The chief sat down next to Peters and asked in a whisper, “What do you think?”
“Watch your back,” Peters replied quietly.
“Two blocks,” the driver yelled.
Burton and Duffy each handed bags to the chief and Lyman.
• • • • •
Foxx pulled up to the curb just short of the corner of Main Street and West Fifth Street. She was parked a block back from Riley and Rockford, who’d taken a left on West Fifth Street and parked their white Chevy S-10 along the side, just short of the end of the street. The reporter could see Rockford, who had a set of binoculars put up to his eyes.
“What are they watching?” the cameraman asked, filming across Heather from the passenger side.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Heather answered.
• • • • •
The truck pulled up to the corner, and the chief and Lyman jumped out. Without a word, Burton slid the door closed. The truck pulled away down Washington Street and turned right on Kellogg Boulevard, heading out of sight.
Lyman and the chief walked up onto the corner. The chief scanned Rice Park, a park shaded by mature trees. The park took up the entire block, with benches lining walkways running diagonally from the outside of the block to the large marble fountain in the middle. The park was empty.
“What next?” Lyman asked.
Just then a ringing sound came from the garbage can sitting on the corner.
“That,” Flanagan answered as he looked down and then reached into the can, pulling out a duffel bag. A cell phone with a traditional telephone ring tone was inside. The chief answered.
“Flanagan.”
• • • • •
Paddy McRyan stood in the empty St. Paul Grill restaurant, inside the St. Paul Hotel, peering out the large picture window that looked out across market Street and into Rice Park. He watched the chief grab a bag out of the garbage can, pull the cell phone out, and start walking toward the water fountain in the center of the park. “Captain, they’re getting into the fountain, they’re going underwater,” Paddy said as calmly as he could, knowing what would happen to the body mics.
“Copy that,” Peters replied into Paddy’s earpiece. And then, his captain confirmed his worst fears. “We’ve lost audio contact.”
“We need to keep an eyeball,” Paddy said urgently into his radio, moving to his right to improve his viewing angle.
“Copy that,” Peters answered, taking charge. “What are they doing now?”
“They’re out of the fountain.” Paddy put his binoculars to his eyes, focusing the view. “The chief is on a cell phone. Do we have audio back?”
“Negative. We are not getting that feed.”
Paddy watched as Hisle and the chief knelt down to the ground, just out of his view. He couldn’t see what they were doing. After a minute, they slung the nylon bags over their shoulders. “They’re on the move, south, hold on…” The detective moved to his left, to the far edge of the picture window. “The chief and Hisle are walking out of Rice Park, south, back along Washington Street over to Kellogg.”
“Are you sure?” Peters asked. “The tracking devices in the bags show them stationary.”
That explained why they had knelt down. “They transferred the ransom into different bags. They are now out of my line of sight.”
• • • • •
“I’m on the west side of the Xcel Center,” Riles said into a radio. “They’ll have to come out onto Kellogg Boulevard, and we have a good viewpoint.”
“Copy that,” Burton replied. “But keep your distance. Hang on… I’m looking at the map…”
“We’ll hold along West Seventh and Kellogg,” Riley responded. “We should have an eyeball if they walk our way.”
“Do that, but hold to the corner,” Burton ordered.
Rock pulled his truck up to the corner of West Seventh and Kellogg, holding in the left hand turn lane, his hazard lights on in case anyone pulled up from behind. Riley was looking east as Kellogg gently curved away like a half-moon. Flanagan and Hisle came into view, walking across the street to the sidewalk on the south side of Kellogg. They turned west, walking toward Riles and Rock. Three hundred yards away, a half-dozen people waited at a bus stop in front of the pedestrian tunnel entrance to the RiverCentre parking ramp, an underground ramp built into the bluff over the Mississippi River. You could enter the ramp with your car from Kellogg Boulevard on top or from Eagle Street, which ran eighty feet below Kellogg at the bottom of the bluff.
“We have them in view. They are walking in our direction,” Riley reported into the radio.
“They’re stopping,” Rock added. “They’re stopping.”
