Wounded Prey

by Sean Lynch

  He was trapped. If indeed FBI agents, they’d now have men at both the front and rear of the house. He went to the window and peeked through the blinds. A four-door Chevy Impala had pulled up. Behind it squatted a man in a suit with a shotgun in his hands.

  He looked at the dog, who was happily returning his gaze. He reached down and unhooked the leash from the dog’s collar. He then walked quietly through the kitchen to the back door. He could tell by the scraping sounds outside that the person making them was almost at the back door. He gently opened it, and said to the dog in a low whisper, “OK boy, bark.”

  He acted like he was about to run at the dog, enough to set it on edge. The Labrador started to yelp. The dog looked back at Farrell, and Farrell feinted again, continuing with the game. The dog carried on yelping. Farrell drew his revolver and ducked behind the open kitchen door.

  Soon a man edged tentatively around the corner of the door. He pointed a revolver at the dog, and then said, “Shit,” under his breath. The Labrador sat by the door and made no effort to move. The man kicked the dog aside and stepped into the kitchen. The dog skittered across the smooth kitchen floor, coming to a stop against the oven.

  The FBI agent stepped further into the kitchen, his revolver leading the way. As soon as he cleared the door Farrell stepped out from behind it and stuck the barrel of his own revolver against the man’s neck, thumbing back the hammer.

  “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. If you do, I’ll kill you.”

  The fed froze, his eyes flashing. Farrell reached out with his free hand and took the six-gun from the agent’s outstretched grip. He pocketed it, and said, “If you’re thinking about trying any of the moves they taught you at Quantico, forget it. Follow my instructions and you’ll live through the night.”

  The FBI man nodded. Farrell took a set of handcuffs and a portable radio from beneath the agent’s coat. Ordering him to put his hands behind his back, Farrell cuffed him. The agent complied with these instructions hesitantly, and Farrell was careful to keep his gun trained on him.

  The portable radio crackled. “Hey Jerry, you OK back there? Code four?”

  Farrell held the portable radio up to the man’s face. “You’re going to say ‘Code four.’ Nothing else. If you do, I’ll kill you. Understand?”

  The agent nodded. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Farrell keyed the mike on the radio. “Code four,” the FBI man said.

  Farrell hefted the transceiver, which weighed about three pounds. He clubbed the FBI agent on the side of the head over the temple. The Fed went down, and out.

  “That’s for kicking my dog, you asshole.”

  Farrell scooped up the puppy, which began to lick his face. He went out through the back door and made a wide arc through the backyards adjacent to Slocum’s house. He used the same route Kearns used when sneaking up on Vernon Slocum. He was unaccustomed to strenuous exercise and struggled his way through the heavy snow. The warm tongue of the Labrador puppy lapped his neck as he ran.

  In what seemed like hours he reached the park. Looking back, he saw the Fed still squatting behind the parked sedan in front of Elizabeth Slocum’s house. He wondered how long the FBI agent would wait before going in to check on his partner.

  He started the Oldsmobile, out of breath. The dog frolicked on the front seat. A minute later he was heading back to the hotel, a cigarette between his lips. It had been a close one.

  He leaned over and patted the Labrador’s head. “You did alright, partner,” he said. The dog beamed. “But what am I going to do with you now?”

  Less than twenty minutes later he was at the hotel. He tucked the puppy under his coat and smuggled it past the registration clerk in the lobby. He fumbled with his room key and opened the door.

  He was greeted by an unusual sight. Seated on one of the large double beds in the room was a shirtless Deputy Kearns. Jennifer was placing a heavy-duty bandage on his head. Both looked up as Farrell entered.

  “Christ,” Farrell said around his cigarette. “This looks like a scene from that Indiana Jones movie. What gives?”

  Jennifer ignored her father. Kearns said, “I’ll have you know I went three rounds with the Bruce Lee of FBI agents today. I was almost caught.”

  “Again?” Farrell smirked. “We should book you a permanent room in jail. You all right?”

  “No, he’s not alright!” Jennifer said, standing up and putting her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what you fools are up to, but it’s got to stop. You run around like madmen doing all sorts of illegal things and getting yourselves hurt. This has got to end.”

