Monica was onboard already. She came up from the cabin dressed in white jean shorts over her one-piece black Speedo swimsuit, accessorized with wide black sunglasses and a white Nike tennis cap. Without saying a word, she tossed the boat keys to Smith.
Smith put the key in the ignition and smiled as the boat roared to life. Monica cast off the ropes, first for the bow and then the stern. Once she was back on board, Smith slowly backed out of the slip and, when the bow was clear, turned right and headed for the river.
He loved the water. Smith had grown up on the water in Garrison, Minnesota, a small town located two hours due north of the Twin Cities. It sat on the west side of Lake Mille Lacs, one of the largest of the state’s ten thousand lakes. His dad ran a charter fishing service on the lake. From age sixteen through his college summers, Smith had driven his dad’s boats and became an accomplished skipper. Though he’d spent fifteen years in prison, the skill that came back to him quickest was operating a boat. He’d felt the excitement of a young child when they launched the boat in Lake Pepin down at Lake City. He couldn’t wait to get on the water and drive the boat, feel the rocking of the waves, the sun beating on and weathering his face, the cool splashes of water spraying him as they took on the large waves of Lake Pepin, working their way up the mighty Mississippi and then turning north at the mouth of the St. Croix River in Hastings. When Smith was in prison, lying on his bed with his eyes closed and mind cleared, he remembered boating, rolling over the waves of Lake Mille Lacs or through the chop of the St. Croix on a weekend, just what he was doing the day before the arrest.
Smith slowly navigated the minefield of speedboats and houseboats in the small bay separating Hudson and the marina from the St. Croix River proper. Once through the bay, he turned to the right and passed under a rusting steel train bridge and suddenly he was out into the wide section of the St. Croix that ran from Hudson to Stillwater, five miles north on the Minnesota side. In open water, with space to maneuver, Smith pushed the throttle down and opened up the boat, slicing through the waves like a snowplow through fresh snow. Monica approached with a bottle of water for him. He took a sip and smiled.
“You love this, don’t you?” Monica said.
“There’s nothing better,” He replied, taking another drink. “After we’re done with this, you and I are going to get a boat like this and spend a lot of time on it.”
Monica smiled and leaned up to kiss him on the lips. “I can’t wait.”
Five minutes north of Hudson, Smith steered to the west side of the river and then sped past a massive window plant in Bayport. Such a waste of beautiful river shoreline, Smith thought. The industrial plant’s two-hundred-foot-high smokestack and chain-link fencing mixed oddly with the gorgeous foliage and exposed rock of the shoreline and river bluff. However, while the use of the land was a waste, it would prove beneficial for him.
A short and narrow channel ran just to the north of the plant. While the window plant may have used the channel at one time, it was now largely abandoned. It would be of use tomorrow.
He had already looked at the channel from land, walked the abandoned dock they would briefly use tomorrow, and even observed the odd fishing boat on the channel. Looking over charts at the local library, he learned that the channel was ten to fifteen feet deep if you stayed in the middle as it wound its way to the old dock. But until now, he hadn’t seen it from the water. From the river, the opening was plenty wide, he thought upon inspection. He could see how he would have to maneuver the boat out of the channel. And, while he couldn’t see the dock from the river, he knew it was there.
Satisfied with his short recon mission, he turned away from the channel and slowly accelerated back out into the open waters of the river. In another five minutes he was approaching Stillwater.
As Smith passed the town, with its parks, restaurants, and marinas, he approached Stillwater’s defining feature, the lift bridge. Built in 1931, the bridge spanned one thousand feet across the St. Croix River, carrying a two-lane highway connecting Minnesota to Wisconsin on fixed arched steel trusses over concrete slabs. On the half-hour, a middle section with towers and cables lifted to allow larger boats to pass through.