“Be advised the chief and Hisle have approached a group of people waiting at a bus stop at the RiverCentre parking ramp,” Riles said. “Are they going to put them on a bus?” he asked Rock.
“Looks like it,” Rock answered. Just then a bus approached from the south on West Seventh. It had its turn signal to take a right.
“We have an MTC Bus, an articulated bus, approaching our position from West Seventh. It’s turning east on Kellogg.” Riles gave the bus number and read the digital board over the windshield. “Be advised. The digital board on the bus says it is going to the Taste of Minnesota.” The Taste of Minnesota was a large food and music festival taking place on Harriet Island on the south side of the Mississippi River, opposite downtown. The culmination of the Taste was the big Fourth of July fireworks show. There were thousands of people on the island taking in the concerts and food.
“Those buses must be thirty, maybe forty feet long,” Rock said.
“If not longer,” Riles responded and then to Burton he said, “They’re going to run the chief and Lyman through the crowds at the Taste and try to lose us.”
Burton’s voice came over the radio. “We’re flooding the Taste of Minnesota. I want units converging on that location now.”
“That’ll help,” Rock said, relieved.
“About fuckin’ time we got after it,” Riles added.
The bus pulled up to the stop. The chief and Hisle were out of their view now, hidden behind the bus.
“Do I turn?” Rock asked, anxious.
“Hold here,” Riles responded coolly. “We have temporarily lost visual,” he reported. “We are blocked by the bus.” They didn’t have enough assets in the area at the right spots. “If they get on, we’ll follow.”
“Copy that,” Burton answered.
Twenty seconds later, the bus’s brake lights went off and it pulled east down Kellogg Boulevard. There was nobody remaining at the bus stop.
“Be advised, Flanagan and Hisle are on the bus,” Riley reported.
Rock turned left and followed.
• • • • •
Lich accelerated along the path, which had started to smooth out. The sheriff and his deputies followed behind them. The tall grass was halfway up the doors on the Explorer at points as the trail snaked its way towards the tree line. A green metal stake appeared to their left, just as the sheriff said.
“That’s the property line for the park,” Mac explained. The trees were getting ever closer.
The tire tracks turned in a slow arc to the left until they ran parallel with the tree-line, now two hundred yards to the right.
“God, I wish I had the laptop with me,” Mac muttered as he closed his eyes again, pulling up the video in his memory bank. He recalled the van turning to run parallel to the tree line and then abruptly turning right, into the high grass, directly to the woods. Opening his eyes, he saw it, fifty feet ahead, a right turn into the high grass. “Turn right.”
“I got it, partner. I remember this from yesterday,” Lich said, slowing the Explorer and turning right to follow the fresh tire tracks. “These aren’t too old, Mac. A day or two at the most.”
Mac nodded. The adrenaline was rushing through him now as Lich closed in on the edge of the trees. “Where is it?” Mac said. “Where is it?” He
peered at the line of trees, looking for it.
“What? What are you lookin’ for?”
“That!” Mac pointed at a tree with orange tape tied around it. “That orange tie. That was on the video. They’re here. They’re here.” He grabbed a flashlight out of the glove compartment and jumped out of the truck before it had even stopped and ran frantically along the tree line, looking for the next sign. Where had they gone in? Mac worked his way down the edge of the tree line to the right of the orange tape. That felt like the right way. The box was wide. It would have been natural to slide it out of the van and walk straight back. The opening needed to be wider to allow them to operate in the dense trees.
He found it forty feet back from where they were parked, an opening with a jagged path that angled further into the trees. Crouching down, he saw matted-down grass and brush. The trees along the path showed broken branches and scraped bark. The area had been trampled through and recently.
“In here,” Mac said, following the trampled path into the woods, Lich was right behind, with the sheriff and his men trailing with shovels. “We’re looking for a white PVC pipe,” Mac yelled back. “At most, it’ll be sticking up three or four inches out of the ground.”