  Kearns looked sheepish. Farrell grinned. “You know, you sound more like your mother every day.”

  Jennifer was not amused. “You keep her out of this. At least she was there for me. It seems the only time I hear from you is when you need something. Did you know I’m in the middle of finals? I’m trying to graduate this spring. I really didn’t need to get dragged out of my dorm in the middle of a blizzard to help you and your brain-dead sidekick break the law.”

  “Brain-dead?” Kearns asked indignantly.

  “Shut up,” Farrell answered him. “Jennifer, I’m sorry,” he said in his most sincere voice. “That’s why I brought your Christmas present early, to show my appreciation.”

  With that, Farrell opened his coat and brought out the puppy. He handed it to his daughter, who took it reflexively. Kearns looked on in amazement.

  “While I was out getting my ass kicked, you were Christmas shopping?”

  Farrell motioned for Kearns to be silent. Jennifer didn’t see this. She was too busy being assaulted by the puppy’s tongue.

  “Dad, I can’t have a dog. I live in the dorms.”

  “Go on and take it,” Farrell said. “You know you love it, and you’ll find a place to keep him until you graduate.”

  Kearns could tell Jennifer wanted to be angry with her father, but her fury evaporated under the onslaught of the puppy’s tongue. Farrell couldn’t have timed it better.

  “Listen,” Farrell said. “You’ve got to get going. I don’t know how long the weather is going to hold, and the roads are as good as they’re going to get. Besides, I don’t want to have you seen with us any more than you have to.” Opening his wallet, Farrell handed his daughter several hundred dollars.

  “Take this. It’s for gas, and to buy yourself something nice for Christmas. I’m sorry I dragged you into this Jen, but I was in a bind. You really came through. I’m grateful.”

  “So am I,” Kearns said.

  Jennifer was no longer angry. “OK Dad, I can tell you’re trying to get rid of me, so I’ll get going. You’d better keep an eye on Kevin though; he may have broken a couple of ribs. If he starts spitting up blood you take him to a doctor, even if he doesn’t want to go, OK?”

  “Anything you say,” Farrell said. He gave Jennifer a hug around the squirming puppy. “Now scoot.”

  “OK, I’m going. Can I say goodbye to Kevin?”

  Farrell’s eyes narrowed. “Alone? Jesus, what is this, The Dating Game? You’ve known each other, what, a couple of days?”

  Kevin looked at the floor. Jennifer said, “Dad, please.”

  “Alright, alright, I’m going. I need to get a pack of smokes anyway. So long honey. Merry Christmas. Don’t give my love to your mother.”

  Farrell left the hotel room, grumbling to himself. Jennifer turned to Kearns, who was still seated on the bed.

  “I wanted a minute to talk to you. You’re a couple of years older than me, so I shouldn’t be giving advice. But I’m going to, because I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.”

  Kearns stood up with some effort. His ribs hurt.

  “Kevin,” she said, stepping closer. “If you’re not careful you’re going to end up like Dad. Alone, and with nothing and nobody in your life. Get out of this while you can.”

  “Thanks for your concern, but you don’t need to worry about me. The events of the past couple of weeks have made my future
pretty certain. When this is all over, I’ll be lucky to avoid prison.”

  “Quit now. Tell Dad you’ve had a change of heart and want to go home. It might be rough at first, but people forget.”

  Kearns stopped listening. He watched the sprinkling of freckles on Jennifer’s face and the cascade of red hair surrounding her. His throat got thick, and words seemed hard to find. He realized he was staring, but couldn’t stop.

  “I’ve got no home. And what I’ve seen, I’ll never forget.” His smile faded and his face got tight. “I’m in the hunt; I’ve got to see it through. I’m going to get Vernon Slocum. Maybe some of the things I’ve done with your dad aren’t the smartest things a guy could do, but at least he’s got a plan, and the guts to carry it out. I need him a helluva lot more than he needs me. I’m sorry you got sucked into this, but I’m not sorry I met you. I feel pretty lucky for it.”

  She looked into his eyes. He knew he was staring again, but couldn’t pull his eyes away.

