the sound of their approach, a startled expression on his face. Jackson looked him over. Jeans and a sweatshirt, a plastic bottle in his hands. No gun that he could see. Smaller and older than Jackson, with a narrow face and a short gray beard.
Gibson started to speak, then stopped, a range of emotions flashing in his eyes. The suspect knew why they were there, but he went through the ritual of protesting anyway.
“What are you doing on my property?” The voice they’d heard on Sophie’s call.
“Detectives Jackson and Evans, Eugene Police. We’d like to ask you some questions. Please come with us.”
“Questions about what?”
“Your honey products. We have some concern about their safety.”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”
Jackson backtracked. “Tell me your name.”
“Paul Gibson. But I think you knew that.”
“Is your wife home?”
Another startled look. “No. Leave her out of this.”
; Jackson inched toward him. “We just want to ask some questions, maybe take some samples. We’d like to rule out your honey products as a source of contamination. The sooner you help us, the sooner your business can continue. Right now, we have it blocked until we figure out what’s going on.”
Gibson’s eyes went wild, darting about as he assessed his options. He didn’t look like a man who wanted to be caught. But he was probably conflicted. And mentally ill. The sound of another car in the driveway gave Jackson a sense of relief. Backup had arrived. But why hadn’t Gibson heard them drive in? Was he partially deaf? Jackson tried again to be reasonable. “Please walk with us to the car. We’d like to go into the department for the interview.” He wouldn’t try to cuff the suspect until they had him near the car. That would give Gibson time to process the inevitable.
Abruptly, Gibson bolted sideways and stood behind one of the hives. “Get out of here, or I’ll knock this over and send the bees after you.”
The bastard! A surge of anger and adrenaline flashed hot in Jackson’s chest. But Gibson wasn’t wearing a protective suit and was closer to the hive, so he was more at risk than they were.
Next to him, Evans said, “I’ll call the department and get some protective gear out here. Meanwhile, he’s fenced in and not getting past us.”
Good plan. They would wait this out.
“Don’t think I won’t do this right now,” Gibson threatened. “My bees won’t hurt me. Just you two.”
Could it be true? Some people were bee freaks and didn’t seem to get stung.
“Get out of here now, or you’ll be sorry.” The suspect sounded almost gleeful.
Involuntarily, Jackson stepped back. They could wait for the gear. Gibson was fenced in. Or maybe not. Anyone with upper-body strength could climb the wire fence. Beyond the property was an open field that blended into the Coburg Hills. Gibson could easily make a run for it. Especially if he and Evans were distracted by dozens of bee stings. Could he die from bee stings? Nothing in Jackson’s training had prepared him for this moment.
They couldn’t risk letting Gibson escape. He might continue his poison campaign in another Oregon city.
Evans eased closer to Jackson and spoke in a quiet voice. “If he goes over the fence, I’ll run him down.”
She could and would. No one in the department moved faster than Evans.
Abruptly, Gibson shoved both hands against the beehive, then bolted for the garden fence.
The hive rocked toward them and seemed to be suspended in midair. Time slowed, and Jackson watched the tall wooden box teeter for a second, then right itself. Relief washed over him. He spun in the direction Gibson had run. Evans had already bolted after the suspect, who looked like he might make it to the fence. Jackson sprinted toward them, ignoring the pain.
He passed a bunch of shrubs and another cluster of hives. Ahead, Gibson had reached the fence. But Evans was right behind him. She grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him off the wire structure. Jackson reached them as Evans threw Gibson to the ground. Jackson pulled out his stun gun and shouted, “Freeze or I’ll stun you.”
The older man gave up his struggle, letting out a weird, high-pitched laugh. Evans cuffed him, then together they dragged Gibson to his feet.
A sharp sting pierced the side of his neck. Jackson reached up and felt a bee clinging to him.
Evans let out a small noise, then cursed.
Dear god. A swarm of bees was descending on them. “Let’s run!” Pulling Gibson between them, he and Evans ran along the fence line, away from the hives and back toward the gate. By the time they reached the cars, Jackson had been stung five more times.
A patrol officer was standing by his vehicle, behind theirs. “Get in your car!” yelled Jackson.
He and Evans shoved Gibson into the back of Jackson’s sedan, then climbed into their respective front seats and slammed the doors. A bee buzzed around his head, and Jackson killed it with his satchel. The welts burned, but six stings wouldn’t kill him.
Oh crap. If the bees had been feasting on toxic plants, could the stings be lethal?
CHAPTER 32
As he drove, Jackson put in his earpiece, called information, and asked for the Oregon Poison Center. After a few minutes, he got Elsie Wayland on the phone. “Detective Jackson again. My partner and I have been stung by bees. The same ones we think made the poisoned honey. Is the venom toxic too?”
“Oh, good question. I’ve never heard of this situation. Let me research a little and get back to you.”
