The Keepers

by Jeffrey B. Burton

  Police Superintendent Callum’s driver still lay prone in the dirt.

  Alone.

  So Lake Mills PD gets a call, Kippy surmised, but the caller has no notion of where the screams and shots and hellishness came from, so a squad car or two or three are dispatched to circle the lake, to see if the officers hear any additional gunfire or if any cabin owner flags them down. Kippy had responded to similar calls herself—calls that ultimately led nowhere. It became clear she and Vira wouldn’t be racing back, jumping in the Continental, and flooring it to the veterinarian clinic after all.

  On the jog back, Kippy stopped by Cappelli Jr. “Your big friend is dead.”

  The news didn’t seem to faze him one way or another. Cappelli’s concern had more to do with his own existential threat as Vira, snarling lightly, circled him twice … finally coming to a rest, her muzzle inches from his face.

  “Don’t let it hurt me,” Cappelli Jr. lisped through swollen lips. “Please don’t let it hurt me.”

  “Vira’s a she, dumbass,” Kippy said. “And members of her family got hurt in all this bullshit. If we get bad news from the vet, we’ll be back for a final visit.”

  “I’m fucking bleeding here.”

  “You haven’t lost more than half a cup of blood.”

  “Fucking bears’ll smell it,” Cappelli said. “They’ll fucking smell it and come for me.”

  “Then you better hope they feed on your friend first.”

  The two left the sniveling Cappelli and returned to the back of the Lincoln Continental. Kippy rapped on the trunk.

  “It’s steamy in here,” Callum’s computer guy said from inside the luggage compartment.

  “Your big friend is dead.”

  There was no response or acknowledgment.

  “Your other friend is cuffed to a tree.”

  After a short moment, the voice from the trunk said, “Cappelli is not my friend.”

  “It’s urgent I send files to Special Agent Len Squires, both his work and home email, maybe even text them to his smartphone,” Kippy said, “but I don’t have any addresses or phone numbers.”

  Another moment passed before the computer guy said, “I can help with that.”

  CHAPTER 55

  “Maggie’s here,” I shouted to the room, carrying my wounded collie into Lake Mills Pet Hospital, striding past the reception desk where the girl I’d been on the phone with pointed at a woman in a white smock. The woman waved me toward a side room. “Delta’s in the van,” I continued shouting as a second lab-coated woman rushed for the door. “Head trauma. And watch her ribs.”

  Once inside the side room, I lay Maggie May as softly as possible onto the stainless-steel examination table, kissed her on the forehead, and got the hell out of the veterinarian’s way. An assistant came in with a tray holding two hypodermic needles, which I assumed were for pain or antibiotics.

  “Who did this to her?” the veterinarian asked, a hand on Maggie’s neck and iron in her voice.

  I could barely choke out the words. “A bad man.”

  “Has he been arrested?” she asked, a softer tone, perhaps realizing it’d not been me.

  “He won’t be doing this again.”

  “You don’t look so good yourself, mister,” the vet said, and went back to her examination as her assistant administered the shots.

  “Do you have a restroom I can use?”

  “Down the hall by where you came in.”

  I rushed back past the reception desk, past an elderly woman holding a cat, past a magazine rack and coffee station, ducked into the restroom, shut the door, and dry-heaved into the toilet. My vomiting done, I hoped, I splashed water on my face and ran a hand through my hair. I glanced in the mirror. My head looked as though it’d be more natural at the end of a tether ball rope. The top of my T-shirt was red with blood and stained by some clammy green stuff I didn’t want to think about.

  I walked back into the lobby. The cat woman stared up at me. The receptionist was now facing the front windows, her back to me, whispering into her cell phone. The veterinarian and her assistant stood in the doorway of Maggie’s examination room. The second veterinarian who’d gone for Delta stood outside another room.

  They all stared my way.

  And it sunk in that either the receptionist or cat-lady had recognized me.

  I took a deep breath, pointed a finger toward the two veterinarians who’d begun treating my collies. “Take care of my girls.”