  Juggling the puppy under her arm, Jennifer reached down and wrote a few lines on hotel stationery. She stood up and handed the paper to Kearns.

  “This is my address and phone number. When this is all over, you could visit me. We could have dinner.”

  A wide grin broke out on his face. “I’d like that very much. After today, I owe you at least a dinner.”

  Jennifer returned the smile. “Take care of yourself Deputy Kevin Kearns,” she said. “And take care of Dad. You’re wrong about one thing; he needs you more than you think.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. The Labrador puppy licked his neck. “Merry Christmas, Kevin,” she said, and was gone.

  Kearns stood in the doorway for several long minutes. Farrell walked in with a fresh pack of Camels in his hand.

  “Close your mouth, soldier, before a bug flies into it. You look like you’ve never seen a girl before.”

  “Not like that one, I haven’t. You sure she’s your daughter?”

  “Very funny. Now get packing. We’ve got a redeye flight to catch in less than an hour.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I made reservations from the lobby payphone. And I snagged Elizabeth Slocum’s address book while you were out romancing my daughter. Cole Slocum lives in Alameda, California.”

  “Where the hell is Alameda? I’ve never heard of the place.”

  “It’s an island between Oakland and San Francisco; my stomping grounds. Take a look at this.”

  Farrell produced the address book he’d taken from Slocum’s house and thumbed through several pages until he came to rest on a piece of paper that was randomly placed in the book. All it read was: Cole, Bay Farm Island, Alameda, CA.

  “That’s it? No phone number or address?”

  “That’s all I could find.”

  “Try under the name Ballantine.”

  “Where did you get that name?” Farrell asked.

  “Elizabeth. She told me Cole changed his name to Ballantine.”

  “She tell you anything else?”

  “No. She’s in pretty bad shape. Also, our conversation was interrupted by an FBI leg-breaker.”

  “So that’s how you ended up looking like one of Mike Tyson’s sparring partners. Christ, Kevin, you take my daughter out for the evening and end up street brawling. Where you going on the second date? A demolition derby?”

  Kearns said nothing, merely hoping for a second date. Farrell turned pages until he found the “B” section of the address book. “Yep,” he said, “here it is. A phone number and address listed under ‘Ballantine, C.’ Good job.”

  “Thank your daughter. Getting the information was the easy part. Getting out with a whole skin wasn’t. If she hadn’t pulled the fire alarm when she did, I’d be back in the hoosegow.”

  “My daughter pulled the fire alarm at a hospital? Whose idea was that?”

  Kearns looked at the floor again.

  “I’ll be damned,” Farrell whistled. “There’s hope for you yet. By the way, I got you a gun.”

  Farrell pulled out the Smith & Wesson Model 13 .357 magnum he’d taken from the federal agent at Elizabeth’s house. Kearns started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “This,” Kearns said, and produced the gun he’d taken from the FBI man at the Douglas County Hospital, an identical match to the one Farrell had.

  Farrell joined the laughter. “We keep this up, and we’re going to be on the FBI’s Most Wanted list by dawn. I’ll bet that asshole Scanlon is fuming right now.”

  “There’s probably not an FBI guy in three counties with a gun or without a black eye.”

  “Let’s get packed. We haven’t got much time.”

  “By the way, Bob,” Kearns said. “Thanks.”

  “What are you thanking me for?”

  “For giving us a moment alone.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Scanlon ignored the stares of the people in the hospital lobby and headed straight for the elevator. He punched the “up” button with an angry gesture and willed the machine to hurry its descent and pick him up. Several onlookers were openly gawking.

  His eyes were swollen almost shut and tinted a bruised purple. His nose was running freely, and he carried a wad of tissues in his overcoat pocket. The Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses he wore did little to conceal his battered appearance. To the people staring at him in the hospital lobby, Scanlon looked like a man who needed to be admitted to the emergency room, not visiting the Critical Care Unit

  The doctor told Scanlon his septum would require surgery soon. His broken nose had been badly re-injured by the second blow to the face. A blow he’d received at the hands of an unidentified woman posing as an attorney.

