Deadly Stillwater

by Roger Stelljes

  “It’s him Mac. He’s the source,” Riles said. “He has to be.”

  “That’s enough for us to move,” Mac said. “Tell Heather we owe her.”

  “She knows. I’ve struck a deal with her, and you’re the bargain, Mac.”

  “No problem. But listen, we don’t have much time,” Mac said. His voice went cold. “You two know what needs to be done.”

  “With fuckin’ pleasure,” Riles answered, looking over at Rock, who was punching his fist into the palm of his hand. “With fuckin’ pleasure.”

  36

  “ Right during the rockets’ red glare.”

  “Take the Highway 95 exit and drive north toward Stillwater,” Smith ordered, still five hundred yards behind. He’d driven them around the Twin Cities for the last hour and a half, tailing them all the way. Monica had been even further back in a different vehicle, watching Smith’s back and looking for anyone tailing him. When it was apparent that the police were nowhere to be found, Monica went ahead to the boat. At 7:56, noting the sun’s decline in the west, Smith started them on the final drive east on Interstate 94.

  Now it was 8:21 PM, and the red minivan wove its way through the small town of Bayport, the St. Croix River occasionally visible to the east down city streets. The van passed a bank and then a retirement home on the left, clearing the town proper. The road ahead was clear. “Past the entrance to the window plant, take a right down the dirt road.”

  Flanagan, who was driving, did as he was ordered, turning right and driving slowly down the dirt road. “Stop at the dock. Do not get out of the van.” The van pulled to a stop at the dock.

  Smith pulled up twenty feet behind the red minivan, Monica was already out of her car and approaching the front of the minivan, pointing a small 9mm. Dean stood at the end of the dock while David approached the van. The brothers wore blue nylon sweat tops with the zippers opened, revealing holstered. 45s. Monica stopped five feet short of the driver’s side door and threw two sets of disposable handcuffs into the car. “Put those around your wrists.” Both men did as they were ordered and held their hands up to show compliance. “Get out,” Monica ordered.

  Flanagan and Hisle did as they were told, awkwardly reaching down to open the van doors with their bound hands and stepping out of the van. David pushed Hisle around the front. Smith finally made his appearance, getting out of his van and approaching Hisle and Flanagan from behind, a. 45 in his hand. “Hello, Chief.”

  Flanagan turned and recognized Brown immediately, “Smith Brown.”

  “You know this man?” Hisle asked quietly, glancing sideways at the chief for effect.

  “He does, Mr. Hisle,” Smith answered in a mocking tone. “He needlessly put me in jail sixteen years ago.”

  “Needless my ass,” Flanagan retorted, never taking his eyes off Brown. “You got what you deserved.” The chief looked over to Hisle. “He was ex-DEA, a cop, and he was dirty. That’s why I remember him. He was dipping his bill in the company stash and putting it back on the street.”

  “Once,” Smith said, the anger flashing in his eyes. “I did it once. I did it to take care of debts.”

  “Gambling debts. And you did it one time that we knew about,” was Flanagan’s acid reply.

  “You sanctimonious son of a bitch,” Smith growled, punching Flanagan in the stomach and sending him groaning and coughing to the ground. “I did it once. One fucking time! You could have looked the other way. I said I’d resign, walk away from the job.” Smith stood over the chief. “I had a wife, a sick daughter. If you’d looked the other way, I wouldn’t have done fifteen years, I wouldn’t have lost my wife. My daughter might have lived.”

  “You’re pinning your daughter’s death on the wrong man,” Flanagan coughed, pushing himself up to his knees, “If anyone’s responsible, it’s you, not me.”

  Smith kicked Flanagan in the side, “It was you. You killed her, and now you’ll pay.”

  “With money?” Flanagan answered, coughing and spitting, “Figures.”

  “No,” Smith replied, backing away. “With your life. You and the counselor here.”

  “What’s Hisle got to do with this?” Flanagan croaked, still trying to get his breath.

  “So does the name Thomas Mueller mean anything to you?” Monica asked Hisle, standing back, calm.

