A Field of Red

by Greg Enslen

  “Okay, and last night you were at the Holly Toys warehouse,” Peters said, remembering what Frank had told them. “Your car was parked in the parking lot, right? When did you get jumped?”

  “Around nine,” Frank said. “I remember, because I could hear the band playing downtown.”

  Peters thought about it, as he typed in the last set of numbers. “The HarvestFest started at 7, with two bands. One played 7 to 8 pm, and the other 8:30 to 10. You could have heard music as late at 1o pm.”

  The map came up.

  Frank watched, as the map suddenly zoomed out from Cooper’s Mill completely. The map tracked northward, zooming into an area miles away, displayed a location far to the north.

  “Out in the country,” Peters said, using the mouse wheel to zoom into the area. It looked like farmland, mostly broken up with houses and smaller roads. Frank saw a large dairy farm and, running along the eastern side of the screen, the fuzzy brown swath of a river.

  Peters nodded, zooming in. “It’s north of Troy. A farmhouse.”

  Frank sat back and looked at the map on the screen. “It looks secluded, out by itself.”

  The farmhouse was very large, two or three stories, with a big barn next to it. There was a gravel driveway and parking area in front and a long driveway that ran to the road, coming out near the river. Frank leaned closer and pointed at the screen.

  “That’s a big house,” Frank said, studying the computer monitor. “No other houses too close, with good access to roads in all directions. Great place to keep the girls.”

  Peters studied the screen as well, moving the map around.

  “Out of the way but close enough to get to,” Peters said, agreeing. “What’s with that fenced-in back area, like a field?”

  Frank shook his head. “Not sure. But the house is out in the country, and one town over from Cooper’s Mill. I’m assuming that’s not in your jurisdiction, right?”

  Peters shook his head. “Nope—Troy has their own police department, backed up by Miami County. We’re almost never up there. Fire and EMT sometimes,” he said. “We need to call the Chief.”

  “Not yet,” Frank said, standing. He didn’t want to put the information out there until he absolutely had to. “Let’s call from the road. And I hate to ask this, but do you have an extra firearm? Mine was taken.”

  Peters nodded and smiled, then started for the exit. “I’ve got you covered.”

  59

  Chief King was back in his office, getting ready for a joint conference call with the Ohio Attorney General and the Miami County Sheriff. Things had been looking so good this morning, after they had found Frank alive and they’d gotten a huge break in the case.

  Now, it had all gone to hell.

  Instead of out working the case, he had to answer questions about chains of custody and surveillance cameras. Matt Lassiter’s lawyer was already out in the parking lot of the police station, talking to the gaggle of reporters, drumming up outrage at the fact that his client had died in Chief King’s custody.

  It was turning into one hell of a day.

  There was a knock at the door, and King looked up. It was Sergeant Graves. Relieved, Chief King waved him in. Sergeant Graves came in and sat, closing the door behind him.

  “You okay, Chief?”

  King nodded. “Nothing I can really do.”

  Graves shrugged. “I just got off the phone with the coroner—they’re going to bump Lassiter up to the top of the list and process him tonight. We should hear something in the morning,” Graves said.

  “Okay, stay on top of that for me. I’ve got this phone call with the AG. He’s going to rip me a new one.”

  Graves nodded. “How will that work—will we still be running the case?”

  “I hope so,” King said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if we got some ‘help’ from the State Police or Miami County. We look like a bunch of idiot hicks, letting him die like that. Did you see what happened?”

  Graves shook his head. “I stepped out with Agent Shale—he went to call his office, see if they had any more information on the deed and property transfer. I went to call Detective Barnes, to tell him to look out for any more financial documentation.”

  King nodded, staring at his desk. “Anything on the cameras?”

  Graves shook his head. “Glitch in the system, they said.”

  “Nothing any of us could have done,” King said. “I’m just kicking myself—we should have taken his belt and shoelaces, at least.”

