by Sean Lynch
“Hello, this is Jennifer. Who’s this?” Her voice was thick and distant.
“Jennifer, it’s Dad.”
“Dad? Where are you?”
“I can’t say. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“I already know about Kevin.”
Farrell’s face sagged and he sought words. None came.
“It’s been on the news all morning. The FBI’s been broadcasting pictures of the guy you and Kevin were stalking. They reported a big shootout in California.”
Farrell suddenly realized the thickness in Jennifer’s voice was from crying.
“Jennifer, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll bet you are,” she cut in. “Playing your stupid games. I hope you’re happy.”
Farrell paused a long time before speaking, tears forming in his own eyes.
“I was with him when he died. I called to tell you, because I didn’t want you to find out from anyone else. But I guess I fucked that up. I’m sorry. Goodbye.”
Farrell started to hang up the phone. “Wait!” he heard from the receiver. He put it back to his ear.
“Wait, Dad. What do you mean, died?”
“Jennifer, Kevin was my friend. I’m sorry he’s dead. I’m sorry I dragged him into this crazy scheme. I’m sorry I dragged you into this crazy scheme. I’m sorry I was never there for you, or that I wasn’t a better father. I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.”
His voice was shaky, and he neared the point of crying openly. He lit a cigarette to quell the rising tide of emotion.
“Dad, what are you talking about? Kevin’s not dead; at least not if what the TV says is true.”
Farrell’s mouth gaped and the cigarette dropped to the carpet. “Kevin’s alive?”
“Where have you been? The news is on almost every station. The FBI reported a shootout in Northern California, and that two men prevented a child from being kidnapped and murdered like the little girl in Iowa. They said one of the men, in his early twenties, was found badly wounded at the scene. He was taken to the hospital where he’s listed in critical condition, but expected to recover. The other guy got away. The FBI is looking for him.” Jennifer paused. “He meets your description I might add. This ‘other guy’ supposedly took some cops hostage. Once they broadcasted the picture of that creep you two were hunting in Nebraska, I figured it had to be Kevin who was in the hospital.”
Waves of relief swept over Farrell. “Did they say which hospital he was in?” he finally asked, his voice weak. He stamped out the smoldering cigarette with his bare feet.
“I can’t remember.”
Farrell scurried over and switched on the TV. He fumbled with the dials until he got a local news broadcast.
“Dad, you still there?”
“I’m here, Jen.”
“You left Kevin there, didn’t you? You ran out on him?”
“It wasn’t like that. I thought he was dead… I mean… at the time… I…”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Dad! You really didn’t know Kevin was alive?”
“We were in combat, Jennifer,” Farrell said. “Heavy-duty shit was going down. We were trying to save a little girl. There’s a lot you don’t know.”
“And what I do know, I had to learn from the TV. Dad, I thought you might be dead.”
That thought hadn’t occurred to Farrell, and it shut him up. He rubbed his eyes.
“What are you going to do? You’re not going on with this ridiculous manhunt?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I know what you should do,” Jennifer retorted. “You should get to the hospital and see Kevin. Make sure he is OK. See if he needs anything. You’re the one who put him there.”
“I can’t,” Farrell said. “If I show up at the hospital, the FBI will grab me. I could be charged with a number of crimes, many of them felonies. No way can I go visit Kevin.”
“Then maybe I’ll go,” Jennifer said. “The FBI doesn’t know who I am. I could use an alias.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Farrell snapped. “They’d grab you the instant they laid eyes on you. You forget Omaha?”
“The only reason you don’t want me to go is because you’re afraid if the FBI catches me they’ll figure out who you are and arrest you.”
“That’s not true,” Farrell said indignantly.
“Hell if it isn’t,” Jennifer shot back across the phone. “All you ever do is use people. You used Mom. You used me to help get you and Kevin out of a jam in Omaha. And you used Kevin to the point of nearly killing him. So don’t tell me it’s not true.”
Farrell tried to ignore his daughter’s biting words. It wasn’t working.
