“The police believe there were three bank robbers—Barry Radick, Walt Crosley, and the person who drove the getaway car.” He let the statement hang in the air for a moment. “Radick apparently hid his share of the loot before he was killed. Crosley wants that money. But there’s one more person who has a stake in all this. Who was the driver? And more important, where is he . . . or she now?”
MEGAN HEARD THE FRONT DOOR CREAK CLOSED—THE HINGES were probably too stiff with rust for Crosley to slam it. She listened for the click of a lock, but apparently Crosley decided he’d done enough to keep Megan there until he got back. Unfortunately, it seemed to her that he was right.
Because Crosley had handcuffed what he thought was her dominant hand, her right hand was still free. But how to use it to escape from the handcuffs remained a mystery to Megan. If she had something—a paper clip or a bobby pin—maybe she could pick the lock of the handcuffs. But she didn’t have anything that might work. She tugged at the handcuffs, hoping that perhaps the pipe they were fastened to would break. No such luck.
Megan looked around her. The house had obviously stood empty for years, and if there was anything of value left behind by the last homeowner, it had been taken long ago by vandals. The only piece of furniture within her reach was the chair Crosley had sat in, but she had no idea how she could use it to get free of the cuffs.
Crosley had cuffed her to the drainpipe, which was about twice the diameter of the water pipes. But the drain also contained a U-shaped piece of pipe she recalled hearing someone call a “trap.” This additional piece was held in place with rings that screwed it into place. Maybe she could turn them, disconnect the trap, and slide her handcuff off the pipe.
Turning the ring with her bare hands proved to be impossible. She removed the thin belt from her slacks and tried making a noose around the ring with it, but pull as she might, the ring didn’t move. Apparently it was rusted firmly in place.
Maybe a lubricant was needed—but there was none here. What if she heated the junction—but how? Was there something she could use for leverage? She tried to picture a solution, but nothing came. Her situation appeared hopeless.
Megan’s frustration mounted. She rolled, she twisted, she bent almost double, but as much as she tugged, the pipe held firm. While still in a tucked position, she lashed out in frustration with her feet, kicking the pipe that held her fast, hitting it repeatedly with the sole of her shoe. She felt tears coming, and rather than trying to hold them back, she let them flow as she kicked the pipe again and again.
After one particularly vicious kick, she heard a noise. She peered at the area she’d been kicking and saw a small crack where the trap and the main pipe joined. Megan felt a tiny spark of hope.
IN GREENWOOD CEMETERY, SHADOWS WERE LENGTHENING AS Crosley pulled Megan’s car to a spot where he could watch the group gathered near the Confederate soldier statue. It was frustrating to arrive at the cemetery and see people in the area he needed to search. But he was patient. He’d waited this long, he could wait a bit longer.
Ten minutes after the last vehicle pulled away, he started the car and rolled forward to the spot the blue Chevrolet had just left. He parked, made sure no one was around, and removed the short-handled shovel he’d bought and placed in the trunk of the car.
He figured he was going to feel foolish pacing off a marked distance like someone following a pirate map to buried treasure. But he’d feel much more foolish if he ignored an opportunity to find a quarter of a million dollars.
Crosley recalled Megan Frasier’s instructions. Walk thirty-three paces in the direction the statue was looking. He moved to the base of the monument, looked up to be certain he was headed in the right direction, and began to pace.
Crosley was six feet tall, Radick about two inches shorter. If Crosley shortened his normal stride by a couple of inches . . . He cursed under his breath. There was no way to exactly measure thirty-three of Radick’s paces. But Megan said it would be between the two old oak trees that stood on the other side of the one-lane road from him. He counted off the paces and found that was approximately where they’d led him.
By now the sun was about to set. He wondered if they normally closed the gates at night. Would he be trapped inside? Or would whoever was responsible make a circuit through the graveyard to be certain there was no one here? He shrugged. He’d deal with whatever happened. For now, he had to dig.
Thirty minutes later, Crosley wiped sweat from his face with a wrinkled handkerchief. The hole he’d dug was surely wide and deep enough to find the money if it were there. Megan had lied to him.