  And then I was out the door. I jumped behind the wheel of the CACC truck and as I sped out of the animal clinic’s parking lot, I spotted the receptionist in the entryway, still talking on the phone, now with additional animation. If Paul Lewis had held tough in not reporting his missing dog mobile, it no longer mattered.

  I sped down the street, but, once out of eyesight, I took the first left and another left at the next block, doubling back, stepping on the gas, and blowing through four-way stops. I heard sirens before I hit the highway leading back to Rock Lake; thank god they came from far off—behind me—a mile away. But how the hell big was the Lake Mills Police Department? I worried about any squad cars dispatched to the lake over reports of gunshots, prayed they’d found nothing and had already worked their way back to town empty-handed. It would not be amusing to pass one on the way back who’d just been clued in on the dog mobile. I pressed down on the accelerator—kicked the truck up to eighty—gunning to make the access road as soon as possible, hoping all squad cars were back in town, wasting valuable time threading the streets and avenues of Lake Mills in their initial search for little ol’ me.

  I slowed a little when I hit the gravel road, not much, and slammed the brakes before turning into the driveway with the Lincoln Continental hidden in the tree line. Kippy was talking on a cell phone and jumped backward onto the grass. Then she flagged me forward, told me to park the truck down by the cabin where it couldn’t be seen from the road, before returning to her phone call. I almost hit the brakes a second time as I passed the Continental. A young male sat against a rear tire, sucking down a bottle of water. A laptop was off to the side, out of his reach. His legs had been duct-taped from his knees down to his ankles.

  I parked the CACC dog mobile in a grove of pine next to a boat shed at the bottom of the hill where it wouldn’t be seen from the lake or from the road above. We were lucky no one was home at this particular cabin—which, compared to Feist’s shack—looked like the Courtyard Marriott. I could only imagine how screwed we’d have been if we’d attempted these antics over a weekend or during summer vacation.

  “How are they?” Kippy asked, her and Vira coming to greet me as I headed up the driveway.

  I shrugged and mumbled a hasty account of my recent ordeal.

  Kippy held up what I took to be the computer guy’s smartphone. “Special Agent Squires wants us to sit tight,” Kippy said. “He says they’ll be here in an hour.”

  Kippy jogged back up to bring the Continental and her computer-guy captive down by the cabin so no local cops could spot them in the tree line if they returned to the lake. A wave of light-headedness washed over me and I sat down on a patch of grass. I stared into the woods, in the direction of Feist’s cabin. The sky had become overcast and the forest looked foreboding, like something Hansel and Gretel had once trekked through.

  Vira was in my lap a second later, wiggling and licking at my face. Tears came to my eyes and I hugged my golden retriever for all I was worth.

  CHAPTER 56

  Unfuckingreal.

  The last thirty-eight hours had been unfuckingreal.

  Police Superintendent Gerald Callum knew something was wrong when Cordov Woods didn’t check in at the established time. Uncharacteristic. The big man hadn’t called in, nor had he returned Callum’s call—not that Callum was dumb enough to call Woods from his own phone or leave a message, but Woods would have recognized the burner number and moved heaven and earth to get back in touch with him. And that could only mean one of two things, both of w
hich sent Superintendent Callum’s blood pressure skyrocketing—Cordov Woods had either been taken into custody … or Cordov Woods was dead.

  There could be no third option.

  Come eight o’clock that first night, Callum had called in a marker from a Wisconsin state trooper and had him cruise past Peter Feist’s cabin on Rock Lake. The statie reported back an hour later.

  “What the hell have you gotten me into, Callum?” the trooper said. “The place is crawling with feds. A bunch of the pricks were lining the road. Christ, one of them snapped a pic of my ID panel.” A long second passed before the trooper continued. “Do not call me again. I don’t know you. I’ve never met you.” The Wisconsin trooper clicked off.

  So Callum spent a sleepless night speculating … and plotting.

  If Cordov Woods were in custody, Woods would keep his mouth shut—he wouldn’t say jack shit. And if Cordov Woods were dead, well, then the man would have even less to say. And as far as Woods chauffeuring Callum about town now and again, hell, that was a staffing issue—it had nothing to do with him. Superintendent Callum could call upon a full rotation of drivers—each of whom he knew about as much as he knew the old guy who shined his shoes at Union Station.