“You go to California and you could end up in jail. Think about that.”
“I’m thinking of Kevin. He’s got no family. No one. He doesn’t even have a home. He’s going to need somebody to help him, and it damn sure isn’t going to be you. You’ve made that quite clear. You just keep hiding wherever you are, and keep playing cops and robbers, and keep on looking out for your own skin. Don’t worry about picking up the pieces.”
“Listen,” Farrell soothed, trying to soften his voice. “When Kevin wakes up, he’s going to be covered in cops. He’s very likely going to jail, if not prison. You don’t want to be a part of that.”
“Don’t worry about me. One of the girls on my dormitory floor is dating a lawyer. He works for the Lancaster County District Attorney’s Office. I asked him about Kevin. He said Kevin could build a pretty good defense for all the stuff he’s done by saying he was traumatized by witnessing the kidnapping of that little girl. He had a concussion, too. He could say the injury affected his judgment, and that you suckered him into the whole thing. He said to throw you under the bus; blame you. Claim you led him along on this ridiculous safari.”
“Kevin was traumatized; I agree with that. But he did what he did because it was the right thing to do. I won’t let you take that away from him.”
“You’re only saying that because it’s over, and Kevin nearly got killed. You’re trying to justify it. What you did was idiotic and reckless.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Farrell felt angry, but held it in check. He didn’t expect Jennifer to understand, but he did expect her to at least acknowledge Kevin got hurt doing what he believed was right. Farrell took a long breath and chose his next words carefully. He was still reeling from learning Kearns was alive.
“I don’t disagree with you, Jennifer. And for your information, I’m not going to leave Kevin dangling on the hook. I didn’t know he was still alive until I spoke with you, and that changes things.”
“How?” she asked.
“I’ll turn myself in, pay my dues, and take what’s coming to me. I’ll absolve Kevin. But I won’t admit what we did was wrong. It wasn’t. Kevin is a good man. He has guts and conviction. He was doing what he believed had to be done. I’m lucky to have worked alongside him. It was the most right thing I’ve ever done.”
Farrell went on, before Jennifer could interrupt. “You’re right about me being selfish. Too selfish to know how much hurt I’ve caused my little girl. For what it’s worth, I was only trying to help Kevin. I know what it’s like to see little dead kids in my sleep.”
Farrell held the receiver away from his face a moment and took a deep breath, wiping his eyes.
“Jennifer? Jennifer, are you still there?”
“I’m still here,” she said, her voice almost inaudible. “Dad, give up this crazy idea about catching the killer. Go home. You’ve got to go home. You can’t run forever; nobody can. You’re in some trouble, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed. Go home. Forget this nonsense and go home.”
“I’ve got to go,” Farrell mumbled into the phone. He set the receiver gently back on its cradle. He rubbed his eyes for long minutes, and eventually the tears abated.
Farrell watched the TV intently for the next twenty minutes, and confirmed all Jennifer had told him. Kevin
was alive, and being treated at the Alameda County Hospital in Oakland. He momentarily considered Jennifer’s idea of going to see him, and then quickly discarded the thought. Getting himself caught by the FBI would do neither of them any good.
He sifted aimlessly through Slocum’s medical file on the desk. He stared long and hard at the grim face in the photograph. He read the names of Slocum’s family, and remembered how brave Elizabeth was. He thought of Cole, who’d changed his identity to escape his past. He wondered if they ever thought of home.
Maybe they couldn’t forget.
Farrell opened his own wallet and took out a recent picture of Jennifer. It was professionally done, and was undoubtedly a photo made in preparation for her graduation. Jennifer’s hair flowed around her head in a wreath and she was tastefully dressed in a flattering dress. He guessed the picture would accompany her resume when she began job hunting after graduation.
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. He rose and opened it to find room service delivering his cleaned and pressed suit. He paid the clerk, tipped him, and began to dress.
Something nagged at the back of his mind; something his daughter said: You’ve got to go home. You can’t run forever; nobody can.