With a curse, he snatched up the shovel and headed for his car. When he got back to the house, he’d make certain Megan told him the truth. Crosley touched the knife in his pocket.
This time he’d bring the woman with him. And after he found the money, the hole would serve as her grave . . . what was left of her.
MEGAN GAVE A YANK THAT SHE THOUGHT MIGHT FRACTURE HER wrist. The pipe cracked a bit more. She had hoped to gain an advantage when Crosley handcuffed her nondominant hand, but now all it meant was that she was pulling with her weaker arm.
She took a deep breath, drew back her foot, and slammed it once again into the drainpipe where it joined with the trap. She repeated the maneuver, sometimes hitting her mark, at others missing slightly. The arch of her foot was sore, but she’d worry about that later. Her wardrobe choice for this casual Friday had been designer jeans worn with shoes that had leather soles and mid-length heels. She was glad she hadn’t gone with sandals.
Megan had fallen into a rhythm of kick, kick, kick, tug. She’d lost track of how many times she’d done this when a tug resulted in a definite crunch and the drainpipe parted. She reached under the cabinet with her free hand, slid the cuff through the space created, and scrambled to her feet.
There was no time to enjoy the freedom she’d gained. Crosley might return any minute, and one thing was certain. When he discovered she’d given him the wrong information, he’d ramp up the torture until she told him everything he wanted to know. And then he’d kill her.
ALTHOUGH MEGAN HAD BEEN HAPPY WITH HER CHOICE OF SHOES when it came to assaulting the drainpipe, now that she was trudging along the road looking for help she wished she were wearing athletic shoes. She grunted as she narrowly avoided twisting her ankle on the uneven road. Darkness was settling in, and so far neither of the houses she’d passed showed any light, or for that matter, any sign of habitation. A faint noise in the distance behind her made her turn, but she could see nothing. She knew Crosley could be coming back at any moment, so she hurried on.
Megan wasn’t exactly sure where she was, but the words “in the country” seemed appropriate. Surely someone lived out here, and surely they’d be happy to help her—at least let her use their phone, maybe even protect her from Crosley if he came looking for her.
Were there lights in the window up ahead? She squinted. Yes. There were lights in the windows. Megan tried to hurry forward, but the fatigue from her ordeal and the pain from the cuts and burns Crosley had inflicted combined to slow her down. It seemed as though the house was like a mirage in the desert, never getting any closer no matter how many times she put one foot in front of the other to reach it. But finally, she drew close enough to make out details.
A dusty pickup truck sat in front of the house at the end of a gravel driveway. Although the porch light wasn’t on, light spilling from the front windows showed white siding that looked to have been painted fairly recently. Irregularly shaped stones formed a walk of sorts, and three wooden steps led up to a small front porch.
She climbed the steps, leaned against the frame of the front door to gather her strength, and knocked. No response. She rapped once more, harder this time. Still no response. Finally, she banged with the side of her fist. Please, God. Let there be someone here.
Megan heard steps coming toward the door. Then she heard a sound like no other in the world, a sound that sent her heart into her th
roat—the chuk-chuk of a shell being jacked into the chamber of a shotgun.
“WOULD YOU LIKE SOMETHING TO EAT BEFORE WE PICK UP YOUR car at the medical center?” Mark asked as he steered his Chevrolet through the streets of downtown Dallas.
“It’s up to you,” Shannon said. “Are you hungry?”
“Actually, yes. After you called to say you’d be in surgery, I worked right through lunch.”
Shannon turned in her seat to face him. “Now that you remind me, I missed lunch, too. Let’s grab a quick sandwich somewhere.” She reached into her purse and withdrew her cell phone. “While you find a place to eat, I need to call Megan and talk with her about tomorrow night. Are you free for dinner at my parents’ house?”
“Sure, but would your folks let me take us all out?”
“No, my mom says it would be easier on Dad if we eat there. He’s preparing his Sunday sermon.”
Mark thought about that for a moment. “Good for him. Actually, from what I’ve read about the FCR regimen for leukemia, patients tolerate it better than a lot of other types of chemotherapy.”