  “But that would have meant processing him into the system,” Graves said. “You were trying to keep it casual.”

  King scoffed. “Fat lot of good it did.”

  Graves glanced out into the main room. “Where are Peters and Harper?”

  King looked up from his notes—he had been jotting down what Graves had said about who was working on what after they had all stepped out of the room.

  “I told them the same thing I told you—we need to find those girls. Immediately. If Lassiter had help, we’d be wrapping things up right now, tying up loose ends,” King said. “I don’t need to tell you what that means.”

  Graves nodded. “Jesus, I wish we could find those girls. At this point, I don’t even care who Lassiter was working with—Nick Martin has been through enough.”

  King nodded.

  “I’ll let you know if they call in with anything—I saw them leaving together,” King said. “Can you check in with Barnes, see if he found anything else at Lassiter’s apartment? And check with the tip line. Now that the press has announced Lassiter is dead, maybe we’ll get some calls about him and his activities.”

  Graves nodded. “Will do, boss. Just let me know what I can do to help,” he said standing.

  “Thanks,” King said, getting back to his notes.

  60

  The sun was just setting. Peters was driving his squad car, making great time. He had the sirens going, and cars were slowing down and moving off onto the shoulder, as they approached and passed. Frank didn’t have to tell him to hurry.

  It seemed like that, at each step of this case, they were always playing catch-up. But now, for the first time, Frank felt like they were in control. Ahead of the game, maybe. It was probably because he and Peters were keeping the information to themselves.

  But Frank kept thinking about Ben Stone, driving alone down to Coral Gables. Had he had the same thoughts, driving to that dark part of town by himself, full of excitement and anticipation? Had he also assumed that it was better to work the case alone? Frank had Peters, at least.

  They passed through a busy stoplight—Peters slowed, leaning on the siren and racing through the intersection, ignoring the red. He continued north.

  “That’s the turn for Troy,” Peters said. “201 continues on for a bit, and then we’ll be there.”

  Frank nodded, as the car continued north, then turned off the main road onto smaller roads. Frank saw the large dairy farm he’d seen on the computer. Peters made a couple of turns, passing farms and country homes.

  “OK, we’re getting close. Let me call it in,” Frank said. “And kill the siren.”

  Peters nodded and reached up, silencing the siren.

  Frank took the radio handset and clicked it, calling in.

  “Dispatch,” the voice came back.

  “This is Frank Harper—let me talk to Chief King.”

  There was a series of beeps, as the call was transferred over from the dispatch office to King’s office. After a moment, King answered.

  “Chief King here.”

  “Jeff, this is Frank,” he said. “Just reporting in as requested—we’ve located the last known position of my vehicle.”

  “What?”

  Frank looked at Peters, then spoke into the radio.

  “Your cousin remembered that it had a GPS tracking device on it. The device isn’t active anymore, but we were able to find out where the vehicle was last night. It’s at a farmhouse north of Troy. We’re heading out there now, E
TA twenty-three minutes.”

  Peters looked over at Frank, curious.

  King was quiet on the line for a moment. “Good news, but I don’t like you out there alone. You need backup?”

  Frank thought about it.

  “Yeah, go ahead, but have them wait for us. And approach with caution,” Frank said, shaking his head. “No sirens. Peters will text you the address. It’s a long driveway up from the road.”

  “OK,” King answered. Frank could hear the hesitation in his voice. It wasn’t standard procedure, texting the address. But it was the only way to keep it off the police band, where anyone could hear it. Besides, nothing on this case had been standard. “Call in to the switchboard if you find the car.”

  “OK,” Frank answered. “Otherwise, please limit traffic.” That was code for not broadcasting any more than necessary.

  Frank hung up, as Peters turned again onto a smaller paved country road.

  “Twenty-three minutes?” Peters said. “More like three.”

  Frank nodded. “We needed the head start, in case someone was listening.”

