Rob Thy Neighbor

by David Thurlo

  Finally he pulled himself up, elbows on the rough surface of what was obviously a plastered cinder-block fake-adobe structure, and looked down into the yard. A long, wide veranda lined the back wall of the L-shaped home, and it contained a wrought-iron patio table and chairs, plus a banco that surrounded a fire pit, with one of those new-style gas heaters in the center.

  A flagstone walk extended from the back door of what was probably the garage, and another to a smaller, corrugated-metal pitched-roof barn or storage building. That building was close to his location, only a half-dozen feet from the wall, and might offer the means for him to get down inside the compound. He hadn’t expected such a drop-off on the inside—it was probably fifteen feet or more—and there was no sense in him breaking an ankle or risking a knee injury sliding down the wall. All he had to do now was to pull himself up onto the wall, work his way over about twenty feet, then step over onto the shed roof. Even if he slipped off, he’d be a lot closer to the ground.

  Just then the French door opened beneath the veranda, and a man wearing tan slacks, a Yankees cap, and a blue short-sleeved polo shirt came out. It looked like Myers, and he was talking on a cell phone as he walked across the flagstone toward the backyard. Charlie lowered his head, hoping his silhouette would blend in with the pine branches behind him.

  In the distance, sirens suddenly sounded, echoing against the mountainside and up the canyon. As the sounds grew louder, Myers lowered the phone, reached down for a pistol tucked into his tan slacks, and began searching the yard.

  He spotted Charlie immediately and brought up his pistol.

  Charlie ducked, then heard the thump of a slug impacting the wall, then the whine of another bullet going high overhead. Running footsteps could be heard below, and then the sound of a door opening.

  He risked a look and saw Myers disappear into the shed. It was time to make a move. Logic told him that Myers was racing to check on his captive, probably stashed in the outbuilding. Or it could be a trap. Once he climbed up onto the wall, he’d be a sitting duck if Myers suddenly popped back out.

  Charlie pulled himself up onto the eight-inch-high, slightly rounded top of the wall, then stepped gingerly to his right, balancing himself carefully, trying to focus on the wall, not the ground twenty feet below.

  The sounds of sirens were very loud now, and he tried not to imagine what Myers might be doing inside the shed. Now, within reach of the shed, he took a deep breath and leaped over onto the top of the pitched roof, landing like a spider as much as possible, sprawled out and hugging the metal.

  The roof was slippery and hot from the summer sun, burning his cheek, hands, and knees through his pants. He raised his head off the surface and decided to slide down, aiming his feet toward the ground, intending to drop down, over the edge and off the shed. His only grip on the roof came from his fingertips and the palms of his hands now, and his phone was vibrating again.

  A hole appeared just inches from his left hand, accompanied by a loud boom. Myers was shooting blind, but that was too close. Charlie made fists, lost his grip, and free-fell off the roof just as two more holes appeared where his body had been a few seconds earlier.

  As he toppled over the edge he looked down, trying to time himself for contact with the ground. Fortunately he missed the flagstones and landed on soft sand. He relaxed his legs upon impact, using his knees as shock absorbers. Just then there was a loud thud and the crunch of wood breaking from somewhere close by. Maintaining focus, he tumbled into a roll, relying on the training that had taught him years ago how to fall and minimize injury.

  He came up into a crouch, his Beretta already in his hand, safety off, and whirled around in the direction of the noise.

  “Charlie!” yelled Detective DuPree as he stumbled through the shattered wooden gate beside the garage. Right behind were Nancy and a burly officer holding a steel battering ram.

  “Myers ducked inside here,” Charlie replied, pointing his weapon toward the shed.

  “Was he alone?” Nancy asked, her pistol directed at the shed as she advanced, in a crouch, down the side of the structure toward the back. There were no windows on the sides Charlie could see.

  “Yes, at least when he went in,” Charlie answered, moving around to the opposite side, checking to see if there was a window or another door. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see uniformed officers entering the house through the unlocked back door.

  DuPree, also crouched low, held his weapon on the door while they examined the outside of the structure. Several seconds went by; then an officer came back out of the house. “Clear!” the officer yelled. “No sign of the victim in the main house. There’s a fifty-cal sniper rifle in one of the bedrooms, however, and a small pistol with a silencer. Ammo too, and ear protection.”

