Wounded Prey

by Sean Lynch

  He drove directly to another convenience store several blocks away and bought a map of the Oakland/Alameda area. The clerk at the convenience store frowned when he walked in but said nothing. Vernon knew his leg was rank, but ignored the odor and concentrated on walking. Even with the cane, walking was difficult, and the swelling was beginning to burst the seams of his trousers. Spots of clear, infected fluid soaked through the fabric.

  The pain in his leg was fierce but under control. He used a line or two of methamphetamine every few hours. This made his head hurt, and he ground his teeth, but kept the throb in his leg to a distant roar. He knew the drug couldn’t sustain him indefinitely, but the mission was approaching a critical phase. He needed to be alert and ready to act.

  Vernon scanned for the enemy. Thus far there was no sign of them. He watched when Cole left with the little girl in the morning, presumably to school. Now he watched from inside Cole’s house.

  Vernon waited for an hour after Cole left before he entered. He’d legally parked the Camaro then hobbled with his cane to the front door. He rang the doorbell several times with his hand on the leather-wrapped hilt of his Ka-Bar knife.

  No one answered the doorbell, and Vernon limped around to the rear of the house. He jimmied the patio door open with his knife. He went in with his .45 drawn and made a thorough interior search. He saw the large Christmas tree and a picture on the coffee table of Cole, a pretty woman, and the auburn-haired little girl he’d seen earlier. He found a note in a feminine script taped to the door of the refrigerator; instructions on preparing meals. The bottom of the note proclaimed love, and stated the author wouldn’t be home for two more days. The note was signed, “Marcia”.

  Vernon smirked. When Marcia came home she would find things she hadn’t dreamed of in her worst nightmares.

  He drew all the shades in the house and sat down on a thick couch. Though he’d contained the pain, the swelling in his leg was severe, and he could only stand for brief periods of time. He knew he had to conserve his strength. Soon Cole would return, and he needed to be ready to greet his brother.

  He had his .45, and several loaded magazines for it. He had the sawed-off twelve gauge and more than ten shells. He had his Ka-Bar knife, sharpened as always to a razor’s edge. He lit a cigarette and tried to relax.

  Vernon felt in control of his faculties, but the visions and dreams which began on the bus from Omaha hadn’t stopped. He knew he was in suburban California, yet he could see the dense jungle all around him. Night was falling. Soon the patrols would go out. With nightfall the enemy came. The weak and frightened would whimper; calling for their mothers, saying prayers, and babbling of home.

  But not Vernon. He would make Daddy proud. He wasn’t afraid. He could take it. He was a Marine.

  Daddy’s little soldier. Not like Cole, and Wade, who always cried in their sleep. It didn’t matter about Elizabeth, because she was a girl. Daddy said she was a bitch, and a whore like Mommy, and would never measure up. But Vernon would make Daddy proud. Vernon was a good little soldier.

  He dozed, unsure how long he slept. He chain-smoked Pall Mall cigarettes, waking only when the glowing red tips burned down to his knuckles. He kept his weapons handy.

  Before long a car’s headlights illuminated the driveway. Vernon ground out his cigarette and stood up to restore circulation to his damaged leg. He willed the pain to a recess of his mind and focused on his mission.

  Keys turned in the lock of the front door. Just inside, Vernon Emil Slocum waited in the dark for his brother.

  CHAPTER 40

  “It’s a wonder you Californians get anywhere at all.”

  The rented Oldsmobile sat stalled on Highway 580 between San Francisco and Alameda. They’d been in the car almost an hour, during what Farrell said would be a twenty minute drive.

  “Hey, don’t blame me,” Farrell said, putting a cigarette into his mouth. “At least we Californians have somewhere to go. I just spent a week in Iowa, and it felt like twelve years. The fucking state is a cross between Deliverance and the North Pole.”

  “At least in Iowa, none of the major cities are considered the homosexual capital of America.”

  “Oh yeah?” Farrell retorted, lighting his cigarette. “That’s because in Iowa, the people haven’t evolved enough to fuck each other. They’re still dating the four-legged critters.”

  Farrell took a deep inhale of smoke, and Kearns winced. Farrell wondered why the deputy was wincing each time he lit a cigarette lately. He was still wondering when his world exploded.