  Hisle nodded. “TOM Trucking.”

  “Good memory,” the woman replied. “You took that case for those bitches. They lied about my father, calling him a pervert, making the jury look at him that way, having the newspapers report about him in that way.”

  “I offered to settle it,” Lyman said simply. “He should have settled.”

  Monica would have none of it. “You shouldn’t have sued him to begin with. You ruined him. He lost everything. Everything. You drove him to put that gun in his mouth.” Monica glared at Hisle. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Lyman looked resigned to his fate. He wasn’t going to plead for his life. “Fine, you all have grudges to settle with Flanagan and me. Fine, settle them then. Do what you’re gonna do. But what about the girls? Why hurt our girls?”

  “The girls get us you, and they get us money, blood money,” Monica said coldly.

  “But what about our daughters? They did nothing to you, nothing,” Flanagan pleaded, still on the ground, but now up on all fours. “We’re the ones you want. Let them go.”

  “And quickly,” Hisle added, pleading, begging. “My daughter is diabetic. She’s in danger now, every minute counts for her.”

  “Just make the call,” Flanagan added. “You have us. You have what you want. Let them go.”

  “When we’re done.” Smith answered harshly, waving to the dock. “Get on the fuckin’ boat.” Then to David he said, “Grab the bags out of the van.”

  Flanagan picked himself up, spat, and followed Hisle down a short flight of rickety wood steps and onto the old, weathered pier. The large river cruiser was tied at the end, its bow pointing out of the channel and into the river, which was visible through the end of a narrow, tree-lined channel to the right. A small box was placed at the boat’s side, allowing Hisle and the chief to climb on board. “Go down the companionway,” Smith ordered, “and into the bathroom.”

  “You think they’ll even let the girls go, Charlie?” Hisle asked once the door was closed. He was leaning against the wall, his hands bound and clasped at his waistline.

  “I don’t know,” Flanagan replied as he sat on top of the vanity He winced as he used the inside of his right forearm to lightly feel his ribs where he’d been kicked. He was having some trouble breathing. Leaning back, taking small breaths, he said, “I just don’t know. The look in Smith’s eyes scared me.”

  “I saw it too,” Hisle replied and then snorted. “I guess we both really pissed them off, huh?” Lyman lifted Flanagan’s shirt up to inspect his ribs while the chief held up his bound arms.

  “I suppose we did,” Flanagan said and winced as he tried to take in a deeper breath. “Bastard broke my ribs.”

  “I suspect he did. He kicked you good,” Lyman added and then sighed. “So where do you thing we’re going.”

  “You know the river better than me. What do you think?”

  Hisle leaned against the wall and thought for a moment. “I’d suspect we’re going north.”

  “Why?”

  “Less boat traffic up that way, north of Stillwater, up toward the rail bridge maybe.”

  “There’s a lot of boats on the river, aren’t there?”

  “Yeah. There will be a big fireworks display in about…” Hisle looked at his watch, “an hour or so.”

  Flanagan smiled wryly and shook his head. “They’ll cap us all right. Right during the rockets’ red glare. The sound of the gun firing will sound like fireworks.”

  The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, feeling the acceleration of the boat into open water.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Hisle muttered sadly.

  “We’re not dead yet
.”

  “I don’t sense the cavalry charge coming,” Lyman replied. “Face it, Charlie. Your boys know who these guys are, but they have no idea where we are.”

  37

  “ It’s that simple.”

  8:22 PM

  “You’re sure about this connection?” Burton asked Peters as they made their way down the steps to the basement of the Department of Public Safety.

  “Yes,” Peters replied. “McRyan has been working this today. Frankly, I thought he was crazy, but that’s Mac. He gets going on something and he can’t be stopped. It reminds me of that PTA case. The guy simply won’t take no for an answer. Anyway, he unearthed this connection between Brown and Mueller and thinks it’s worth pursuing. I want you to take a look at it, but with the chief and Lyman missing, we need to move fast.”