Mac moved another fifty feet ahead and stopped, wiping the perspiration from his brow. He could feel his hair soaking with sweat and his shirt clinging to his body. There were fresh tracks in the ground straight ahead of him; another set branched to the right off of a larger tree. Lich tracked to the right, while Mac moved straight ahead, deeper into the woods. The mosquitoes hovered in vicious swarms. Within fifteen feet of the split they walked into a clearing, maybe twenty by twenty feet. A thick layer of loose branches and leaves covered the forest floor. Mac panned right to left with his flashlight, and the light bounced off of something unnaturally white beneath a camouflaging layer of twigs and branches.
“There! There it is!” Mac yelled, running and then sliding down to his knees, ripping the debris away from the open pipe.
“CARRIE! CARRIE! CARRIE FLANAGAN! SHANNON HISLE! WE’RE HERE! WE’RE HERE!” Mac yelled down the pipe. He waved frantically to the deputies. “Get those shovels over here! We’ve found them! We found them!” He bent down again, mouth to the pipe, shouting, “CARRIE! SHANNON! WE’RE HERE! WE’RE HERE!”
• • • • •
Carrie held Shannon in her arms. Shannon’s breathing had become more labored, and she was showing no signs of consciousness for the last few minutes. It was just after six now. Carrie didn’t think she had any tears left, but she started to cry one more time.
Sobbing, she almost didn’t hear it. Then she thought her mind was playing tricks on her. It was there and then it was gone. But then it was there again, muffled, coming from the air pipe, but it was unmistakable. “Carrie! Shannon! Hang on!”
She scrambled over to the vent and yelled as loud as she could. “HELP! HELP! WE’RE DOWN HERE, WE’RE DOWN HERE! HELP US! HELP US!”
• • • • •
“I think I heard something,” Mac said, holding up his hand. Everyone froze. He heard the voice, faint beneath the earth. “I hear them! They’re down there! They’re down there! DIG!”
The deputies dug haphazardly, throwing dirt everywhere. “How far down are they?” the sheriff asked.
“Four feet, maybe five.” Mac replied. “In a large wood box, two feet high, four feet wide, six feet long, running to the left of the pipe.”
Four deputies were working furiously in the loose soil. Mac stood up and Lich gave him a big hug, lifting him off the ground. “You son of a bitch. You unbelievable son of bitch.”
Mac paused to regather his wits. “Sheriff, we’re going to need an air ambulance out here. Shannon Hisle is a type 1 diabetic. She’s been without insulin for at least two days, probably more. She’s going to be in rough shape. Get an ER doc on that chopper, and I want you to call North Memorial, not Regions in St. Paul.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a long story, but someone is working this from the inside. So if we fly into St. Paul, that could end up bad for the chief and Hisle. You need to do this quietly, Sheriff—keep it off the airwaves.”
“I understand,” the sheriff replied, reaching for a cell phone instead of a radio.
“One other thing,” Mac said. “In the center console of my Explorer is a black bag. It has a syringe and insulin in it, bring that back.”
The sheriff nodded and jogged as quickly as he could out of the woods, Lich in tow.
“Dick, call Riles,” Mac yelled after them.
• • • • •
“Where are these guys going?” Heather Foxx’s cameraman said as they followed the pickup truck over the Wabasha Bridge and the Mississippi River below.
“I think toward the Taste of Minnesota—Harriet Island. The chief and Hisle must be on that bus,” Foxx answered. “This could be really good. Shoot some footage.”
• • • • •
“What’s up with the ransom?’ Mac asked Lich as he hung up his cell phone.
“The chief and Hisle are on a bus heading to the Taste of Minnesota. Riles thinks they’re going to try to run the chief and Hisle through the crowd and either do a drop of the money or try to lose the chief and Lyman.”
“Are they tracking them?”
“Only with an eyeball,” Lich replied. “They hooked up body mics and tracking in the bags, but now both are compromised.”
“How?” Mac asked, and Lich explained.
“We have the girls. Let’s just move in,” Mac griped. “We’ll get Brown and the Muellers later.”