  When the smoke in the car cleared, and Farrell’s ears began to function again, he found Kearns laughing so hard the car was weaving in the lane. It took another few seconds for Farrell to come to his senses and realize what happened. When he did, he spat the shredded and blackened cigarette from his mouth. He wiped the carbon off his face with a handkerchief. Kearns was howling.

  “Very funny, Kevin. That was the kind of prank I’d expect from a third-grader.”

  Kearns held his laughter in check long enough to respond.

  “Not a sophisticated gag, like sending me to a gay bathhouse to work out.” He burst out laughing again.

  Farrell grinned, shaking his head. Eventually he too was laughing. He tossed his opened pack of smokes out the window and reached into his pocket for an unopened one.

  Traffic cleared, and soon the Olds was on the Nimitz Freeway. Farrell told Kearns to get off at the High Street exit. He sat back, lighting another cigarette. This time Farrell winced. He needn’t have.

  “Kevin, we’ve got to get a few things straight before we arrive. This isn’t Iowa. We need a contingency plan.”

  “A contingency plan?”

  “Here.”

  He produced an envelope and handed it to Kearns. The deputy opened the envelope. Inside was a thick stack of twenty and one-hundred dollar bills.

  “Bob, I’m not going to take your money again.”

  “It’s not a handout. If we get separated like in Omaha, you’re going to need a stake. We’ve got to be prepared for anything, and that includes successfully finding Slocum and doing him in. When that happens, we’re going to be hotter than ever, and the FBI isn’t making things cool right now. We’ll have to split up. So don’t argue; take it.”

  The San Franciscan’s logic was again irrefutable. Kearns accepted the envelope and tucked it into his pocket.

  Farrell exhaled smoke and continued. “Inside the envelope is Jennifer’s address and phone number. Should something go wrong, we’ll contact each other through her. That shouldn’t upset you.”

  Kearns ignored the quip. He didn’t want to tell the older man he already had Jennifer’s address and phone number. They crossed the High Street Bridge, separating East Oakland and Alameda. The humor was gone now, replaced by the seriousness of what lay ahead.

  “You’re packing, right?”

  “Both guns,” Kearns said. “I brought spare ammo, too.” He sensed the weight of the two FBI-issue Smith & Wesson six-guns in his coat pockets. He had a fistful of .38 rounds in each hip pocket as well.

  “Remember; if you get a shot, take it.”

  “I haven’t forgotten Omaha,” Kearns said softly.

  Farrell smoked in silence. He had his five-shot Smith & Wesson .38, and the Remington twelve-gauge pump-shotgun under the seat. In the back was a cooler filled with sandwiches, some bottled water, and a thermos filled with coffee. There was also a fresh fifth of bourbon in a paper sack.

  The plan was to watch Cole’s house for as long as it took for Slocum to arrive. Neither discussed the possibility Slocum wouldn’t appear, though both harbored unspoken doubts. The provisions in the back seat were to sustain them in their vigil and to present the appearance of having a picnic at Shoreline Park should they arouse the suspicion of a neighbor, security guard, or the police.

  Farrell directed them over the Bay Farm Island Bridge. Once across, they found themselves driving plush, tree-lined streets. Bay Farm Island looked like
new money. Night was falling, and the streets were largely devoid of traffic.

  Farrell tossed his cigarette out the window. “Drive by the house first,” he said, “and we’ll look it over. Don’t slow down too much.”

  Kearns nodded, and began to scan the numbers on the houses. At the intersection of Aughinbaugh and Seaview Parkway they found Cole’s house.

  It was a large home, with a small yard by Iowa standards. It was new, and decorated with Christmas lights around the roof. A Jeep four-wheel drive was parked in the driveway and a red Camaro was parked in front. The shades were drawn.

  Farrell checked his notebook against the license plate numbers registered to Cole Ballantine. The Jeep matched. The Camaro did not. Kearns remarked that perhaps the Ballantines had company, since it was nearing Christmas.

  Farrell started to put another cigarette into his mouth, then stopped and rubbed his chin. He turned to Kearns.