  Callum could survive Cordov Woods. Of that he was certain.

  But the kid with the hacking skills worried him. Callum had never met Jethro in person, for obvious reasons, but the computer whiz would damn sure know chapter and verse about the data Superintendent Callum had him ferreting into—manipulating … revising … deleting. And the kid could sing a helluva siren song to Special Agent in Charge Len Squires, only it wouldn’t be the Federal Bureau of Investigation the siren sent crashing into the rocks, it’d be Callum himself. But if the kid had no proof, he’d just be another punk trying to cut a deal.

  Callum would deny everything and lawyer up.

  Officer Gimm and the dog man were still considered fugitives. The latest news he’d caught on the television that morning had been the dog man’s ex-wife pleading with him, evidently interrupting her latest honeymoon to stand before cameras and beg Mason Reid to turn himself in to the police before anyone else got hurt. It had been a faultless performance; Reid’s ex couldn’t have done better had Callum coached her himself. Sure, Rock Lake may be crawling with feds, but without solid evidence, Callum calculated, SAC Squires wouldn’t be able to pry Gimm and the dog man out of the box Callum had placed them in.

  Being in the dark—not having a clue what was going down outside his office walls—was definitely unfamiliar territory. It was madness and Superintendent Callum had spent the next day on pins and needles, holed up in his office, having canceled all appointments. But by evening, Callum had begun to feel more confident and in charge of the situation—more like himself—when the call he should have known was coming finally occurred.

  “Where’s my kid?” Frank Cappelli Sr. demanded without salutation.

  “What?” Callum replied.

  “Don’t play dumb, Gerald,” Cappelli Sr. said. “Your guy borrowed my kid to help fix the bullshit yesterday … and I’ve not heard from him since.”

  “I spoke with Cordov this morning,” Callum said into the cell phone he used only when speaking with Frank Cappelli Sr. “He said everything went well and they got back late last night.”

  “The bullshit got resolved?”

  “Like I said, everything went well,” Callum replied. He knew Cappelli Sr. wasn’t about to mention any names over the phone. Bullshit was just a generic bucket Cappelli used. It stood for Siskin and Feist and Gimm and Reid. “No more worries. It’s done.”

  “Then where’s my kid?”

  Callum felt his brain freeze. “Cordov said he dropped your son off at a bar or someplace.”

  There was a long pause before Cappelli Sr. said, “I spoke with Skokie. No new guests have arrived.”

  “Cordov’s bringing the guests today,” Callum said, knowing full well the mob boss was referring to the crematorium. “Hell, he’s probably there right now as we speak.”

  Another lengthy pause. “Today is my wife’s birthday, Gerald,” Cappelli Sr. said. “We’re having a party. And my kid would never miss his mother’s birthday party. Never.”

  Callum felt his heart thump in his chest. “I don’t know what to say, Frank. Maybe he met a girl.”

  There’d been a long silence between the two men.

  “So we’re on for tomorrow?” Cappelli Sr. said.

  “Tomorrow?” Callum asked.

  “If my kid’s not back, you and I are on for tomorrow,” Cappelli Sr. confirmed and hung up the phone.

  It was then that Police Superintendent Gerald Callum had begun to panic. Who wouldn’t after a call like that? If the unthinkable occurred and Cordov Woods had managed to get Cappelli’s son killed, Callum was a dead man. If Cappelli’s son was in police custody, Callum was a dead man.

  Callum had phoned home, told his wife he had to work late and not to wait up. Callum then sat at his desk all night, working the bottle of Baileys without coffee this time. He could make a run for it of course. Callum had some money tucked away, actually quite a bit of cash, but he wondered who’d find him first—whose knock it would be on the motel room door—the FBI or Cappelli Sr.’s people.

  Then Callum’s thoughts metastasized like cancer around dog man and that goddamned golden retriever of his. He’d worked so hard, for so many decades, only to have it come crashing down around his ears … and all because of some goddamned thing that belonged on a leash.

  Unfuckingreal.

