by Mark Zubro
I surveyed the ground ahead. Uneven, tough to run through, tougher to drive through.
We stopped behind another stand of trees. I said, “We’ve got to get back to our car. They’ll be able to trace it.”
Scott said, “We can’t fight them. We don’t have any guns.”
I said, “Let’s wave the flashlight around then leave it pointing upward and then we’ll run like hell perpendicular to that car and circle around the building.”
He glanced at the car bobbing and sliding through the field around us. He observed the three men clumping through the mud toward us.
He flashed the light directly toward the men coming toward us on foot. He bellowed, “Halt, police. Don’t move or we’ll shoot.” He set the flashlight in the crook of a tree.
We took off to the left.
Gun shots rang out. It took them only a few seconds to shoot out the light.
The mud and gunk sucked at our shoes. They couldn’t be making much better progress. They didn’t seem to have flashlights.
We’d started putting a little distance between us and them, when Scott fell. I turned and rushed back to him.
He struggled back up. “I’m fine.” He said. I thought he might be bleeding from a cut on his face, but I couldn’t be sure. We ran some more.
The darkness was our friend. The headlights from the car churning though the fields was actually a help. The lights weren’t focused on us, but they gave some illumination.
Then the SUV plowing through the fields seemed to point almost directly up and then seconds later plunged nearly straight down and stayed put. They’d run themselves into a ditch. With luck the passengers had been injured enough that they couldn’t follow.
With infinite care we circled back toward the rear of the building complex and our car. The car on the road was still heading in the direction of the Interstate. As far as I could see, the three men following us had gone toward where their buddies had crashed in the field.
When we were finally close enough, we rushed across the gravel parking lot to our car. We threw ourselves in. I started the car, didn’t turn on the lights, and drove around the other side. We stopped at their SUV. Scott got out, opened the driver’s side door, popped the hood, reached inside, and grabbed some wires.
After he threw himself back into the passenger seat, he said, “That might slow some of them down.”
I eased the car out of the parking lot and headed down the road back to the Interstate. About five minutes later, I saw headlights coming toward us. They might have been a mile or so away.
“Turn off.”
I took the first dirt road to the left and drove as fast as I could over the ruts. I slowed after we topped a rise. We looked back and saw the headlights continue back to the warehouse.
“Forward or back?” I asked.
He pulled out his phone and keyed in our position to the GPS. If we stayed on the current road, we’d come out in a few miles on a state road. Still with the lights off, I drove forward.
After a few minutes, I said, “What the hell was that?”
“An awful lot of gunfire and chasing around for protecting nothing.”
“We were trespassing. They could have just been angry security guards.”
“Three cars full?” he asked. “And how did they know we were there?”
“If they were after us. Maybe there was some kind of silent alarm system.”
He said, “Or someone gave us away.”
He pushed the button to lower his window and threw the wires he’d ripped from the SUV into the darkness. We drove on.
We had no answers to what the hell was going on.
FORTY-THREE
Friday 9:06 P.M.
We grabbed some burgers at a drive-through off the Interstate but parked in the lot to eat them. We didn’t say much. We both just let the adrenaline rush ease off. I turned on the interior light and examined Scott. He was bleeding from a small cut on his left hand, his non-pitching hand, and he had a few scrapes on his face. I had teased him once about having everything in the car but the kitchen sink. Now he pulled out moist toilettes and hand towels. He grabbed some and used the rearview mirror to clean himself up.
We got to the gates at the Pleasant Valley subdivision just after 9:30. We drove up to the guard house and showed ID. We waited at the shut gates. Waiting five minutes seemed odd and then ten seemed strange.
“What the hell?” Scott asked.
I walked back to the guard shed and asked, “What’s the problem?”
He said, “Get back in your car, now.”
I took out my cell phone and called the house. My dad answered. I asked what the delay was.
“We weren’t called about you. We’ll send help.”
He clicked off. Why didn’t he just say they’d call the guard? I got back in the car and reported to Scott.
Moments later we saw rotating mars lights approaching the subdivision. In the street lights I counted at least six sheriffs’ cars.
From the subdivision side I saw my parents’ car and three others pelting down the road toward us.
The sheriff’s cars left their lights on and turned on their spotlights. Guns were drawn. A booming voice came over a loud speaker, “Keep your hands on the steering wheel where we can see them. Don’t move.”
I didn’t shout back but said to Scott, “Are we both supposed to put our hands on the steering wheel, and how do I or we do that without moving?”
Scott said, “We better look cooperative.”
The gate began to swing open. I knew if you had a device like a garage door opener in your car, from the inside you could open the gates with it. Veronica would have that. The cars on the subdivision side began to disgorge passengers. Veronica, my mom and dad, Todd Bristol, and Enid Achtenberg rushed toward us. Three people I didn’t know followed them.
Bristol and Achtenberg strode purposefully toward the car from which the cop had been practicing his voice-of-god imitation.