Smith took a sip from his water bottle as the boat passed underneath the bridge and moved further north, Stillwater falling away behind them. The river gradually narrowed and shallowed, requiring a slower pace and more attentive navigation. Smith eased back on the throttle, falling in a hundred yards behind a flat-bottomed houseboat, probably better known as a party barge. Several people lounged on the upper deck, sunning themselves and drinking cocktails. He followed the houseboat until it made a gentle right toward one of the long, narrow, sandy islands that occasionally split the river. This island, the second they’d come upon, was filling with boats and tents, people preparing for the revelry of tomorrow’s holiday.
Past the second island, the boat traffic diminished significantly. As the river curved to the left around a high rock escarpment jutting out into the river, the railroad bridge came into view. Sitting two hundred feet above the river, cutting an impressive figure against the deep blue sky, the bridge spanned the expanse of the river from Wisconsin to Minnesota. The bridge served as a marker for Smith’s destination. As they approached the bridge, the river cut through a deep canyon. At the base of the steep walls on either side of the river lay isolated sand bars and beaches, one of which was Smith’s destination.
Slowly, Smith steered the boat to the Wisconsin side, toward a small patch of beach in a narrow channel set well back from the main body of the river. For years, this had been his favorite spot on the river. The last time he boated before the arrest, before prison, was an overnight camping trip in this very spot with his wife and daughter — their last family outing together.
Carefully, Smith navigated to the end of the small channel, not wanting to beach the deep V-hulled boat on the zigzagging sandbars hidden just beneath the dark water’s surface. Two hundred yards out from the shore, he swung the boat far out to the left and then, after another hundred feet or so, slowly veered back right. Fifty yards away, he looked to his depth finder, waiting for and then finding the deeper water, an odd drop-off to fifteen feet, which allowed him to turn left and go straight toward the shoreline. The whole maneuver took five minutes. He beached the boat fifteen yards short, the front two thirds of the boat resting on the soft sand but the rear third in deeper water that would allow him to back off the sandbar with a single reverse thrust of the motors.
Dean and David emerged from the woods and walked out into the water. Monica jumped onto the bow and tossed two ropes with stakes on the ends to her brothers.
“Any problems getting down here?” Smith asked David.
“Nope, took a few minutes, just to make sure it was solid, but once we did that,” David smiled, “it was a piece of cake.”
“Well show me,” Smith ordered. “After that, I want to head back to St. Paul.”
18
“ That’s worth a look then.”
The video hit the men hard, with Hisle’s bottom lip trembling when he saw Shannon lying in the box just before the cover was put on. The chief’s eyes closed and his head dropped when the video showed the box buried, with only their air pipes showing.
After watching the video, both men had hard questions for Burton. He had few answers.
“We have to get the ransom ready.”
“Does that mean the investigation is over?” the chief asked. “That we’re going to sit around and wait for the next call?”
“No. We’re not stopping.” Burton explained releasing parts of the video to law enforcement and the public. “We may get a break with the video’s release, and we’re still working through files and might catch a break there as well. We’re not stopping. But…”
“It is what it is,” the chief said.
Burton nodded.
“Chief, we need to be ready.”
Before the chief left with Burton, he pulled his boys aside. He w
as gaunt and ghost-white, as if his summer tan had faded in less than one day’s time. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, and salt and pepper stubble aged his face. His body seemed frail, looking like a listing coat rack for his clothes. But the intensity was there in his eyes, and his deep gravelly voice was commanding as always.
“I’ve heard the story from the FBI, but not from my people. Tell me, no bullshit.”
Mac didn’t bullshit him. “The FBI isn’t lying. We’re nowhere.”
Riley added details, but the result was the same. The chief shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose as he looked down to the floor. “I can’t lose my baby girl,” their leader said quietly. He looked each of his boys in the eye. “You need to find her. I don’t care what it takes or what you have to do. You find her.” He pushed his hand through his disheveled white hair and slowly walked out of the room.
“Ideas?” Riles said into the silence.
Lich said what they were all thinking: “We need a break.”
“And,” Rock growled, “The bastards haven’t given us one yet.”
