“Didn’t you jot down Rottman’s phone number as well as his address?”
Jill handed me a slip of paper. I took out my penlight and held it so that only a speck of light shined on the paper between my knees. I flipped open the cell phone and checked the incoming call that purported to be a wrong number.
“That bastard has Kelli’s phone,” I said with a growl.
Jill gasped. “Why would you say that?”
“The wrong number I got a while ago? The caller was from Hartsville. It came from Kirk Rottman’s phone. Okay, maybe he accidentally hit my number in the six-one-five area code. But Warren got the same call. Where would you find both our numbers? In Kelli’s cell phone contact list.”
Jill stared at me. I could barely see her eyes in the darkness. Her voice carried a new urgent tone. “What can we do?”
“I’ve got to know if Kelli’s in there.”
“And how do you propose to find out?”
“I’ll have to work my way up close enough to see through a window, or find a way inside.”
She clutched my arm. “If Kirk Rottman killed those three people, he’s a dangerous maniac. You’d better wait here for Agent Fought, Greg.”
I’d thought of that, but it seemed too big a risk.
“Dangerous, yes. But not a total maniac. I think he knows exactly what he’s doing. It sounds like he’s trying to get information out of Kelli. If he doesn’t get it, then he could go berserk and treat her the same way he did Mickey Evans. It could be too late already. I can’t wait around and take a chance.”
I had shifted the Glock to a more comfortable position when I got in the car. I moved it back to the ready.
“What should I do?” Jill asked, almost frantic.
“Call Fought and the sheriff. Tell them what we learned and what’s happening. Get your gun in your hand and sit tight. If anybody comes out and it isn’t me, shoot first and ask questions later.”
“What if you need help?”
“It shouldn’t take them long to get here. Keep your eyes and ears open and let them know the situation as soon as they arrive.” I leaned over and kissed her. “We’ll be okay, babe. Keep the faith.”
She squeezed my arm until I thought her fingers would leave holes.
“Be careful, Greg. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I whispered.
I slipped out the door and eased it shut. By now the rain had dwindled to a drizzle, which wasn’t the most comfortable environment, but one I could live with. I was happy I had decided on my typical dark colored shirt this morning, with navy pants. I didn’t worry about being seen as I skirted around the trees toward the house. I navigated through soft, squishy soil, doing my best to avoid mud holes.
Approaching the house from the end opposite the living room, I found two windows, likely bedrooms. The structure featured brick up to the window level, wood the rest of the way. A pale glow showed through the window of the back room. The blinds fit snug, however, leaving no chance of seeing around the edges. I put my ear close and listened. I detected no sound.
Easing around to the rear of the house, I saw another window. It must have been in the same room. Since the lot sloped to the rear, I searched about, found an old concrete block and boosted myself even with the opening. This blind had not been let down all the way. A small space beneath it allowed me to view a narrow slice of the interior. I identified what I saw as the surface of a bed covered by a tan spread.
My elation at this break quickly disappeared as my gaze moved to the right. A pair of bare female legs stretched across the bedspread. The feet were tied to what I could see of two bedposts. I had observed the same bright red toenails in Kelli’s sandals on Blair Boulevard last Wednesday. Then I saw the gleaming blade of a long knife. My heartbeat went into overdrive as it dropped onto the bed between Kelli’s legs. I took that as a threat of something soon to come. Too soon.
I stepped off my block perch and ran toward wooden steps at the other end of the house. They led up to a small deck. It provided access to a kitchen door. Light flowed from a window I reasoned would be above the sink. As I took the steps at a run, I noticed an overstuffed garbage can with the lid ajar. A pizza box lay half-exposed. I checked and found it relatively dry. That meant it had been discarded recently. Did it also mean the door had been left unlocked?
I moved around a rusted barbeque grill and eased up to the door, which contained a window in the upper half.
By now I had virtually shut out the misty weather from consideration. The adrenaline flowed like a surging tide. I felt the tension of a race against time. Scant knowledge of the man I would soon encounter kited up the situation. The only certainty was his capability for extreme violence. I couldn’t block out that image of Kelli’s bare legs tied to the bed. Add to that the more gruesome picture of Mickey Evans on her living room floor. As my anger grew, I fought to keep myself calm. This was no time to get irrational.
A sheer curtain covered the window, allowing a full, though somewhat fuzzy, view of the kitchen. It included the usual appliances, along with a round wood table and four chairs. I saw a glass-covered light fixture mounted above the table. A doorway toward the front probably opened into the living room. Glancing around, I saw no one. I grasped the doorknob, gave it a gentle twist.
The knob turned.
There was also a deadbolt. Could rattling the door make enough noise to alert Kirk Rottman? This was no time for debate. I pulled on the knob.
The door came open.
Crossing the room quickly, I passed near the range. In my rush, I failed to notice a pan with a long handle that stuck out from the stovetop. My hip brushed against it. As I looked around, the pan toppled off the stove.
I grabbed at the handle but hit it instead. As I watched in what seemed like slow motion, the pan careened toward the floor.
The clatter made enough noise to wake a corpse.