“That’s what I said,” Dick answered. “But Riley wants that fucking mole, and he figures the best way to get him is to catch Brown and the Muellers at the Taste of Minnesota. Burton doesn’t know about the girls, but he senses the danger to the chief and Lyman as well. He’s locking Harriet Island down. He’s got two choppers overhead. He’s flooding the area with agents and cops, the whole nine yards.”
Thump.
Mac turned his head.
The deputy pushed the shovel down again.
Thump. Thump.
It was the unmistakable sound of a shovel hitting wood.
“Clear the top! Find the sides! Find the sides!” Mac yelled frantically. A deputy quickly found one side and Mac jumped down into the pit, kneeled down and noted the screws, one every six inches along the side. He climbed back out and looked to another deputy standing to the side. He climbed back out and looked to another deputy standing to the side. “The top is screwed into this thing. We’re going to need crowbars, tire irons, anything to help pry the top off. Go!”
The deputy ran out while another retuned with an update. “North Memorial’s chopper is in route, ER doc on board. ETA is less than fifteen minutes.”
The deputies worked frantically to dig out the sides of the box enough so they could have leverage to pry up the top of the box. It took a couple of minutes of digging and clearing. The deputy returned with four crowbars and two tire irons.
Mac and Lich jumped down into the pit to the right side of the box. The remaining deputies surrounded the box. Everyone jammed the crowbars and tire irons in, prying in between the top and side pieces, pushing down with all their strength to pry the top off. At first the screws wouldn’t give, but under continuous pressure, the screws started to come loose, groaning loudly, and the top came off with an ear-shattering pop and was pushed to the left.
Everyone froze.
Carrie Flanagan laid on the right and Shannon Hisle the left. Flanagan looked up and shaded her eyes with her left hand. Her hair was matted, and there were dirty tear streaks down her cheeks. Hisle was curled up in a fetal position, unmoving.
Mac jumped into the box, between the girls, and helped Carrie up. Two of the sheriff’s deputies lifted her out. Mac knelt down to Shannon, checking her pulse and listening to her chest. She was breathing. Her breathing was rapid, and Mac noted her breath smelled almost fruity.
“Carrie
, how long has she been like this?”
“I don’t kn… kn… know for sure,” Carrie chattered. “She’s been fading in and out for the last couple of hours.”
“What’s her status?” the sheriff asked.
“She’s unconscious. Her pulse is rapid and so is her breathing,” Mac replied as he lifted Shannon and handed her up out of the box. He climbed out and took her limp body from the deputies, carrying her as the group made its way out of the woods. Once clear of the trees, Mac gently laid Hisle down next to the trucks, lightly slapping her face.
“Shannon! Shannon! Goddamn it, you hang on, do you hear me?”
Her head lay against the deputy’s lap.
The sheriff dropped down a first aid kit next to them. Mac checked her pulse while Lich opened up the box and grabbed the blood pressure monitor.
“I’ve got her pulse at 120,” Mac said.
“Blood pressure is low,” Lich reported. “Eighty-one over forty-five.”
“The black bag!” Mac said. “Get me the Glucose Meter.”
Dick handed it to Mac and he tested Shannon.
“What’s it say?” Lich asked.
“The glucose is high, way high. She needs insulin.”
Lich reached inside the black bag and handed Mac a needle and small bottle of insulin. Mac pulled the cover off the needle and stuck it into the top of the bottle, drawing out ten units of regular insulin, just as Lyman had instructed. He rolled Shannon onto her side and plunged the needle into her lower abdomen, injecting the drug into her system.
“Will that snap her out of it?” the sheriff asked.
“I don’t know,” Mac answered. “The girl’s father told us that if she was in this condition when we found her, this is what she would need.” After a minute he stood up, leaving the deputy to monitor Hisle’s pulse. He walked over to Carrie, who sat on the bumper of the Explorer with a bottle of water in her hands. Her face was blank, nearly lifeless.
“I told Shannon you’d find us,” Carrie said weakly as Mac sat down next to her. “I told her you’d find us,” she repeated as she started to cry again. Mac put his arm around her shoulder and held her.
First Deadly Conspiracy Box Set Page 71