He gave her his phone number. “Is there anything I should do in the meantime?”
“Ice the welts, take antihistamines, and drink lots of water.”
Jackson thanked her and hung up. At least she hadn’t given him bad news. Earlier, she’d implied that adults would likely survive grayanotoxin poisoning—after vomiting violently for several days. But Gibson had to have harvested the poisonous honey last spring. Maybe these were just regular stings. He would know soon.
At the department, he and Evans rushed Gibson to the interrogation room and cuffed him to the table, something they rarely did. He’d gone quiet on them, and Jackson didn’t want the suspect trying to kill himself. When they exited the room, he asked Evans to track down some Benadryl.
She made a scoffing sound. “I don’t think that’s gonna do it. We may be poisoned.” Her pretty face was pinched with worry.
“I called the expert. She’s doing some research and will get back to me.”
Evans let out a harsh laugh. “Should we take buckets into the hole with us? In case we start vomiting?”
Jackson patted her shoulder. “Rhodies and azaleas don’t bloom this time of year, so I think we’re safe.”
Her whole body relaxed. “Right. But I’ll still ask a desk clerk to get us the anti-itch stuff. I’m already miserable.”
“How many stings?”
“Seven, I think.”
He could see several starting to swell on her neck and face. An urge to kiss away her pain surprised him. He shook it off. A parental reaction. “Let’s get moving. I need to find Schak or Quince to slam together a search warrant for Gibson’s property and rush it to Cranston’s home. I’ve got a hinky feeling about what we might find.”
“I know what you mean.” She widened her eyes in exaggerated skepticism. “And we need to talk to his wife.” Evans headed toward the front of the building.
Jackson trotted up the stairs, found Quince in his cube, and laid out what he needed. “Call the judge now to make sure you can find him. I want you and Schak out at Gibson’s searching ASAP. Call or text me if you find anything I can use in the interrogation.” The patrol officer had stayed to keep an eye on the property.
Quince opened a search-warrant form on his monitor. “Do you think Gibson is the shooter? I should include guns in this request, right?”
“Yes, include them. Thanks.” Jackson walked past his own desk to Schak’s workspace. His partner wasn’t back yet. Damn. As he hurried to the stairs, he called out to Quince, “Get hold of Schak and get him back here. The other suspect can wait.” Jackson fully expected Gibson to confess. Even if he didn’t, they would probably find some of the poisonous honey in his house. The perp had threatened to use it again, so if it was him, he probably had a stash. What a freak.
At the bottom of the steps, Jackson stopped and took a moment. The poison expert had said the stings weren’t lethal but to drink lots of water. He needed to eat something too. They’d worked right through dinner. Jackson headed for the break room, where he filled two tall paper cups with water. He drank one down and filled it again. His neck itched like crazy, but he resisted the urge to scratch. Bees! What next? When he was a patrol officer, a crazy woman had threatened him with a snake once. And a large dog had bitten his eye a year later. He’d stared down his share of weapons too. Sometimes his job was crazy. Did he owe it to his kids to find a safer way to make a living?
Enough of that. The vending machine caught his eye,
and Jackson bought a package of nuts for himself and a granola bar for Evans. She would have preferred a protein bar, but the selection was limited.
He met her in front of the interrogation room a few minutes later and handed her the water. “To dilute the venom, whatever kind it is.”
“Thanks.” She drank half.
He handed her the snack bar. “Or I’ve got a bag of cashews.”
“Can I have both?” She grinned. “Kidding. I’m fine with this.” She tore open the package and wolfed down a few bites.
Jackson downed a handful of nuts and tried not to think about pizza. “Ready?”
“Born so.”
As soon as he opened the door, Jackson heard crying. Gibson had his head on the table and heaved with distress. The sight was unnerving, but it probably meant an easy confession.
“Paul, can I have your attention?” Jackson slipped into the chair across from him.
The suspect looked up, tears streaking his face.
“I want you to know we’re recording this conversation. That protects both of us.”
Gibson sneered. “You can’t protect me, and I can’t protect my family. The world is a random, chaotic place where bad things happen.”
How to approach him? Guilt, of course. “You made some of those bad things happen, Paul. A little boy is in the hospital, probably dying, because you put poison in a pot brownie. Why did you do that?”
“Don’t blame me.” Gibson shook his head, but the tears kept coming. “This country has gone crazy. Colorado started it, and now Oregonians are going to see the same problems. Kids rushed to the hospital after overdosing on marijuana. More lethal car crashes. More teenagers getting into the hard drugs.” Fear and disgust contorted his expression.
Jackson wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. “You sent a little boy to the hospital. If he dies, it will be the first fatality of its kind. And it won’t be a marijuana statistic. It will be a murder charge against you. A jury will not be sympathetic to your cause.”
Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 21