“Look,” Mac said emphatically, “ We, meaning us, need to make something happen instead of waiting around. Burton’s working the ransom angle now. That gives us some room to work our own gig outside of what the FBI’s running.”
“The mayor won’t like that,” Lich said in a warning tone.
“Burton’s been pretty decent. I don’t like sticking a knife in his back,” Rock added.
“Fuck the mayor,” Mac railed. “I’m done waiting for that spineless gasbag. As for Burton, I have no desire to cut him out. If something turns up, we can go to Burton and bring him in.”
“Agreed,” Riles said. “But Mac, you can’t be talking to the mayor that way, no matter how big a political half-wit he is. You’ll be working third shift in the jail before you know it.”
Mac didn’t particularly care at the moment, but knew Riles was right. “I hear ya,” he said, sighing, and then added, “but like I said, with the G-men working the ransom and the mayor licking Burton’s boots, maybe we start making some moves of our own.”
“What moves? How? Where? With what?” Lich said, tearing the top off a pack of Big Red gum. “You have to have a place to start.”
“Then let’s start with the video,” Mac answered. “I’ll go through that with Dick.” He nodded at Riley. “You and Rock check on the laptop, where was it bought. Someone was supposed to be looking into it, but with all the commotion, who knows? Those are the things we can look at now. After that, the four of us should get out of here for a bit. If we’re going to start operating, I don’t want to discuss it around here.” Everyone nodded in agreement, and Riley and Rockford left to run the numbers on the laptop left by the kidnappers.
Mac went back into the conference room and sat down with a department-issued laptop and watched the video again. Lich stood to one side and Paddy was on the other. Mac played the video back and forth, freezing and rewinding in the hopes of picking something, anything, out. He paid particular attention to the view out the front of the vehicle, searching for any buildings, a chimney, snowmobile signs, anything that might give them a lead on the girl’s location.
St. Paul cops and FBI agents joined them, quietly watching, praying, willing a clue out of the video. All they wanted was a little shred to give them a lead, something to track, a way to find the girls. After a half hour of running it to the end several times, Mac sat back in his chair, sighed, and asked, “Anyone recognize anything? See anything? Have any ideas?” Silence or barely audible no’s were all he heard. All he’d accomplished was to burn the video into the hard drive of his brain.
As everyone started to drift away, Mac pulled out his cell phone, walked to a corner of the room and, with his back to everyone, dialed Jupiter. Jupiter Jones was a friend from his university days. Named after the main character from the children’s Alfred Hitchcock and The Three Investigators series, Jupiter was a computer and video genius. He had already made one fortune and was working on another with a computer video business. He occasionally worked freelance with the department, as he had with Mac’s big case last winter, and also with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. He answered on the first ring.
“Jones.”
“It’s Mac. I need your help, and I need it now.”
“The kidnappings?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anything for you and the chief, you know that.”
“We have a video I need you to look at. I’m going to have my nephew, a uniform cop named Shawn McRyan, drop it off. I need you to break this thing down and see if you can wring anything out of it that we can use to identify these guys. Even the tiniest thing would help.” Mac explained what he was looking for and how fast he needed it. “We got shit and we’re on a tight clock.”
“How tight?”
“Less than thirty hours tight.”
Jupe whistled on the other end. “I’ll be at my house in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks Jupe.” Mac flipped his cell phone closed. He grabbed a spare DVD and copied the video to it. He took it out and waved Shawn over, writing down an address. “This goes to Jupiter Jones and nobody else — and I mean nobody else. Understand?”
“It’s done,” Shawn answered. He grabbed his partner and left the conference room.
Mac stood up and stretched, realizing that he’d been paying such close attention to the video that he hadn’t noticed just how many men were milling around the room, doing nothing. With the call from the kidnappers about the ransom and video, it was as if the investigation had come to a standstill. Detectives and bureau agents continued to work through Hisle and the chief’s files down the hall, but nothing was coming of it. A few people were being kept under surveillance, but based on what he’d heard about them, they were nothing more than dead ends and easy overtime. Burton was working on the ransom, but nobody was in charge of the room. Everyone was just sitting around, waiting for the next call from the kidnappers. Riley and Rock walked back in.