  “Drive over to the phone booth down at Shoreline Park. I’m going to telephone the house.” Farrell tore off a page of his notebook and pocketed it. Kearns looked puzzled.

  “Why are you calling Cole’s house?”

  “We need to be sure his family is alright, or even at home. What if Slocum’s already been here, and Cole and his family are dead? Or what if they went to Grandma’s in Connecticut for Christmas? Hell, maybe we got the wrong house? Or the wrong phone number?”

  “I thought we were going to play it cool tonight? Stay in the car and scope the house out? I don’t like this.”

  “If Slocum beat us here, waiting outside is pointless.”

  Once again, Kearns couldn’t refute the San Franciscan’s logic. “What do you want me to do?”

  “All I want you to do is walk past the house. The front door is pretty close to the sidewalk. You should be able to hear the phone ringing if there’s nobody home. Just walk past, and don’t look at the house. You’re a pedestrian out for an evening stroll. When you’re done, come back down to the park.”

  “The park’s a hundred yards away.”

  “You afraid of a little exercise?”

  Kearns slowed the car to turn around. “I’ll do it, but I don’t like it. If Cole sees me now, he’ll recognize me if he spots me again over the next couple of days. It’s risky. Besides, what if a neighbor sees me?”

  “You sound like my ex-wives. Have a little faith, will you?”

  Kearns pulled the Oldsmobile over to the curb at Shoreline Park. Between the distance, and the rapidly approaching darkness, Cole Ballantine’s house was barely visible from the payphone.

  “So what are you going to say if somebody answers? May I speak to the murderer of the house?”

  “Do I have to explain everything? I’ll act like I’m doing a phone survey or something; ask what kind of toilet bowl cleaner the family buys. Sorry, wrong number. Whatever.” Farrell opened the car door as Kearns switched of the ignition.

  “Got it all figured out, don’t you?”

  “Trust me,” Farrell smiled.

  Kearns grunted and shook his head. “I’ll meet you at the park in a few minutes.”

  Farrell straightened his tie and stepped out of the car. “Break a leg, kid.”

  Kearns gave a half-hearted thumbs-up and got out of the car. It took a couple of minutes to reach the Ballantine house. He slowed his pace and tried to walk casually, hands in his pockets, knowing instinctively that whenever you try to look casual you don’t. The houses were close to each other, and very near the sidewalk and street; much different from the spaciously separated homes back in the Midwest.

  Kearns’ eyes were drawn to the large picture window in the front of the house. Disregarding Farrell’s admonition not to look, he glanced around to see if any nosy neighbors were watching. Then he peered into the window. The shades were drawn, and it was impossible to see through them. To his amazement, he heard the telephone ringing faintly inside. Chalk up another one to Farrell’s experience. It rang ten times and stopped.

  That’s when Kearns noticed the door. It wasn’t ajar, but there was a set of keys still dangling from the lock. He and Farrell couldn’t have seen them from the street while driving past in the darkness. Kearns looked over his shoulder to the park, but couldn’t tell in the darkness if Farrell could see him. He stepped onto the small porch for a better look.

  Kearns was tempted to wave at Farrell, but quickly discarded that idea. What if someone else saw him? It could draw unwanted attention. And how would he even know if Farrell saw the signal?

  It would take Kearns at least several minutes to walk back to Shoreline Park, and another few minutes to either walk or drive back to the house. He bit his lip, his mind scrabbling for a plan. This was something he and Farrell hadn’t discussed. Were the keys merely left inadvertently in the door when Cole came home from work? Or had Slocum already come and gone?

  Kearns had to know more. He gently depressed the thumb latch on the door handle and found it unlocked. He nudged the door open. It was dark inside; the only light was coming from the Christmas tree. What he saw next sent the blood rushing through his veins.

  Inside, on the floor, a man lay sprawled on his side. The man was bound hand and foot, and his feet were tied to a cord which encircled his neck. His face was blue, and blood crept from where the cord bit into his throat. On his forehead was an ugly gash over a thick bruise.

  Kearns had learned of this method of binding in the police academy. The cord connecting the ankles and neck of the victim was cut to a specific length to prolong the act of suffocation. To prevent strangulation, the victim had to contort his body in a painfully strenuous manner which was impossible to maintain. To relax would tighten the noose around the neck. Death was inevitable, and only the strength of the victim determined how soon it would arrive.