I knew I’d lost the element of surprise, but I hesitated only for a moment. Maybe I could still catch him off guard. Throwing caution aside, I ran through the doorway into the living room like a rookie cop on his first crime-in-progress call.
A gunshot inside a small house makes a hell of a racket. And when the sound is accompanied by a stinging sensation in your arm, you know you’re in big trouble. Especially if it’s your right arm, and you’re a right-handed shooter.
My Glock fell to the floor as I looked down at the blood and grabbed my arm.
Chapter 40
Fortunately, I hadn’t squared my body into a two-handed stance, or I’d have taken a bullet in the chest. It appeared to be only a flesh wound to my upper arm. I flexed my hand. The fingers still worked okay. But I now stood defenseless as the young man I recognized from Friday night stood in the doorway to a hall. He aimed what appeared to be a .38 revolver directly at me. I took a deep breath to calm the thumping in my chest.
“You must be Kirk Rottman,” I said, hoping I sounded calmer to him than I did to myself.
I eased toward the back of a nearby chair. My Glock had landed beside it.
“Stay where you are, Mr. McKenzie. I recognize you, too. My mother told me about you.”
I tried to muster a smile. “I went by to see her yesterday afternoon, Kirk. Do you know what she wanted?”
“Man, I got no earthly idea.”
He wasn’t a trained shooter. He held the gun in one hand, his finger on the trigger. At this range, I figured he got me with a lucky shot. I wondered if Casey Olson had been the victim of worse luck. More likely he was shot close-up as he turned to flee. I decided my best defense was to keep Rottman talking. It would also take my mind off the pain in my arm.
“Camilla wanted me to take on a private investigation for her. She wanted me to snoop around and find out who your dad has been sleeping with.”
He broke out laughing. “Son of a bitch. That sounds like her. Hell, he wouldn’t know what to do—”
While his attention was distracted, I dived behind the chair, re
aching out to grab my pistol.
He fired two quick shots, one burying itself in the lower part of the large upholstered chair, the other hitting the floor at least a foot to one side.
I gripped the Glock, flexing my trigger finger. The arm hurt, but I had apparently suffered no ligament or muscle damage.
With as fast a move as I could manage, I stuck my head and arms out almost at floor level and fired where I knew he should have been. I heard the sound of something falling. As I raised my head just above the chair, a wild burst of laughter came from the hallway.
“Damn! You almost got me that time. Why don’t you come on back in the bedroom? I have your friend in there. If you don’t get rid of that gun, I’m gonna do something gross to her.”
Rottman’s footsteps hurried up the hallway, and I wondered where the hell Fought and Sheriff Driscoll were. Help should have been here by now.
I pulled out my handkerchief and tied it around my bleeding arm. Walking cautiously, I held my gun out, arcing left and right, and approached the doorway. I made a quick move through the opening, ready to fire. The hall was vacant. As I edged toward the door to the back bedroom, I kept the gun in front of me. I strained to catch a glimpse inside the room.
The head of the bed suddenly came into view. Kirk Rottman stood with the long knife I had seen through the window. He leaned over Kelli’s body, holding the blade against her chest just below the sternum. Even if I succeeded in killing him with a single shot, which was unlikely, he could fall and plunge the knife into her heart.
“Throw your gun on the bed,” he said in a voice as icy as a glacier. “Unless you want to see this woman’s guts all over the place.”
I didn’t see any alternative. As I tossed the Glock onto the bed, I thought of Jill out in the car. She must have heard the shots. Would she follow my advice and stay put, or would she be as hardheaded as me and wander into harm’s way?
I turned my attention back to Kelli. She had been stripped to bra and panties. Her skin appeared white where it had been hidden from the sun. I’m sure her assignment hadn’t given her the time to lounge around the pool like Camilla. Her face showed several bruises. She still wore the red hair we had heard about. A strip of duct tape covered her mouth. The bed was a four-poster. Strips of duct tape secured her arms to the head posts. Her brow furrowed as she looked across at me. What I saw appeared more loathing than fear. She was one tough lady.
“What do you want from us?” I asked.
Glancing around the room, I saw a small chest next to the bed. A dresser with a large mirror stood against the adjacent wall. In front of it sat a small three-legged stool.
“I want to know what the cops know about me, what you people have told them about those papers. Mostly, I want to know where the hell the papers are.”
I considered whether to send him out in the open where Jill could train her .38 on him. It seemed a better idea than leaving him here to do whatever he had in mind.
“That’s easy,” I said. “The papers are in my car out on the street.”
I saw his fist grip the knife, his knuckles turning white. “Don’t shit me, man.”
“I have them in my car. Pierce Bradley’s sister, Patricia Cook, found them in his pilot’s case that he left at her house last Monday afternoon. Put that knife down and untie Miss Kane, I’ll show you where the papers are.”
It had already been more than twenty minutes. If Fought and Driscoll hadn’t arrived by the time we got to the car, I’d drop to the ground and let Jill take care of Rottman. She had spent a lot of time on the range and become a proficient marksman.