Shannon held up a hand. “Hang on. I’m calling Megan, and it’s ringing.”
Mark made one final turn, pulled into a parking slot, and turned off the ignition. “Café Brazil okay?” he asked.
Shannon nodded, then frowned. In a moment she said, “Megan, this is Shannon. Call me when you get this. I hope things are going okay with you.” She ended the call and shoved the phone into her pocket.
“No answer?”
“No, and that’s unusual. Megan almost always has her cell phone with her.” Shannon consulted her watch. “She should be off work. And even if she’s out with friends, I can’t imagine her ignoring my call.”
Mark shrugged. “I’d say we could go check on her, but we don’t know—”
The ring of Shannon’s cell phone stopped Mark in midsentence. She looked at the display. “I don’t recognize this name or number.” She started to let it go to voice mail, but her curiosity got the best of her. Shannon answered with, “Dr. Frasier.”
An unfamiliar man’s voice replied with a question that made Shannon’s blood run cold. “Do you know someone named Megan?”
Shannon’s heart raced. Why was this stranger asking about her sister? Had there been an accident? Was this some passerby who’d come upon the wreckage of Megan’s car? Or was it a bartender, dealing with a patron who’d passed out from too much alcohol?
Shannon had to clear her throat twice before she could answer. “Yes. Yes, this is her sister.”
The man’s voice faded as though he was farther from the phone. “She says she knows you, so I guess it’s okay.”
The next voice on the phone was Megan’s, weak and trembling. “Shannon?”
“Megan! What’s happened? Where are you? Why didn’t—”
“Please. Just come and get me. I’m going to hand the phone back to Mr. Jackson and he can give you directions. But come quickly. I’m hurt. And if Walt Crosley finds me, I’m dead.”
MARK SAT IN MR. JACKSON’S FRONT ROOM WHILE SHANNON WAS in the kitchen doing a quick assessment of Megan’s wounds.
“Thanks for taking Megan in,” Mark said. “And for cutting off the handcuffs.”
“Happy to help,” the man in overalls said. Mark noted that a shotgun lay within easy reach beside Jackson’s chair. “I only wish the lowlife who did that to her was here right now.”
A moment later, Shannon appeared in the doorway and said, “She’s okay to travel.”
“What did you find?”
“Multiple burns on her arms, more burns and some superficial cuts on her chest, no active bleeding now, but dried blood everywhere.” Shannon’s voice caught. “Despite the way it looks, she didn’t suffer much blood loss—just the shock of all she’s been through.”
Jackson rose. “Want some help getting her to your car?”
Guided by Shannon and supported by Mark and Jackson, Megan managed to move slowly out the front door and down the steps.
“Thanks for all you’ve done,” Shannon said to Jackson.
Jackson helped ease Megan into the backseat of Mark’s car. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call the police? Maybe they can pick up the man who did this to her.”
“It’s complicated, but we’ll take care of it,” Mark said. “Meanwhile, I’d be careful. That man may come around looking for Megan.”
“I hope he does. That’s what the shotgun’s for,” Jackson said.
Mark pulled an old blanket out of the trunk of his car and gently tucked it around Megan. “We’ll get you to an emergency room as quickly as possible.”
“I just want to go home,” Megan mumbled.
Shannon leaned inside the car and kissed her sister’s forehead before closing the door. “I know,” she said. “But I want someone to check you over. You have burns and cuts, and you’re probably in some degree of shock.”
Mark slid behind the wheel. “Don’t worry,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled away from the Jackson house. “You’re safe. There’s no way Walt Crosley is going to get you now.” He felt the comforting weight of the .38-caliber revolver tucked into his belt. “Now should we call the police?”
Shannon answered that one. “No, because I don’t know who to trust.” She pulled her phone from her purse. “This was a kidnapping. I’ll call Elena and ask her to contact those FBI agents again. They already know part of the story.”
Mark kept one ear cocked to the conversation going on beside him. When Shannon ended the call, he looked at her and asked, “What did she say?”
“She’s going to make the calls and get back to me. I told her we were headed for the ER at Parkland Hospital, and the agents will probably meet us there.”