  He wondered if he should alert Carter Weeks, because if the dog man or Officer Gimm or that computer whiz kid they called Jethro had any hard evidence, they would most certainly be spilling the beans to SAC Squires as to what truly went down at City Hall. But then Callum thought fuck it. If it was truly over, he might as well let Carter Weeks—the man he considered his nephew and protégé—enjoy his last day or two as the Honorable Mayor of the Great City of Chicago.

  As Superintendent Callum finished off the last of the Baileys, he heard the sounds of a new day dawning, the sounds of his staff in the outer office arriving for work. One of Callum’s cell phones pinged on his desktop, and he recognized the number from where the text message had been sent—his man in the Special Prosecutions Bureau … his man who’d kept tabs on Peter Feist.

  FBI agents sweeping the building. I’m in a bathroom stall. What the fuck is going on?

  Callum leaned back in his chair and tried to process that message through a haze of exhaustion.

  And alcohol.

  And fury.

  That’s when he heard the commotion in his outer office—lots of movement and muffled commands.

  Police Superintendent Gerald Callum opened his right-side desk drawer and peered inside.

  CHAPTER 57

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  Bill loafed under the picnic table while Vira, Delta, and Sue sat next to me on the backyard incline, and we all watched as Maggie May pranced about the lawn on her remaining three legs. Maggie was now a tripod dog. Her right front leg had been so badly mangled by the late Cordov Woods that it had to be amputated by the Lake Mills veterinarian.

  Maggie May is now … adjusting.

  My vet, the eternally competent Doc Rawson, reviewed Maggie’s file and agreed that Lake Mills had made all the right moves. She also explained how front-leg amputees have more difficulty adjusting as front legs account for the majority of a dog’s balance and strength. Doc Rawson gives Maggie glucosamine for her joints, and Kippy and me and Vira and Delta and Bill and even Sue give Maggie plenty of TLC—tender loving care.

  Delta Dawn got off easy. Thank god dogs are hardheaded critters. My farm collie underwent the full neurological exam, got to enjoy intravenous fluids, a regimen of pain relievers, a handful of stitches, as well as medication to decrease any brain swelling. Hell, as far as I know, Delta and I probably share the same concussion meds.

  It’s good to finally be back home. Sure, a safe house can
be fun at first, but it gets old quickly. I’d spent the first two nights at Northwestern Memorial Hospital being monitored for MTBI—mild traumatic brain injury—yup, a concussion. Other damages on the docket included deeply bruised ribs, likely from my repeated introductions to the back wall of Peter Feist’s cabin; twelve stitches under my left eye where Cappelli Jr. had begun his carving; various other nicks and scratches; and a chin that still felt as though it’d been smacked with a meat mallet. I even got two stitches where Vira bit me back into consciousness.

  But as I watched my farm collie hobble about the backyard, I realized just how lucky I had been.

  I also got to dodge most of the paperwork. I scored an ambulance ride to Northwestern Memorial with paramedics flashing lights in my eyes while Kippy walked Special Agent in Charge Len Squires and his team of investigators through the crime scene and other events of a long and turbulent day. FBI agents did question me twice at Northwestern. I answered all of their queries as honestly as possible but left out any theories vis-à-vis Vira’s special ability.

  Quite frankly, I felt a little let down. I didn’t get the impression the agents were really that interested in yours truly. Among other things, files off of Feist’s flash drive included both an audio file and a typed transcript of David Siskin’s deposition. These are what Kippy and Superintendent Callum’s computer guy, Jesse Aarestad, sent to SAC Len Squires’s iPhone in order to pique his interest.

  And pique Squires’s interest they certainly had.

  But what focused SAC Squires’s interest like a laser sight was the treasure trove of Police Superintendent Gerald Callum data Jesse Aarestad, the young computer whiz who insisted upon being addressed as Jethro, had backed up to the cloud for safekeeping. Aarestad was a tad peculiar, not unlike your basic tech-nerd cliché, but he was bright enough to realize that a day might come when he’d need some kind of leverage, so he’d backed up to his personally customized and encrypted cloud service every file he’d hacked, cracked, or deleted for Superintendent Callum’s benefit. There’s even a video from City Hall with me in a featured role as Terrified Male Yanking Fire Alarm.