  The blow to his ego caused far more damage than the injury to his nose. He and his task force were the laughing-stock of the Omaha PD.

  Special Agent Lefferty’s face was in much the same condition as Scanlon’s, and Deputy Kearns was again responsible. After Scanlon suffered the humiliation of Kearns’ escape from his custody for the second time, the deputy apparently went to the hospital and met with Elizabeth Slocum. The special agent guarding her was now on the disabled list as a result of his encounter with the rookie deputy. It seemed Scanlon was destined to suffer setback after setback on this case.

  And while Scanlon was receiving the bitter news about Kearns’ escapades at the Douglas County Hospital, another alarming report came in. A man meeting the description of Kearns’ elder accomplice forced entry into Elizabeth Slocum’s house. Like Kearns, he’d overpowered and disarmed an FBI agent and made good his escape, despite the fact that Scanlon had left two agents to stake the house out.

  The elevator finally arrived and Scanlon stormed in. Fortunately it was unoccupied. He wiped his dripping nose and punched in the button to the Critical Care Unit.

  Who was Elizabeth Slocum? It was obvious she was a significant piece of the puzzle. Kearns risked capture again by going to see her at the hospital only hours after he’d escaped FBI custody for the second time.

  Scanlon had to find out what role in the bizarre events surrounding this investigation Elizabeth Slocum played. What was her connection to Deputy Kearns? Was she connected to the Meade kidnapping back in Iowa, and the killing spree at the drug lab? The dead state troopers? The murdered hooker, and bouncers, at the hotel in downtown Omaha? How did Kearns end up in a shootout at her house? And who were Kearns’ two accomplices? Were they somehow connected to Elizabeth Slocum?

  The elevator stopped with a clank, and the doors opened. Scanlon walked out and headed for the Critical Care Unit, lost in thought. So far, loose ends were all his task force had come up with. He had nothing to tie them together. Hopefully Elizabeth Slocum could provide the knot he needed.

  Tiffany Meade’s death was random, for all the task force could tell. She and her family were squeaky-clean, and had no apparent links to the murdered methamphetamine dealer in Coon Rapids. The modus operandi of both murders wasn’t congruent, and didn’t match any known
past offenses in the files. The dead hooker in downtown Omaha and the shooting of the bouncers also didn’t figure. Yet these events were nonetheless connected by virtue of the fact they were committed by the same perpetrator.

  The killing in downtown Omaha could have been a random sex slaying, but if so, how did Kearns and the suspect both end up in Omaha? Kearns must know something; some clue or key which had thus far eluded Scanlon. But what?

  How could Kearns have discovered the identity of the spree killer? Was he in cahoots with the murderer somehow? Who was the older man acting as Kearns’ accomplice? And who was the girl? What was their relationship to Kearns?

  A background check on Kearns shed little light on the subject. He was born to an unwed mother in Burlington, Iowa, and spent his youth there an only child. He grew up doing farm work and going to regional schools until he graduated high school. From there he enlisted in the army as an infantryman, and when honorably discharged returned to Iowa. He settled in Ames, where he used his GI benefits to attend college at Iowa State University. He was attending college when he was hired by the Story County Sheriff’s Department. There was nothing in his past to indicate any connection to a killer.

  Members of Scanlon’s task force also ran a check on the background of Elizabeth Slocum, but hit a brick wall. A trace of her past stopped dead at an orphanage in Omaha, where she’d been raised since age thirteen. The staff there apparently regarded Elizabeth Slocum very highly, because they refused to divulge any information about her. The nuns refused to cooperate in any investigation unless they were informed of how that information was to be used.

  Scanlon had of course refused to disclose any details of the investigation, and the nuns stonewalled. He told them he would get a warrant and take their records anyway. The elder nun only smiled at him and said with so many records, for so many children, often documents became lost permanently, never to be recovered. She pointed at the shredding machine as she said this.

  The meaning of the nun’s statement was loud and clear. She was not going to turn over any records to the FBI. If he did get a warrant, the nuns would simply destroy the records before he could serve it and claim poor recordkeeping as the culprit. And there wasn’t a damned thing Special Agent Steven Scanlon could do about it.