Night had fallen, and there were no streetlights to aid him, but Mark had paid attention to the landmarks and turns on the way here. The road was essentially empty, and he pushed a bit harder on the accelerator. If a policeman happened to see him speeding, he’d say that he had an emergency patient aboard and get an escort with siren and flashing lights. For the first time in days, he felt like he had the situation under control.
AS WALT CROSLEY WAS APPROACHING THE ABANDONED HOUSE where he’d left Megan, he saw a pair of headlights coming toward him. So far as he knew, the police weren’t looking for this car, but just to be certain he decided to get out of sight. He pulled onto the side of the road and killed his lights. If he scooted down beneath the wheel, he figured his car would look like one left by a motorist who’d broken down.
A blue Chevrolet passed, and Crosley got only a glimpse of the passengers, but it was enough. He was pretty sure the blond woman in the passenger seat was Shannon Frasier. The man driving had been with Shannon at the cemetery, so he must be Shannon’s boyfriend. Although he didn’t get a good look at her face, he thought the blonde in the backseat, partially covered by a blanket, was Megan.
Crosley’s mind was already crafting a plan as he wheeled his car in a tight U-turn to follow the Chevrolet. When there was enough distance between them, he’d turn on his lights. But even if he had to drive in total darkness, he was determined not to let the group get away. No, this was his chance. His hand caressed the butt of the gun stuck in his belt. He had them all together now, and when he was through he’d know all he needed to about the bank loot. And he wouldn’t leave any witnesses.
TWENTY-NINE
SHANNON TURNED AS FAR AS HER SEAT BELT WOULD ALLOW AND put her arm over the seatback of the car. “Megan, how were you able to break that metal drainpipe?”
Megan’s words were hesitant and faint. “I have no idea. I just kept kicking and praying.”
“I think I know,” Mark said. “The house was probably fifty years old—had to be galvanized plumbing. If you’d been handcuffed to the water lines, it might have been a different story. But the drainpipe was threaded to connect it to the P trap. When you thread a pipe like that, you cut away the outer galvanized part in a spiral fashion. That leaves
a small surface that’s vulnerable to rust. Over the years, rust and corrosion ate into the pipe and weakened the joint.”
Shannon thought about that for a moment. “Still, it took some pretty strong kicks to finish the job.”
Megan’s voice was a bit stronger. “Must be from my soccer playing. Remember the injury that got me hooked on prescription painkillers in the first place? I kept playing amateur soccer after college—except when I was in rehab. I guess my legs are still strong.”
“We’ll be at the hospital in less than fifteen minutes,” Mark said. “After they check you over, maybe we can get you home.”
Megan huddled farther under her blanket. “All I want to do—”
“Hold on.” Shannon glanced into her side mirror and noticed a set of headlights in the distance behind them. Had they been there earlier? Don’t be paranoid. “Mark, has that car been following us all this time?”
Mark looked into the rearview mirror for a moment. “I haven’t noticed headlights this close before now. Probably nothing, but maybe I’d better open up a little distance.”
Shannon felt the slight surge as Mark accelerated. Then she turned toward Megan. “The hospital’s not far ahead of us. It won’t be long now.”
WHERE WERE THEY GOING? CROSLEY GRIPPED THE STEERING WHEEL TIGHTER and wondered if he shouldn’t try to overtake the car, force them off the road, and deal with the people on this relatively deserted stretch. He pressed down on the accelerator and began closing the distance between the two cars, but then he spied lights ahead. Not headlights—the neon signs, lit buildings, and billboards that signaled habitation.
He eased up on the accelerator and dropped back again. He might have missed this chance, but wherever they went, eventually he’d find a spot to confront them. And when he did, he intended to get the information about the money Radick stashed after the bank robbery.
And after that, there was one more share of the money unaccounted for—the driver’s share. Surely that money hadn’t been spent. Most likely, like Radick’s share, like most of what Crosley got, it was hidden safely. Now he intended to have it all. A quarter of a million dollars was good. Three-quarters of a million was even better.
Critical Condition Page 26