  “Sounds pretty thin,” Burton replied as Peters stopped at a metal door and took his keys out of his pocket. “I mean, this Brown name comes up on a criminal case and this Mueller is what, a fellow inmate? That’s pretty weak.” Burton followed Peters into the conference room.

  “IT AIN’T WEAK, IT’S DEAD FUCKIN’ ON!” Riley roared as he threw Burton into the cement wall. Rock moved in with a knee to the gut and then threw Burton back across the metal interview table, where the agent slid across, into and then over two folding chairs, and smashed hard against the far wall. Riley picked a dazed Burton up, slammed him into the chair, and emptied the agent’s pockets of cuffs, keys, weapon, wallet, two cell phones, and a hotel key card.

  “Better talk now, John,” Peters said casually, sitting on the corner of the table as Burton tried to catch his breath. “Or I’m going to let these two animals see if they can put you through these cement walls. And,” Peters added, crossing his arms and looking around the room, “nobody’s going to hear you down here. The room is soundproofed.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Burton spat. “I’m gonna have all of you…”

  Riley backhanded Burton out of the chair to the floor. “If you ever want to breathe free air…”

  “Fuck that!” Rock yelled, grabbing Burton by his shirt. His bright white eyes bulging in his dark black face. “If he ever wants to get out of this room alive he better talk.”

  “I’m an FBI agent…”

  “Do I look like I give a shit!” Rockford yelled and threw the agent against the wall. He punched Burton in the belly again and then tossed him back over the table. Burton pushed himself up to his knees, trying to catch his breath.

  “John, John, John…” Peters said shaking his head, a smile on his face. He crouched down to Burton. “How much longer you want this tune-up to last? I mean, these two live for this shit.”

  “Where’s Duffy? I want you to get Duffy in here,” Burton demanded, gasping for breath.

  “Duffy isn’t interested,” Peters said. In fact, Duffy had considered the evidence and made himself conveniently scarce. “I’m not getting anyone for you,” Peters continued. “We have you cold.”

  “With what? You ain’t got shit on me,” Burton panted.

  “ Ohhhh yes we do,” came another voice. “How was the Ranger up in Forest Lake last night?” Mac asked, his voice booming over the speaker on Peters’ cell phone.

  The look on Burton’s face spoke volumes. “How?”

  “We’re just that good,” Mac answered in a mocking tone. “At the Ranger you met up with Smith Brown. The man who you partnered with to sell drugs sixteen years ago. The man who, because he never rolled over on you, forced you to help him with this. The man who has the chief and Hisle. The man you’re going to give us and I mean right fuckin’ now.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or you never leave that room alive,” Mac replied flatly. “It’s that simple.”

  Burton looked up at Peters, “You wouldn’t…”

  “It’s no big thing,” Peters said conversationally. “You simply go missing. A little cement around your ankles and we dump you in the Mississippi. The only way you leave the room alive,” Peters stated, “is if you tell us where Brown has Flanagan and Hisle.”

  “Maybe we can make a deal,” Burton replied, on all fours on the floor, trying to play his last card. “I can help you find the girls. I don’t know where they are, but I can…”

  “We have the girls,” Mac answered.

  Burton’s jaw hit the floor. “How? How is that possible?”

  “We’ve known since the safe house yesterday that someone was working this from the inside, you piece of shit,” Riley growled. “You have no leverage to deal.” Riley picked Burton up and threw him over to Rock.

  “WHERE ARE THEY? TELL US NOW!” Rockford yelled. He grabbed the back of Burton’s pants and ran him into the adjoining bathroom. He stuffed Burton’s head in the grimy toilet. “Tell us where they are, or so help me God…” Rock pulled Burton’s head back.

  “But I don’t know anything…”

  “The hell you don’t,” Rock growled pushing Burton’s head back down into the water. After twenty seconds, he pulled his head up. “WHAT’S IT GONNA BE?”

  “Okay! Okay! Okay!” Burton yelped.