With all the car headlights from the various factions still on and the spotlights and streetlights, it was almost as bright as high noon. We got out of the car and faced the cops. Mom, dad, and Veronica rushed up to us. “Are you all right?” Mom asked. She noted the scrapes on Scott’s face. “You’re hurt.”
Scott murmured, “I’m fine.”
“What the hell is going on?” I asked.
“We don’t know.” Two of the strangers stood to each side of us. One was in his late fifties, the other in his early thirties. They stood silently. The third walked halfway between us and the cops and started taking pictures of the sheriff’s posse.
The cop who was talking was Brendstin. Adlow stood a step behind him with his head down. Brendstin was saying, “These two are under arrest.”
“On what charge?” Todd asked. He was at his most formal and most arch, and that’s saying a lot for a prissy queen who specialized in both.
“We have them speeding and running from the police.”
Todd gazed at the assembled police vehicles. He looked from Brendstin to the cars and back again.
“What?” the detective snapped.
Todd said, “You sent all this for a speeding ticket?” He let the silence resume. I caught a fleeting smile on Adlow’s tired features.
The cop said, “We think they were involved in something criminal.”
“Where? When?”
A cop behind them spoke up with a time and highway designation.
Without turning Todd asked, “Tom Mason and Scott Carpenter were you on that road?”
Scott and I said, “No.”
Todd asked, “You have video of them speeding or committing a crime?”
Brendstin broke several moments of confused silence with, “We want to take them down to headquarters and ask them questions.”
Todd said, “No.”
“We’ll arrest all of you,” the cop threatened.
The younger unknown guy next to me stirred. He took out ID and strolled towar
d the lawyer-cop group. The older guy took out ID and followed. The third person kept taking pictures. She was making a video record of all this.
Brendstin said, “We didn’t say you could record this.” He pointed to one of the minions behind him. “Get that camera.”
Todd said, “No.”
“And arrest this guy.”
By this time mom, dad, Scott, and I had our cell phones out and were also recording the whole scene.
Brendstin said, “And get all those cameras.”
Todd said, “No.” Then turned to the older and younger men who now flanked him. “Let me introduce you.”
The younger man held up ID and said, “I’m Douglas Kisco, head of the Southern District of the Wisconsin FBI office.” The other guy said, “I’m Phil Webber, the US attorney for the eastern district of Wisconsin.” Not from the offices of, or the head of the office, just plain, simple the US attorney. Todd knew how to pick cavalry.
A half hour later our side was ensconced in the living room in Veronica’s house. Scott held a small pack of frozen gel ice to one side of his face. In the lights in the house, about a half dollar size spot close to his chin on the left looked pretty red, and mom had insisted he use the cold pack.
Todd sat in a corner of the largest couch. His legs were crossed, his suit coat buttoned. He sipped from a glass of white wine. I’d never seen Todd unbutton anything except an overcoat. Maybe he slept in his suit.
Todd explained, “This whole thing sounded very wrong to me. I made some calls and came right up.” He nodded toward Kisco and Webber. “I thought we could use reinforcements.” He pointed his glass at the third person, who was Janet Cristal from the Chicago Sun-Times. The police had refused to answer any of her questions. “Ms. Cristal is working off the record until we catch these sons of bitches.”
The kids came in and Veronica hustled them out of the room. While she was gone, I said, “They’re planning to arrest Veronica after the funeral.”
My mother gasped. My dad frowned. Todd said, “I’ve told Kisco, Webber, and Cristal this.”
“And why the hell were they trying to arrest us?” Scott asked.
My dad said, “To frighten and terrorize you and the rest of us. To frighten us into passivity and acquiescence.”
Todd said, “Yes, that sums it up.”
Webber said, “That’s the way this county works. I’ve done what I can with my office, but we are limited.”
“Can they arrest Veronica?” I asked.
Todd said, “We might not be able to stop them. If we can’t find someone sane in the district attorney’s office.”
My mom asked, “What does this all mean?”
I said, “It means we were right. That the Grums and the Ducharmés are trying to steal the election and that they are responsible for at least two deaths. One of them is Edgar.”
The US Attorney said, “When you get proof of that, come see us. Meanwhile, be careful with these people. I think you’ll be safe for now, but these guys are out of control.” The FBI guy nodded agreement. Todd walked them to the door.
“This is awful,” my mom said.
My dad added, “We need to protect Veronica and the kids.”
Enid said, “We’ll do that. Todd and I will discuss this with Tom and Scott. They can fill you in later.” I knew what we said to the lawyers would be confidential. Mom and dad could be questioned if they knew what we’d been up to. I didn’t think we’d done anything wrong, but it was best to limit the circle of knowledge and protect them from possible coercion. Achtenberg explained that to them.
“Be careful,” my mom said as she and dad left to go find Veronica. “Do you need something to eat?” mom asked from the doorway.
I said, “Thanks, we grabbed something on the way here.”
Todd came back. We thanked him profusely. He, Enid, Scott, and I had a council of war. Scott and I explained all that we’d learned that day and what happened out at the warehouse.