  Nancy and Charlie came back toward the front where DuPree was positioned, their weapons still directed at the only way in or out. “He’s trapped,” Nancy whispered harshly, “and he left his heavy firepower in the house.”

  Charlie nodded. “Where’s Gordon?”

  “He and Woods took off after a silver pickup that came up behind them. Sweeney told Medina that he thinks it was Frank Geiger behind the wheel,” DuPree replied, still crouched, his eyes on the shed door.

  “Can’t say this is a big surprise. I hope it’s not too late for the hostage now,” Charlie said. “Anything else from Gordon?” he added, remembering the missed calls.

  “I haven’t heard back from him,” Nancy answered, stepping back and looking at the roof. “Are those bullet holes?”

  “Yeah. Myers was shooting blind when I came off the wall onto that roof,” Charlie responded. “Are we going to wait for SWAT?”

  DuPree nodded. “They’re already on standby. I’ll make the call. Cover the door, Sergeant,” he told Nancy, as he stood and stepped to the side and out of the potential field of fire. He fumbled for his cell phone with his left hand, keeping his pistol, in his right, directed toward the door.

  “I tried to call you about five minutes ago, Charlie,” Nancy said, her eyes still on the shed. “I wanted to warn you that your backup was gone.”

  “Felt the vibration, but I was up a tree outside the wall. Couldn’t get to my phone,” Charlie replied.

  “Let’s see if we can do this the easy way,” DuPree whispered, motioning for the three uniformed officers who were beside the veranda to position themselves where they could cover the sides and back of the shed. He stepped back, facing a front corner of the shed, and stood where he was protected by the corner post—a smart move if the kidnapper decided to shoot through the shed wall at his voice.

  “Dennis Myers! Put down your weapons, release Mrs. Randal, and then come out with your hands on your head. You’re surrounded, and you have no way to escape. Release your prisoner and surrender now before someone gets hurt. Once SWAT and the FBI get here, your safety will be in someone else’s hands, someone with tear gas and assault weapons. What do you say?”

  A few seconds went by; then Charlie heard a faint scream. “You hear that? A woman’s voice. Suppose he’s locked her in a trunk?”

  “That’s all we need,” DuPree grumbled, inching closer to the wall.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Nancy inched closer to the door, then lay down, her head close to the threshold. She held up her hand, pointed to DuPree, then motioned with her thumb and fingers for him to speak.

  “Mrs. Randal! Are you okay?” DuPree yelled.

  Charlie heard the voice again, too faint to make out the words.

  Nancy rolled away from the door and stood. “She said she’s okay. She thinks he’s gone.”

  “A trap?” Charlie asked.

  “She wouldn’t set us up,” Nancy insisted, reaching for the doorknob, looking at DuPree.

  “Tactical entry,” he whispered, getting into position. Charlie came up to cover him, but DuPree waved him away, then signaled the closest cop.

  Four seconds later, Nancy swung open the door, covered by the officers
. DuPree went in low, pistol aimed, followed by the second officer and Nancy.

  “Clear!” DuPree shouted, but it sounded more like a question. He reached over to the wall and flipped a switch. A fluorescent light fixture came on, illuminating the interior.

  Charlie stepped into the shed, which was about ten by fourteen and crowded with the four of them inside. The structure had a tongue-and-groove wood-composite floor that felt solid beneath his feet. A garden tool rack mounted on the wall held three well-used shovels, a superfluous snow shovel made of hard plastic, and a couple of rakes and a hoe. A worn pick rested against a wall, and a big wheelbarrow completed the major gardening implements.

  There was also a Craftsman table saw, a workbench against the back wall, and a big pegboard where various woodworking tools were hung, such as a hammer, framing square, and hand saws. On the floor, close to the wall opposite the wheelbarrow, was a small wooden table, upside down with three legs sticking up. The fourth leg was on the workbench. The leg was unfinished, clearly a replacement that had yet to be attached. On the floor in the corner was a big padlock, unlocked.

  “Where the hell is she?” Charlie asked.