Farrell belted his trousers and put on his socks and shoes. In a way, Jennifer was right. Everybody had a home somewhere. Even the nightmare the Slocum children endured was home. Home, for better or worse, was familiar. It was a place to let down your guard. It was the place you went when you had no place else to go. It was instinct to return home.
Could Slocum be going home? Farrell donned his shirt and began knotting his tie. Vernon was hurt. He was a long way from Iowa, where he’d spent his entire life, except for Vietnam. Perhaps he would instinctively head for that place which felt familiar and safe.
Maybe Vernon was going home?
Farrell finished knotting his tie and went over to the bed. Under the mattress he’d stashed the small arsenal of handguns he’d checked in with. There were the two FBI-issue Smith & Wesson revolvers, the two Alameda police revolvers, a Colt Trooper and a Ruger Security-Six, and Farrell’s five-shot .38. He checked the loads of the two FBI .357s, ensuring both were fully charged with six rounds each. Farrell’s .38 Smith & Wesson Bodyguard had only four rounds in it; one was a spent casing. He extracted the expended shell from the cylinder and inserted a fresh cartridge.
Farrell put on his coat and his overcoat. He put Kearns’ wallet, his wallet and badge, and the other items into his jacket pockets. He placed one of the FBI .357s in each coat pocket, and the five-shot .38 in his waistband. Scooping up Slocum’s VA file, he left the room and locked the door. The room key, and the two Alameda police handguns, remained inside.
He rode the elevator to the lobby and strolled out of the hotel. His step was lively, and he had a genuine smile on his face. Kevin was alive. That was something. An unexpected gift. With the thick file under his arm and his suit on, he looked like any other white-collar employee on a business trip.
He went directly to one of several cabbies loitering in front of the hotel.
“Airport,” he barked, getting into the back of the nearest taxi.
In fifteen minutes he was at the Oakland airport. He paid the cabbie and went into the main terminal.
It wasn’t crazy at all, in fact, it was quite logical in a way. It was a long shot, but Farrell had nothing better to do, and could turn himself in to the authorities in one place as well as another.
He stopped at a payphone. Inserting coins while lighting a cigarette, he asked directory assistance for the phone number of the Alameda police department.
“Emergency or non-emergency line, sir?”
“The non-emergency line please.”
The operator connected him.
“Alameda police, how may I direct your call?”
“Nowhere,” Farrell said, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. “It’s a tip. The guns belonging to the two Alameda cops I met last night are in room two-twenty at the Oakland Hyatt. Thought I’d return them. Have a nice day.”
“Sir, what’s your name? Sir, wait, don’t hang up. Sir…”
Farrell hung up. He walked across the terminal to the car rental booths.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to rent a car for approximately one week. I want to pay cash for it.”
“Even though you’re paying cash, we’ll still need a major credit card as a deposit.”
“No problem,” said Farrell, flashing his San Francisco star with his thumb strategically covering the word “Retired” engraved on the face. “It’s departmental business. Do you want my personal credit card, or the PD’s?”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you were a police officer. You can skip the credit card. Give me your badge number and one of your business cards.”
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
“No bother at all, Officer. It’s not like you’re going to steal the car, and we won’t be able to find you.”
He suppressed a grin. “You’ll be able to find me alright; I’m known to every cop in the area.”
For the first time in weeks, Farrell gave out one of his own business cards. Taking it, the clerk asked, “Do you have a preference for the make or model?”
“Oldsmobile. Newest you’ve got.”
“And your destination?”
“Home. I’m going home.”
CHAPTER 46
Odgen, Iowa. Christmas Eve, 1987.
Retired San Francisco Police Inspector Bob Farrell stood shivering on the outskirts of the Slocum property in the still of the dawn. There was no wind, but the temperature was well below the zero mark. The snow was knee-deep, and he was thankful he’d obtained heavier clothing.
He’d stopped at a department store in Grand Island, Nebraska, and purchased thermal underwear, heavy socks, insulated boots, and a thick wool sweater. His bones began to throb as he progressed eastward into colder climates and his California attire became inadequate.