Todd said, “None of this gives us proof of who did the killings or who ordered the killings or of who stole the election and how.”
I said, “We’ll find out.”
Todd said, “You didn’t hear?”
“What?”
“It seems they found twelve thousand ballots in Milwaukee County that weren’t in the initial count, a thousand more than they found in Harrison county. Governor Mallon seems to be losing, for the moment.”
We all exchanged looks.
Scott said, “The Democrats have learned how to play the game.”
Todd said, “I certainly hope so.”
The real question of the moment was whether or not to tell Veronica about the word we had that they might be planning to arrest her.
Todd and Enid conferred. Enid came back and said, “I’m going to tell her. I’m her attorney. If she has something to say, Mr. Bristol and I agree that I should be the only one to hear it.”
I said, “She didn’t kill him.”
“We know that,” Enid said, “but investigations get complicated. I’m going to advise her not to talk to anyone.”
“She already told me,” I said.
Enid nodded. “That’s fine. And she may tell you more. Your attorney can advise you of your status. I’m being formal here because we are in real danger.”
Todd jumped in. “Enid is right. We’ve got to get this very formal and very correct.”
When Veronica came back, Enid led her away. Todd waited for them to leave then spoke to us. “Whoever she talks to, remember if things get awful, you will be called to tell what she told you.”
I said, “She hasn’t told me anything about the murder because she doesn’t know anything about the murder.”
“Good.” My lawyer stood up.
After my mom and dad went upstairs to bed, I asked, “Are Scott and I still investigating?”
“Would I be able to stop you?” Todd asked. We shook our heads.
“Be careful,” he warned.
Scott asked, “Should we get Veronica out of Harrison County?”
Todd thought a minute. “This is her home. We’re not going to be able to flee from jurisdiction to jurisdiction. I’ll work on this with my connections.”
I asked, “How did you have enough clout to call on these guys?”
Todd pulled out his cell phone and pressed a button. From somewhere deep in the house, his driver appeared with his Burberry overcoat. After Todd put it on, he said, “I’ve been an attorney for a very long time, a very good and very smart attorney. I happen to know some people who know people. Leave it at that.”
Enid and Veronica appeared a few minutes after he left. Veronica looked like the next word she heard would drive her over the edge, but I agreed with telling her about her possible arrest. You don’t keep that kind of news away from people to protect them.
We hugged each other for a very long time. When I looked up, Enid and Scott were gone.
“Find out who did this,” she whispered in my ear. “I want you to destroy the Grums and everything they stand for.”
I promised I would.
FORTY-FOUR
Friday 11:00 P.M.
Scott and I finally got to our room around eleven. He sat on the bed. “Hell of a day.”
I hung up his jacket and mine. “Scared the hell out of me. Are you okay?” I sat next to him.
“Yeah, just scrapes and bruises. Who were those guys?”
“Which ones?”
“All of them.” He lay back on the bed.
I sat next to his left side and put my hand on his chest. “The guys out at the empty warehouse, and the cops who came here, the whole crowd has to be connected to the Grums.”
“Or the Ducharmés or both.”
I said, “I think it’s obvious that someone knows who killed Edgar, and they’re trying to cover it up.”
“That covers the information as we’ve speculated about it, but we have no facts.”
“I know.” I caressed his arm.
&nb
sp; He said, “I felt bad for Jordan Labrinski. You’re young and you’re in love, and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and then your lover is gone.”
I gave his chest a mild thump. “We should try getting into Zachary’s e-mail account.”
We pulled up chairs to the room’s tiny desk. I fired up the laptop, got the wireless connection, and called up Zachary Ross’s e-mail provider. When the provider’s screen came up, I keyed in “elephant.” A millisecond later the screen read “Invalid.”
“That has to be it,” I said. Thinking perhaps I mistyped it, I tried again. Nothing.
We sat in thought.
“Try the plural,” Scott suggested.
I keyed in “elephants.”
It opened.
There were twenty-seven unread e-mails. Twenty-four were porn junk and spam, two seemed to be personal e-mails, and one had just a date.
Down the left side of the screen were his list of folders. A few had titles or names but the vast majority were labeled by date beginning from six months ago and went in order up until the day before he died. The one still in his inbox was from the day he died.
I opened the last one. It contained four pages of detailed notes about everything he did that day up to about noon. It did not say why he was going to that bridge that night nor did it indicate if he was planning to meet someone.
I read a few paragraphs then switched to the folder dated six months ago and opened it. Pages and pages of more notes. Each day seemed to have two sets of notes. One he made for the morning, which I presumed had to have been done at around lunch time and the other before he left for the day or when he got home. This matched the methodology of the first page I’d opened.
Scott said, “Zachary Ross was very thorough.”
“Is this what they’ve all been looking for?”
He shrugged. “If they even knew it existed.”
“We’re going to have to read all this.”
I was tired from lack of sleep, the raw emotions of the day, and the physical exertion, but now that we had this key I was determined to read as much as I could before going to bed.