  Nancy held up her hand for silence. “Margaret! Where are you?”

  “Down here! I think I’m in a cellar. I smell dirt!” came a faint reply.

  Charlie got down on his knees beside the overturned table and tried to lift it up. It was stuck to the floor, but he quickly discovered why. “It’s attached to the floor by concealed hinges along one side!”

  The tabletop swiveled up, resting against two legs, and beneath, set into the wooden floor, was a sturdy wooden trapdoor with a hefty steel hasp and a big brass grab handle, recessed into the wood and flush with the surface.

  “Are you sure he’s not down there with you?” Nancy yelled, gripping the handle but hesitating to pull up.

  “I felt a draft, like another door opening, and I can’t hear him breathing anymore,” Margaret replied, her voice a lot louder. “He handcuffed me, and there’s a bag over my head. I can’t see.”

  “Open it up, but stay clear,” DuPree whispered, his pistol directed at the hatch.

  Nancy swung the door open in one quick motion, ducking back.

  Charlie, standing at an angle so he could look down, saw two bare feet—a woman’s, from the size and shape. “She’s on a dirt floor, sitting in a chair,” he announced, then looked around for a flashlight or lantern.

  DuPree brought out his cell phone and activated a flashlight app. He aimed it down into the hole, and they saw Margaret tied to a wooden folding chair with what looked like a pillowcase over her head, fastened at the neck with duct tape.

  “My arms have gone to sleep. I can’t feel them anymore,” Margaret said, her voice shaking. “Get me out of here.”

  DuPree, on his knees now, aimed the light behind the seated victim. “There’s a wood-lined tunnel that leads in that direction,” he said, pointing toward the back wall of the shed—and the property wall.

  Turning his head, he looked up at one of the uniformed officers. “Get officers to circle the property. Myers must have a tunnel exit uphill somewhere, but look close to the wall. It can’t run too far in this rocky ground. And get people out on the roads and to nearby houses and outbuildings. I want a complete search of the neighborhood. If he’s on foot, we need to track him down before sundown, or he may lose us completely. Put out a BOLO on Dennis Myers using his DMV photo.” He turned to Charlie. “You see what he was wearing?”

  Charlie nodded. “Blue polo shirt, tan slacks, and a blue Yankees ball cap.”

  The officer nodded.

  “Go!” DuPree ordered the uniform. “Now, let’s get down there.”

  There was a short ladder constructed of two-by-six boards attached to the floor joists, and Nancy went down into the tunnel first. There was a click, and a light came on below.

  Charlie watched as Nancy placed her hand on Margaret’s shoulder. “It’s just the two of us down here, Mrs. Randal. Myers is gone. I can see a hatch at the far end of the tunnel, leading up.”

  Nancy holstered her pistol and examined the hood covering the woman’s head. “I’ll cut the tape so I can pull this thing off your head. Don’t move.”

  Charlie glanced over at the tools, found a big bolt cutter, and pointed it out to DuPree, who was still on the phone. DuPree nodded, so Charlie grabbed the tool and stepped back to the trapdoor.

  Nancy had just pulled off the hood, and Margaret looked up anxiously. “Is Dolores okay? Is she alive? She went outside to see who was at the gate. Then this man wearing a mask over his face came into the office and shot me with a Taser. I fell, he stuck something into me, and I passed out. When I woke up, I was here.”

  “Dolores is the security guard?” Nancy asked.

  “Yes. She was conscious and talking when the EMTs helped her into the ambulance,” Charlie said, handing the bolt cutters down to Nancy, who was maneuvering around behind Margaret’s chair to get to the handcuffs.

  “Good. Was anyone else attacked? Is Sam okay?”

  “Everyone was just fine when we left to look for you,” Charlie replied. It wasn’t the time to mention her husband was really Bill Woods—if she didn’t already know. He stepped down the short ladder. He saw that the woman’s feet were taped together and to the folding chair legs, so he reached into his pocket for his knife.

  There was a loud snap, then another, as Nancy cut off the handcuffs, and Margaret sighed with relief, bringing her hands around front. “Who is Myers? Is he the guy who took me?”