  Rockford picked him up and put him into a folding chair at the interview table. “Where? Where are they?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Burton answered. Rockford raised his hand. “I don’t know!” the agent yelped, cowering. Almost whimpering, he repeated, “I don’t know.”

  “What the fuck do you know?” Rock demanded, grabbing Burton’s shirt and pulling the man’s face close to his.

  “That Brown was going to drive them out to the St. Croix River, to some channel between Bayport and Stillwater he said.”

  “Then what?”

  “They have a boat, a big boat. They’re going to go somewhere up the river.”

  “Where?” Riles demanded, leaning on the table.

  “I don’t know,” Burton answered. Rock released him, and Burton buried his face in his hands. “I just don’t know. Other than north, I don’t know. Brown had a spot that mattered to him, but I don’t know where. He didn’t tell me that part.”

  “Were they planning to go ashore somewhere?” Mac asked.

  “I think so. He said there was a spot important to him. A place he used to go. I can only assume that meant going ashore.”

  Peters stood on the other side of the metal table, flipping through the contents from Burton’s pockets. He held a cell phone in each hand. “Odd to have two cell phones, isn’t it?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “One of these used to contact Brown?”

  “Yes,” Burton replied, nodding.

  “Will it be on?”

  Burton nodded. “I’m not supposed to call him unless it’s an emergency, If I call him with an emergency now, he’ll likely…”

  “Kill the chief and Hisle,” Riles finished for him.

  “But…”

  “But what?” Peters asked.

  “He’s supposed to call me in about fifteen minutes.”

  “We could get a fix on that phone then.” Riles said hopefully.

  “I don’t think you can,” Burton answered. “He won’t call me on the phone number I have for him. I have that one for an emergency, if I needed to contact him. Otherwise, he’s contacting me with disposable cell phones. It’s a different one every time. He’s been using a phone once and then dumping it.”

  “A different phone everytime?” Rock asked.

  “That’s right,” Burton answered. “I don’t see how you could get a real fix on it. At least not in the timeframe you need.”

  “Well then,” Mac started, still listening in, “You best get him to explain to you where he is on the river, in as much detail as possible so that we can find him.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You better do more than that,” Riles responded. “Do you have any idea what this boat looks like?”

  Burton shook his head. “I really don’t other than it’s a pleasure boat, good size, it would have to be.”

  “Why’s t
hat?” Rock asked.

  “Because he can’t have the chief and Hisle up on deck,” Mac answered. “He’ll have them down below and will only bring them up when he comes ashore. Until then, he’ll have them stuffed down below. Riles?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get on a chopper and get out there,” Mac ordered. “I’m on my way.”

  “To where?” Riles asked. “Here?”

  “The river,” Mac answered. “My boat is docked just north of Stillwater. I’ll be on it in less than ten minutes. We need to find that boat. And Burton, you better come through if you want to get out of that room.”

  38

  “ That’s our boat, Mac.”

  8:42 PM

  Brown stood to the left of Dean and admired the flotilla that was now gathering around them, awaiting the start of Stillwater’s massive Fourth of July fireworks display. By the time the show started, sometime between 9:30 and 10:00 PM, there would be hundreds of boats running from a half mile south of the famous lift bridge to another quarter-to-half a mile north of the town.

  The mass of boats included a variety of sizes, from the Showboat Paddle Boats to yachts, sixty-foot cabin cruisers, houseboats, cigarette boats, speedboats, pontoons, and even a boat made out of a tiny sports car. All were full of revelers, the music roaring and alcohol flowing. In addition to the boats, the decks of the bars and restaurants that lined the river were packed to the rooftops with partiers ready for the show. The city riverfront park was covered with lawn chairs and blankets, not a patch of green to be seen.

  It was a festive atmosphere and also a good one to get lost in, the congestion increasing by the minute. Most drivers were smart enough to float on either the east or west sides of the river, leaving something of a lane up the middle of the river to allow traffic to move in either direction. But it was closing, the clumps of vessels metastasizing on the north and south sides of the bridge. While it made maneuvering through the channel a slow and tedious process, it also provided camouflage as they moved north.