  Kearns drew his revolver and stepped into the house. The man’s eyes widened and he tried to speak, but his only words were blood and spittle. Kearns looked carefully around the room for signs of Slocum.

  He withdrew his penknife and opened the blade with his teeth, keeping his gun-hand free. He leaned down and sliced through the strangulation cord on the prone man’s neck. The man instantly unfolded, gasping for air.

  “You’re Cole Slocum, aren’t you?” he whispered.

  Cole nodded, unable to speak. He was choking and gagging, but at least now he could breathe. He tried to say something and couldn’t form the words.

  “Where is he? Where’s Vernon?”

  Cole struggled with his bonds and fought to get words out. His eyes were dilated in anguish and fear. Kearns wished Farrell wasn’t a block away, but couldn’t risk leaving the house; not with Slocum inside. It might be their only chance to get him.

  Kearns cut the bindings on Cole’s wrists.

  “Where is he? Is he still here?”

  “…aughter,” Cole gasped. “He’s got my daughter!” The effort caused Cole to retch.

  Kearns remembered Ballantine had a family. Cole’s fear was not for himself, but for them. Apparently he had a daughter somewhere in the house. He grabbed Cole roughly by the shoulders.

  “Where is she?”

  Ballantine couldn’t speak. He motioned with his head towards the stairs.

  “Upstairs? Did he take her upstairs?”

  Cole nodded. Kearns finished cutting the bonds on Cole’s wrists and handed him the knife. “Cut your feet loose. Then run down the street and get my partner. He’s in the park by the phone. Skinny guy in a raincoat. You got that? In the park.”

  Kearns stood up and headed for the stairs, his revolver in front of him. He didn’t look back to see if Cole had obeyed his command.

  He moved carefully up each step, conscious of the increasing darkness and the hammering of his heartbeat in his chest. He reached the top and poked his gun first around one corner, then the other. He peered cautiously into the first room at the top of the stairs.

  Inside the room, which was illuminated only by a Minnie Mouse night-light, lay a small girl. She was face down
and didn’t move. She was not bound. Kearns couldn’t tell in the dim light if her chest was rising and falling in respiration, or if she was dead. He stepped instinctively towards the child.

  Suddenly, from the darkness, came a looming shape. Too late, Kearns realized he’d been suckered. His ambusher knew his attention would be diverted to the prone child. He tried to bring his revolver up but it was futile.

  Vernon Slocum sidestepped the door he was hiding behind and plunged the full seven inches of his Ka-Bar knife into Kevin Kearns’ chest. Kearns was already moving quickly towards the girl, and this momentum impaled him further on the blade of his attacker’s knife. He weakly tried to bring his gun up, but Slocum batted it down effortlessly.

  Kearns’ arms went limply to his sides, and he stared into the savagely grinning face of Vernon Slocum. Slocum smelled foul, and his eyes receded into dark sockets like a skeleton. Kearns’ chest exploded in pain. He saw his blood flowing down his stomach, and for an instant thought the injury was occurring to someone else. A gasp escaped his lips, and he convulsively pulled the trigger of his revolver.

  CHAPTER 41

  Farrell heard the shot, faintly, from across the street. He sprinted from the phone booth to the parked Oldsmobile.

  There was no answer when he phoned, and he’d waited at the park’s public restrooms for Kearns to return. He couldn’t see the Ballantine house at all; the glare of the phone booth’s fluorescent light prevented him from seeing much of anything outside. Long minutes passed, and he anxiously wondered what his partner was up to. It shouldn’t take this long to walk back from the house. Then came the dim but distinct sound of a gunshot.

  The Oldsmobile fired up and roared down the street, screeching to a halt in front of Ballantine’s house. Several neighbors were on their porches, the lights on. Apparently they’d heard the same sound as Farrell. He ignored them and bailed out of the sedan, his Smith & Wesson in his right hand.

  He reached the front door of the Ballantine house and found it open. His stomach lurched with the realization that Kearns must have gone in. He gripped his revolver and called into the house, “Kevin?”