Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set)

by Robert P. French

Silence.

  He must be running and doesn’t want to talk.

  “Cal?”

  “Hello Daddy dearest.”

  51

  Cal

  He just stands there. Gun in hand and a cruel smile on his face. I now know why I never made the connection to Stammo. Although their faces are similar, Stammo could never muster the menace and cruelty coming in waves off his son.

  My right hand is applying pressure to the wound but blood is seeping through my fingers. This is not good. The only saving grace is that Matt has shown himself to be a rank amateur. I should be dead. Twice. He only wounded me with his first shot and he hasn’t finished me off with a second one.

  “I think Steve’s going for it. Get to the rendezvous ASAP,” says Stammo’s voice in my headset. I can’t tap it to answer. My left hand is raised and my right is on the wound.

  Matt’s head cocks to one side; he heard the sound of the headset.

  He saunters over to where I am standing and rips the headset off me.

  “You there Cal?” Matt’s grin broadens. He examines the device.

  “Cal?”

  Matt taps the Send button. “Hello Daddy dearest,” he says.

  There is silence from Nick.

  “Fuck you.” Matt throws the headset on the ground and grinds the heel of his snakeskin boot into it, giving me my only chance. In his eagerness to spurn his father, he has come too close to me and has let the gun waver away from my direction. My left hand comes down and chops his wrist right on the scaphoid. The Sig discharges and drops to the ground. He makes another rookie mistake and bends to pick it up only to get kicked in the face by my boot. It hasn’t got a lot of force behind it but it makes him roll away from the gun. I don’t repeat his mistake but am able to kick the gun away from him.

  I take a step forward but he is on his feet fast. I aim a jab at his nose but he weaves to his left and jabs a fist into my wound. I grunt at the pain and feel a flush of warmth from fresh blood flowing out of it. I take an unexpected step toward him and nail him with a straight right to the nose. It was a good solid punch and he is temporarily blinded. Now’s my chance. I make for the gun but my toe catches on a tree root which over the years has pushed its way up from below. I crash to the ground and there is an excruciating pain from the wound. I yell out.

  As I struggle to my feet he is on me. He knocks me back down and is straddled across my thighs. He punches down into the wound and as my stomach muscles tense my head comes forward only to receive a second punch. I see stars and there is a roaring in my head. I’m done for if he does that again.

  But he’s an amateur; he doesn’t push home his advantage. He looks at me with a sneer written across his face and says, “Do you know what, Rogan?” I’ll never know what he was going to tell me. My right hand rips Stammo’s hunting knife from its scabbard and without thought plunges it under his rib cage.

  His eyes go wide. He tries to speak but it just comes out as a gurgle. He falls forward on top of me.

  I push off his dead weight and get to my feet.

  I look toward the estate. One of the guards standing by the unmoving bodies is on a cell phone. The woman who walked Ariel on the lawn just a few minutes ago is running toward them. Of more concern are the two guards who were running toward the kennels; they now have two of the dogs on leashes and are pointing in my general direction alerted by the sound of Matt’s gun.

  I open the backpack and pull out the duct tape that Stammo made me pack. Never go anywhere without duct tape, he said. I use my teeth to tear off a long strip of it, pull up my sweater and grimace at the exit wound. I feel around my side and find where the bullet entered my flesh and slap one end of the duct tape on it, the other end I wind round my side and cover most of the exit wound. I have to get moving now. The dogs and their minders are no more than two hundred yards away. Once they decide to move…

  One last thing…

  I turn to Matt’s lifeless body and pull the hunting knife bearing my bloody fingerprints out of him. I drop it in the backpack, zip it up and throw it onto my shoulders. Without a look back, I run along the path into the forest. Behind me I can hear the baying of the dogs. They are coming. And when they smell the blood…

  52

  Stammo

  It’s been fifteen minutes since the last transmission: two words from Matt that just about broke my heart. The whole plan’s fucked up. Santiago and Perot may be dead but Matt has taken Rogan and thanks to me the VPD SWAT team are on their way to the island. The first thing they’re gonna do is arrest Matt, and Rogan too. They’ll be coming after me soon enough as an accessory. What were we thinking?

  I don’t know what to do now. Here I am on my old army buddy’s Sea Ray bobbing up and down a mile off of Samuel Island with the running lights off. I suppose I’d better head back to his mooring on Pender and wait for—

  Explosions! The pipe bombs. Someone’s tripped the booby trap. That doesn’t make sense. Unless… Unless Rogan’s escaped. That’s it! Maybe he talked Matt around and they’re escaping together. Or maybe the pipe bombs…? No, I can’t think that. I got to assume the plan’s still on. The next thing should be the decoy boat.

  Come on Cal. Come on Matt. It shouldn’t be long now. Not more than a couple of minutes.

  The waiting is killing me.