  The kid knew where he was going, obviously, but Frank had no clue, so he grabbed the printed map again and found where they were. It was getting dark quickly, making it harder to see the road as it twisted between dark fields of dead corn. At least there was a moon—it was going to be very dark out in the country with no streetlights around.

  They crossed a bridge—that was the river—and Peters slowed coming off the bridge, looking for a turn. “Good place to keep the girls—no one out here.”

  “At least no one could hear them,” Frank said, agreeing.

  They both scanned the trees ahead, looking for a break.

  “Found it,” Peters said, as a driveway came up on the left. Both sides of the road were lined with trees, and the driveway would have been easy to miss, if you weren’t looking for it.

  Peters slowed the car and stopped on the shoulder. Frank was happy to see that Peters was smart enough to turn off his lights and pull off next to the road, not drive up the driveway.

  They parked. Peters texted the address to his cousin, then looked up at Frank. “Now what?” Peters said.

  Frank looked around, looking up the road they’d just driven. He could see back to the river bridge, but nothing beyond. It was getting dark quickly. If they were going to do this, they needed to hurry.

  “Let’s go,” Frank said. “Close your door quietly.”

  Peters nodded, and they climbed from the car, quietly closing the car doors behind them. It always annoyed Frank when the cops in movies or TV shows would arrive at the scene of a crime and invariably announce their presence by driving up to the scene, lights blazing, sirens blaring. And they always got out and slammed their doors. It was like they were trying to warn the bad guys.

  Peters waved Frank back to the rear of the squad car and pulled open the trunk. He took out a bullet-proof vest and handed it to Frank, then strapped on one of his own.

  “Can’t be too careful,” Peters said.

  Frank thanked him and strapped his on as well—he pulled a windbreaker on over it. In his experience, it was never good to let the perps know you had on a vest. If they knew you were protected, they invariably went for the headshot.

  Like with Ben Stone.

  In the trunk, Peters also had brought a small arsenal of weapons—shotguns, handguns, and ammo. Peters took out two shotguns and loaded them, then handed one to Frank, who smiled. Frank also took out two small handguns with holsters, checking to make sure they were loaded.

  Peters reached up and thumbed his shoulder radio. “Radio check,” he said.

  “Traffic clear,” dispatch came back, and Peters adjusted the volume down.

  Frank put his leg up on the bumper and strapped one to his ankle, and the other gun went on his belt.

  “Okay, now stay quiet,” Frank said, looking at Peters. “And stay with me. We have about ten minutes, probably, so let’s keep moving. And don’t get cute.” Frank knew that the kid was good at getting coffee and walking Frank through who was who in the town to assist with the investigation. But he’d never been in a situation like this before, certainly not with a young kid like Peters. He didn’t need the kid tripping over his own feet and shooting Frank in the back.

  Peters nodded. “You lead, Frank. Don’t worry about me.”

  Frank nodded and sighed, took one look back at the road, and started up the dark driveway.

  61

  The long driveway wound through trees into the dark. According to the map in Frank’s pocket, the driveway ran up for a quarter mile, then came out into an open space that fronted the large farmhouse and a barn. Behind the farmhouse were a yard and that large fenced-in field. Beyond that, parkland, trees and the river.

  Frank used his flashlight sparingly, flicking it at the driveway occasionally. Another thing they got wrong in the movies was cops running around, shining their flashlights everywhere. If you did that in real life, it would just show people where to aim. Instead, you pointed the flashlights down at the ground in front of you, or just ahead. Never up in the direction you were going.

  They came out of the trees, and he tucked the flashlight away. It was a big old farmhouse, three stories, sitting back from a large gravel parking area. The house had lots of windows, old-fashioned siding, and a huge front porch that wrapped around the entire front.

  And, from what Frank could see, every single light in the house was blazing. Someone was home.

  A rusty car sat in the gravel driveway in front of the home—an old Toyota Corolla, not the Mustang from the ransom drop. Frank thought about calling in the plates, but it really didn’t matter at this point—the Taurus was here somewhere, or it wasn’t.