Farrell spent the last thirty hours on Interstate 80, stopping only for fuel and to eat. He stopped in Reno long enough to place Vernon Slocum’s medical and military files in a locker at the Greyhound bus station there. Then he mailed the key to the law offices of Carruthers and Lyons in San Francisco, with a list of instructions. Vinnie Carruthers would know what to do.
The road became a blur as he pushed the Oldsmobile towards the home state of Kevin Kearns. He drank a lot of minimart coffee and Jim Beam, chain-smoked unfiltered Camels, and fumbled endlessly with the car’s radio dial. Mostly he got Christian stations, Country & Western, and Top Forty. Whenever he found a station he liked, he’d soon pass out of range of the station’s transmitter.
By the time Farrell got the Oldsmobile into western Iowa, the blizzard had run its course. The roads were freshly plowed, and relatively clear of ice and snow. But the thermometer had dropped, and though clear skies prevailed, the temperature was a frigid minus six degrees Fahrenheit.
He knew Slocum’s farm would probably be staked out. At a little after 4am he parked the Olds along the county road less than a mile from Slocum’s place and laced on his insulated boots. Sure enough, as he trudged through a pasture adjacent to the farm, he saw a sheriff’s department four-wheel drive cruise by and disappear out of sight. He ducked behind a hedgerow, confident they hadn’t seen him.
Staking out a farm in rural Iowa was quite unlike staking out a residence in a town or city, especially in the dead of winter. There wasn’t another farmhouse or building near Slocum’s farm for a mile in any direction, and the soybean fields circling the property were without so much as a tree. The best the sheriff’s deputies could hope to do was increase patrols around the house and look for anything out of the ordinary.
Like an Oldsmobile with California license plates.
Farrell didn’t care if the sheriff’s deputies found the car. He’d reached the end of the line. He knew the hunt was over, regardless of what was about to transpire. His plan was a long sho
t at best, and only delayed his inevitable surrender to the authorities. He wasn’t going to let Kevin take the fall alone.
But the long drive eastward was therapeutic. He’d done a lot of thinking as the radio played its static-ridden renditions of Christmas favorites. He thought of Kevin Kearns, fighting for his life and in the hands of the FBI. He thought of Jennifer, with regret. He thought of Elizabeth, and Cole, and little Kirsten. He thought of Scanlon, too, with more contempt than hate. Mostly he thought about Tiffany Meade, and the still too-clear memory of a prostitute’s child hanging from a lamp in downtown Saigon.
He climbed over a barbed wire fence bordering the farm, snagging his coat. His pockets were heavy with the weight of two revolvers, and it took his numb fingers a moment to untangle himself.
Once over the fence, Farrell stopped to catch his breath and look at the farm. Walking through deep snow was more work than he’d thought, and eroded his strength and breath. But when he inhaled too deeply trying to reclaim his breath, the biting cold felt like shards of glass in his lungs. The bourbon helped.
Though still not light, the snow, under a partial moon, brought the scene to crystal clarity. He remembered the last time he’d visited old Emil Slocum, alongside Kevin Kearns.
Even under the blanket of snow the farm looked run-down and litter-strewn. Junked cars and dilapidated farm machinery still cluttered the yard, and he quickly drew one of the .357s from his pocket in anticipation of the dog. He remembered the pit bull which inhabited a rusted car, and scanned the vicinity for signs of the dangerous animal.
He could smell the dog before seeing it, and crunched quietly through the snow towards a gutted automobile where the foul stench was strongest. Pointing his revolver ahead of him, he looked inside.
On a filthy stack of old blankets the dog huddled, sleeping. Next to it, in clumps, were pieces of rancid meat. Kearns could see hair on it, and couldn’t escape the foul odor it produced. He hesitated to imagine how the meat would smell had it been July instead of December.
He left the dog undisturbed and headed towards the house. As he got closer the smell of spoiled meat got stronger, and he stifled a gag.