  “Let’s get you out of here first,” DuPree said, still on his knees looking down at her.

  A few minutes later, Margaret Randal was pacing back and forth beneath the shaded veranda of Myers’s house, trying to work out the cramps from being tied to the chair.

  The two officers and Charlie were waiting for the opportunity to question her further, but then DuPree’s phone rang.

  “What you got?” the detective asked the caller, sounding annoyed.

  DuPree listened for a moment, then responded. “See if you can find footprints or anything else he might have left behind. Keep searching, but warn everyone that the subject has a record of violence and knows we’re looking for him. Make sure every house and structure in this neighborhood is checked out. He may have broken in and taken a hostage. And patrol all the local streets and roads leading out of here.”

  “How about dogs?” Charlie asked, not really wanting to be around when DuPree confronted Margaret about her husband’s real identity. He knew it would be coming soon.

  “I’ve put in a request,” DuPree responded.

  “I can follow a trail,” Charlie volunteered. “Maybe hurry things up a bit? It’ll be dark in a few hours.”

  “That true what they say about Indian trackers?” Nancy asked.

  “Somewhat. Most of my skills were picked up in the Boy Scouts, though,” Charlie admitted.

  “Go for it, but let me know if you hear anything from Sweeney,” DuPree replied. “I’ll tell the officers on the hillside you’re coming up.”

  Nancy pulled Charlie aside. “You don’t want to be around when it hits the fan about her husband, do you?” she whispered.

  “Got that right. I’m just hoping she’ll be surprised. Sam said that he’s never told Margaret who he really is, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t already figured it out.”

  “I like Margaret and would hate to have to arrest her after all she’s been through,” Nancy replied.

  Charlie nodded. “Me too. Gotta go, bluecoat, before sign grow cold.”

  Nancy rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

  As he hurried out the gate leading to the street, now propped open, Charlie had to chuckle at her reaction. Back when he and Al were in their elementary school years, they used to tease each other using Hollywood-stereotype Indian-talk learned from old cowboy movies that ran on Saturday and Sunday afternoon TV. They also played their own game, Indians and Indians, working together an
d always ambushing the cavalry. Playing Cowboys and Indians didn’t make much sense in a part of the country where many, if not most, of the Navajos were also cowboys.

  He was making good time climbing to where the hidden exit was located. There was no longer any need to stay in cover or keep silent, and the officers who’d gone uphill left an easy trail to follow. Hopefully, the officers hadn’t also walked all over Myers’s tracks. Charlie recalled the man was wearing some kind of cross-trainers or athletic shoes, so he should be able to distinguish between those tracks and the street shoes the uniforms wore—if they were still there.

  His phone began to vibrate, and he slowed his climb to bring it out of his pocket. Seeing it was Gordon, he stopped to answer the call. “Hey, bro, we’ve recovered Margaret, and she’s safe,” Charlie quickly said, starting his climb again.

  “Excellent, I’ll tell Sam. What about her kidnapper, Myers?” Gordon replied.

  “He got away through a hidden tunnel and is now on foot. APD is searching the neighborhood. There are a lot of places to hide, and it’s going to be dark soon. They’re going to be bringing in the dogs, but I’m hoping to pick up his trail before that. I’m hiking up to where his tracks begin. Where you at, Gordon?”

  “I lost the pickup around Louisiana Boulevard. At least we know where Frank lives and can send over the troops. I’m coming back up Montgomery Avenue and should be in your area within minutes. Give me a call next time you reach a street and I’ll catch up to you,” he suggested.

  “Copy!” Charlie said, picking up the pace and putting away the phone now that he’d spotted two officers standing several feet from the outside wall of the Myers place. Charlie recognized one of them as a sergeant he’d seen before with DuPree.

  “Mr. Henry,” the sergeant said, nodding as Charlie came up. “Here’s the exit to that tunnel.” He pointed to what looked like an overturned boulder, and beneath it a squared-off, stained wooden-framed support structure with a short ladder leading down into the tunnel.

  “The old hollow fake boulder trick,” Charlie muttered, wondering if he’d have recognized the fraud if he’d only gone a few more steps earlier. The tunnel exit was just a short distance uphill from the tree he’d climbed.