  There’s a burst of gunfire. What does that mean? As I strain my eyes to see any sign of movement, I see running lights. I grab the binocs and focus on them. It’s the cigarette boat. I can hear the engines now. If they’re patrolling the island, it must mean that Rogan and Matt have escaped. The boat’s moving fast about a hundred yards out from the shoreline I’m guessing. It passes between me and the bay where— The flashing beacon! I can see it now. The decoy boat with the mannequin at its helm. They must be OK.

  The cigarette boat is turning toward the dinghy. I grab my cell phone. Just give it a moment. I see muzzle flashes followed by the sound a second later. Perfect. They’re firing at it. I hit the preset number on the phone and wait while the phone dials. A second round of muzzle flashes coincides with the explosion. Perfect. The bottom of the dinghy blows out and takes all the evidence to the bottom of the Strait of Georgia, leaving the gang believing they got the assassin.

  Now I have to wait until the cavalry arrives. Then I can go in and pick up Matt and Rogan when all the hubbub has died down.

  Maybe I’ll be able to make things OK with Matt. He must have learned his lesson from this. With Santiago dead he’s got no reason to stay on in the gang. I’m pretty sure I can turn him around. Be like a family again.

  53

  Cal

  Thursday

  It’s four AM and the cold is really getting to me now. The heating units in the modified dry suit have all stopped working. The batteries lasted longer than I expected but with my clothing wet, the cold has really set in. All activity on the beach seems to have stopped. A couple of hours ago there were men with flashlights who I suppose were members of the SWAT team scouring the island for the assassin but I doubt they’ll be back before dawn.

  I’ll just hang in here.

  I can’t wait to get back to see Sam and Ellie. Just the thought of them is somehow healing. They must never know what I’ve done here. The ends may seem to justify the means but I know in my heart that I have committed cold-bloodied murder—both a crime and a moral abomination.

  And how do I tell Stammo about Matt? That I killed him with the knife Stammo gave me.

  A throbbing reaches me through the waters. Equal parts of relief and dread flood through me. The sound resolves itself. Boat engines. Two of them creating a pulsing through the water. He’s close. I undo the weight belt.

  Pain lances through me as I stand. In the moonlight I can just make out Stammo in his buddy’s Sea Ray. I wave and wade forward, he waves back and skillfully rotates the boat so that I can clamber onto the swim grid at the back. It’s painful but I make it.

  I go forward and sit on the seat beside him. The grin on hi
s face fades. “Where’s Matt?” Oh God, it’s worse than I thought. He thinks Matt escaped with me.

  “He didn’t make it Nick,” the words trip off my tongue. “I’m really sorry.”

  He goes silent for a moment, then moves the gears into forward and powers the boat away from the shore. He stays silent until we clear the bay and are in open water en route to Pender. Finally he says, “How?”

  “He tried to stop me.”

  “You mean Santiago and Perot are still alive?” He shouts his anger.

  “No, no I got them both. He tried to stop me escaping.”

  He turns to me, his face a mask of fury. “So you killed him?! My son tried to stop you escaping so you fucking killed him!”

  “He shot me. He was going to finish me off. I had no choice. I’m sorry Nick, it was him or me.”

  “HE WAS MY SON!”

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “YOU KILLED MY SON!”

  He throttles back and the nose of the boat dips. It slows then comes to a stop and bobs on the water, the scream of the engines now a quiet burble.

  “Nooooooo—” His howl of rage is cut off by wracking sobs. “He… was… my son.” The words spill out between sobs. “My… son.”

  I have no words. No Shakespeare. Nothing comes to soothe his anguish. No words will help.

  I pull myself to my feet and kneel beside him. Tentatively I put an arm around his shoulder. He tenses for a moment and then sags forward, his face to my chest. I hold him like a child until the sobbing stops, repeating, “I’m sorry Nick. I am so sorry.” Tears are streaming down my face now.

  Finally, after an age, he takes a deep breath and exhales a broken sigh. “It wasn’t your fault. If anything it was mine. If I’d been a better father…” He leaves the words hanging.

  “You can’t blame yourself. Matt probably couldn’t help what he’d become. It’s just life.”

  He straightens up and pulls back his shoulders so that my arm drops away. “It’s just life.” He tries out the words but his voice says they are not enough.

  “I guess we’d better go.” He sounds unsure and just sits there at the helm.

  I stand up and pain lances through me. I grunt.

  Easing myself into the seat beside me I say, “Nick, I was shot, it’s pretty bad. I’m going to need first aid.”

  The words give him a reason for action. “Why didn’t you say that for Chris’sake.” He pushes the levers forward and the boat accelerates hard. “My buddy who lent me the boat was a medic in the Gulf War. He’s seen more bullet wounds than you can imagine. He’ll fix you up, no questions asked. We’ll be there soon enough. You go below and lie down and I’ll call ahead.” I stay sitting beside him while he makes the call. When he’s finished he reiterates his suggestion that I go and lie down but I don’t.

  I stare ahead at the lights of Pender Island pondering the enormity of what I have done.