“We’ve tracked the computer down to a Best Buy in Milwaukee,” Riles said. “It was purchased a month ago, with cash.”
“What a surprise,” Lich answered with disgust.
“But maybe we get something off the surveillance camera,” Mac rejoined hopefully. “We just need a piece, a good picture, something to work off. All we need is a solid I.D. and we’d be off and running.”
“We’ll see,” Riles said. “The FBI field office sent someone over there to see if there is any surveillance video, anything we might be able to use. If there’s anything they’ll send it right up.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Mac said quietly. “There are way too many people hanging around, plus the mayor and Duffy, and I don’t trust either of them right about now. How about a booth at Lucy’s?”
Smith smiled and thought of his brief few hours on the river. It felt great. In another week he would be on a boat somewhere, enjoying the sun, cracking open a beer, perhaps a Red Stripe, with Monica lounging on a chair next to him. The fifteen years of prison would seem so far away at that point. Money, a boat, some water, revenge against Flanagan, it couldn’t get any better. After a minute, he put those pleasant thoughts away. There was much work left to be done, and he needed to keep his head in the game.
Dean, riding in the passenger seat, switched the radio station over to the talk station. It was wall-to-wall kidnapping coverage. The mantra continued — the authorities didn’t have any leads.
“The FBI and police have to feel like the clock is ticking down on this thing now,” Dean said, taking a sip from a Coke. He pulled his baseball cap down low over his sunglasses-covered eyes and pulled his gloves on tight.
“Which is what we want,” Smith replied, doing the same. The lead kidnapper turned left onto the safe house’s street. He pulled past the driveway, stopped, and then began to back the van into the driveway while Dean hit the opener.
Pat Hall shifted in his bed, the large cast
on his broken left femur making it difficult for him to get comfortable. An electrician, he had broken the leg five days ago on a job site, falling off a ladder while running wire. Now he was out on workers’ comp and forced to spend the day watching really bad TV. No wonder people worked during the day, rather than being subjected to sappy soap operas, Dr. this and Dr. that, nine versions of People’s Court with Judge Judy, Rudy, or Hootie. Even the sports on during the day were brutal things like paintball and Jet Ski racing. While both would be fun to do, they were about as much fun to watch as undergoing a root canal without Novocain.
On top of all that, the air conditioning in his house was out. He was totally immobilized, watching awful TV, in insufferable July heat. He had sweated through his white muscle T-shirt, and beads of sweat were interspersed with the thin strands of seaweed that were all that remained on his once-full head of brown hair. A hard-working fan in the corner merely circulated the heat and humidity. Thankfully, he was on the main level of his house, and his bedroom was on the north side, under a canopy of elm trees, which kept his room just a smidge cooler. A little breeze to ruffle the curtains of the window would be nice, but there hadn’t been one all day.
The one saving grace was the lovely Heather Foxx. Hall made sure the TV was never far from Channel 12. A remote was a beautiful thing. His TV was telling him now that a Channel 12 Newsbreak was on the way.
“This is Paul Phillips with a Channel 12 Newsbreak. With the latest on the St. Paul kidnappings, we go to Heather Foxx at the St. Paul Department of Public Safety. Heather, what’s the latest?”
“Paul, as we learned earlier, the FBI and police have received a ransom demand, although we don’t yet have the amount.”
“What about the laptop recovered earlier?”
“It contained a video. The police have released a portion of that video, Paul, which we’ll play now.” Foxx waited for the video to start. “What you’re seeing is a portion of the footage the kidnappers left on the laptop. As you can see, it shows a vehicle driving through an isolated rural area. The police are asking all citizens to review the footage and contact the authorities at the number on the screen if they recognize anything about the area the kidnappers are driving through.”
Deadly Stillwater Page 15