  Next to the home was the large wooden barn he’d seen in the satellite picture. Frank angled off toward the barn, moving parallel to the trees and skirting the edge of the gravel driveway.

  “Stay off the gravel,” he whispered to Peters, pointing at the ground. Peters nodded and fell silently in line behind him.

  Frank moved in a semicircle around the parking area and approached the barn. It had two of those huge barn doors that slid horizontally. Frank tried both but found them locked. He glanced at Peters, who was keeping one eye on the house.

  “Circle around,” Frank whispered, pointing to another door in the south side, down from the large doors.

  The smaller door of the barn was locked. Breaking and entering was frowned upon, obviously, but they had probable cause, so Frank set down the shotgun and got out his picks, starting on the lock. Peters covered him, the shotgun pointed at the gravel.

  After a few seconds, Frank heard the lock click open. He put his tools away and picked up his gun, then nodded at Peters and slowly swung the heavy wooden door open, stepping inside.

  Frank shined his flashlight around the interior space—the barn was gigantic. He could feel the open space over his head as he flashed his light around the interior of the barn, avoiding the windows.

  In the middle of the barn, he saw his car

  “There’s the car,” Peters said, nodding. Frank couldn’t see his face, but he could hear the smile in his tone.

  “Yup,” Frank said, moving to the car.

  It appeared to be undamaged—or no more damaged then when he’d seen it last. He shined his light inside—the CD player and discs were still sitting there on the bench seat.

  “Phone?” Peters asked.

  Frank shook his head and circled the car. He fished out his keys and quietly popped the trunk, but it was empty as well. Frank quietly closed the lid.

  “Better call it in.”

  Something caught his eye, and Frank pointed the flashlight up. Hanging from the ceiling and barn rafters, he saw dozens of marijuana plants drying.

  “Wow,” Frank said. “That’s a lot of pot.”

  “What?” Peters said, looking around warily.

  Frank nodded up at the rafters, and Peters gave out a long, low whistl
e at the sight. Their flashlights illuminated scores of marijuana plants, hanging from every rafter and crossbeam.

  “I think we better call it in,” Frank said.

  Peters nodded and grabbed his radio, keeping his voice down. “Dispatch, this is Peters,” he whispered. “Requesting assistance. Vehicle located, residence occupied by unknown number of persons. Refer to Chief King for location.”

  Frank was looking around the interior of the barn.

  “Dispatch here,” the radio crackled. Peters turned it down even more. “Four units en route, ETA eighteen minutes.”

  “Must be Jeff, Barnes, and Sergeant Graves,” Peters said, hanging up the radio. “Now what—do we wait?”

  Frank shook his head.

  “We need to scout,” he said. “When more cops show, we’ll lose the element of surprise. Our best shot at recovering the girls is now. They’re most likely in the house, on the second or third floor, held separately. Or down in the basement.”

  “Dark and cold—secluded,” Peters said.

  Frank shook his head. “Now, don’t you start believing that crap. She’s a good guesser, that’s all.”

  They left the barn, and Frank took a moment to close the door behind them, leaving it unlocked. Another thing they did wrong on cop shows was that they always left clues for any perpetrators that the cops were on scene. If one of the kidnappers happened to find the door standing open, they’d be alerted.

  Frank made his way along the barn and then got into a position where he could observe the house for a moment.

  Large windows, lights on—these people were not expecting anyone. The curtains were even open. He could see into several of the rooms—there was a front room, off the porch, then another room and a kitchen in the back. Beyond the back of the house, Frank could see a kid’s swing set and a tall fence—it probably led to the back field. Based on what was drying in the barn, Frank had a suspicion that it wasn’t a cornfield inside the fence.

  Frank saw a young man walking through the house toward the front door, followed by an attractive young woman. Very attractive. They were arguing, or at least talking loudly, and unarmed. It looked like they were having a fight.