  54

  Sam

  Sunday

  What a strange dream. I stretch and roll on my back. I start before I remember that the man lying beside me is Cal. Ah, yes. I snuggle up to him feeling the beautiful sensation of naked flesh on naked flesh. He stirs in his sleep but doesn’t wake; he said that he hasn’t had much sleep over the last few days. I put my arm across his chest and feel the roughness of the bandage running round his stomach. He didn’t want to talk about it; said it was a minor scrape, not more than a scratch, but I don’t really believe that.

  I think the case that he and Nick have just concluded has taken a lot out of him. He wouldn’t speak about it other than to say that Ariel Bradbury was rescued but that her father was dead. But I know there was a lot more to it than that. A couple of times last night I saw a great melancholy descend on him. Although it gave me the chance to hug him and kiss him, I want that pain to go away. I will make it my job to help him heal. We are a family again and that will help.

  To hell with danger, I want him back in our lives permanently.

  Suddenly he jumps in his sleep and yells out “NO!” The noise wakens him and his eyes dart about the room, momentarily disoriented. He looks at me and recognition returns. The clouds clear and he smiles. “My lovely Sam,” he says sinking back into the mattress. I squirm a few inches up the bed and kiss him. We share a sweet, gentle kiss. “I love you so much,” he sighs.

  “I love you too.” I kiss him again and without breaking the kiss, I slide my hand off the bandages and downward. As I touch him, he gives a small groan of pleasure and I can feel his urgency.

  It sets my body on fire.

  55

  Cal

  Saturday. Six days later.

  Funerals are a time for looking back. As the men in the black suits lower the coffin into the grave, Stammo must be looking back at his role as a father, blaming himself not so much for the things he did but for the things he didn’t do. His ex-wife is by his side, sobbing, holding on to Stammo’s shoulder, smelling of the gin that she is using to get her through this day in the only way she knows how.

  Tyler is here beside a craggy, balding man with a stern face who must be his father. Thanks to Jim Garry, his lawyer, he is out on bail. Garry has told him that he might be facing jail time but maybe, just maybe, not. Tyler must be looking back and wondering at the choices he has made. I am wondering about the choices he might make in the future; it could go either way.

  I am looking back to that first meeting with Rebecca Bradbury, a lunch that set this whole thing in motion. As chance would have it, ten days ago she was watching the morning news and saw her husband’s murder live. She immediately went into hiding and didn’t come out until the news of her daughter’s rescue hit the news cycle.

  She is a widow and her daughter is fatherless thanks to the young man being lowered to his final rest. The Bookman. Matt Stammo.

  Sam squeezes my right hand. I feel guilty about the bliss of the last seven days. While Stammo has been suffering all sorts of hell, I have been in heaven, for the most part anyway. When the darkness of guilt has descended on me, Sam has been there to help assuage it. She has never asked for details of those last three nights, perhaps she is scared to know; anyway I am grateful for that because I never want her or Ellie to be burdened with the truth about what I have done.

  I look at Stammo and see that he is looking at me. I still can’t believe that he has forgiven me, except that the essential Stammo is a fair and honest man. His forgiveness means much to me even though it adds an additional barb to my guilt.

  The only other people present are Mrs. V., Stammo’s landlady—whose full name I once knew but have forgotten—and a dozen or so cops from the department, some in uniform.

  The pastor says some passing words and it is over.

  Nick wheels away toward his van, his ex trailing an unsteady path behind him. Everyone respects his obvious need to be alone.

  Sam and I turn from the grave and take a couple of steps toward the car park when I hear my name called.

  Steve and a uniformed cop have detached themselves from their group. As they approach, I recognize the uniform. He is fresh-faced and red-headed. I had a run in with him a couple of years ago at the scene of my best buddy’s murder. He’s a little twerp.

  As Steve reaches us, I extend my hand but he ignores it. The little twerp smiles.

  “Cal,” Steve says, “I need you to come with us right now.” His face is deadly serious.

  “What’s this about?” I ask.

  “We’ll talk about that at Gravely Street.” He glances at Sam.

  “We’ll talk about it right now.” I can’t keep the aggressive tone out of my voice.

  He shrugs. “OK, if that’s the way you want it.” He glances at Sam again, his face an apology to her. “We processed the crime scene on Samuel Island. We found your blood at the scene and on Matt Stammo’s clothing. You can either come with us voluntarily or we will have to place you under arrest here and now for the murders of Carlos Santiago, Edward Perot and Matthew Stammo.”
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br />   Sam lets go of my hand and takes a stumbling step away from me.

  The pain is almost unbearable as I watch that lovely face morph slowly.

  From shock.

  To horror.

  And then to an infinite sadness.

  Afterword

  Thank you so much for reading Junkie, Oboe and Lockstep, my first novels featuring Cal Rogan. If you enjoyed them I would really appreciate a review; reviews make a huge difference for an independently published author. Please swipe to the next page to do one. Also a review on Goodreads and Bookbub is always appreciated.

  You can follow Cal’s adventures is the next two books Three and Cabal.

  For more, go to: robertpfrench.com or follow me on Facebook.