The young man twisted his face in an evil grin. “You aren’t going anywhere, mister. I’ve already killed three people. Two more won’t make that much difference. In fact, killing can be fun once you get into it. You’re a military man. You ought to know that.”
“Son, killing is never fun, especially in the military.”
Without moving the knife, he reached over and picked up my Glock. “Get up against the wall and put your hands behind your back. After I get you trussed up, I’ll check out your car.”
I faced the wall and held my hands back as instructed. Now I really began to worry about Jill. The window would be up in the car. Would she let it down so she could get a clear shot? Would he see her first and try to kill her?
I heard him rummaging around behind me. I turned my head enough to catch a glimpse of him in the dresser’s mirror. He had laid down the gun and picked up a roll of duct tape.
“Don’t get any ideas, old man,” he said, moving closer.
I held my hands apart. I felt him begin to stick tape on my right hand and pull it toward the left. If I intended to do anything, it had to be now. I was no match for him physically, but at the moment he was unarmed. And I had the advantage of surprise.
Spinning, I swung my right leg around. I got my foot behind his ankle and pulled forward. At the same time, I pushed off against the wall with my left hand, leaning into him.
He toppled over backward, me right on top of him. I jabbed an elbow into his stomach. A loud grunt sounded as the breath came out of him. While he was momentarily stunned, I rolled over and began to kick his body with all my strength. After a few good blows, I jumped up and started for the Glock, which lay on the dresser.
Before I could make it, he reached out a hand and grabbed my foot, tripping me. I came down on my left side, stretched out like a ballplayer sliding home headfirst. I felt more anger than shock. Finding myself next to the three-legged stool, I grabbed one leg with my good arm, swung it forward and threw the stool at him. I heard a solid thud as it struck his head. He groaned and rolled to the side, letting go of my foot.
Scrambling onto my knees, I grabbed the gun.
“I was trained to shoot to kill,” I warned him. “And I have eight rounds to do the job. Roll over on your stomach and stretch your hands out above your head.”
He took me at my word, turning onto his stomach, hands outstretched. I wished I had brought a pair of handcuffs. The duct tape would have to suffice. Not wanting him to pull my trick in reverse, I straddled his body and rested my substantial weight on his legs as I applied the tape. In my anger, I wasn’t too gentle.
“Did you rape her?” I demanded.
“No, no, man. I just pulled off her clothes to embarrass her. I thought it would make her easier to deal with.”
I shoved my hand against the back of his head. “Stay right there. Don’t move. I’m not taking my eye off you.”
I edged over beside the bed, reached down and peeled the tape off Kelli’s mouth. “Are you okay?” I asked.
She twitched her lips and spoke in a weary voice. “Yeah, I think so. Get me out of this.”
I used Rottman’s knife to cut the ropes and the duct tape, freeing her arms and legs. She stretched them carefully, then swung her legs off the bed and sat up.
“Do you know what he did with your clothes?” I asked.
“They should be in the front bedroom. That’s apparently where the bastard took them off. Where’s his gun? I’d like to shoot him right now.”
With the determination in her voice, I had little doubt she would gladly do it.
I gave her a sympathetic shake of my head. “Can’t blame you, Kelli. I wouldn’t mind having a piece of him as well. But I don’t believe that would be too good an idea. Go in there and get your clothes on. Sheriff Driscoll and the TBI are on the way. They should be here any minute.”
I went back to stand behind Rottman.
“What do you plan to do with me?” he asked. His voice was now filled with anxiety.
“I’m turning you over to the cops. What they do is up to them.”
Kelli had gone into the other bedroom. “The police are here,” she called out. “We’d better signal them everything’s okay. They may come in shooting at shadows.”
In the heat of battle, I had forgotten my cell phone, which was stuck in the small scabbard on my belt. Surprisingly, it hadn’t fa
llen out. I had turned it off before approaching the house, not wanting a ring to spoil my surprise. I punched in Jill’s number.
“Greg, are you all right?” she asked, an anxious note in her voice.
“Kelli and I are fine. Tell the Sheriff, or whoever’s out there, to come on in. All’s clear.”
“Agent Fought is standing beside the car. Do you want to talk to him?”
“Sure. Put him on.”
I heard her say something, then Fought’s voice.
“What the hell’s going on in there, McKenzie?”
“We have your murderer, but I don’t have any handcuffs. Better get on in here.”
There was disbelief in his voice. “Who’ve you got?”
“Kirk Rottman, Casey Olson’s superior at the Samran plant. I don’t think he realized what he was doing, but he confessed to three murders in the presence of two witnesses.”
Chapter 41
Warren Jarvis called while we were still in Rottman’s house. I told him we had rescued Kelli, that she was okay. I gave him directions. He said he’d be here as fast as his rental car would take the curves and hills.
Fought made the arrest, read Rottman his rights and turned him over to another TBI agent. They hauled him off to Sheriff Driscoll’s jail in Hartsville. One of the TBI techs brought in a first aid kit and patched up my injured arm.
“You’d better stop by the ER and let them take a look at that,” he said. “I notice you flinched pretty good when I tried to clean it.”
I grimaced. “Yeah. Thanks a lot for checking my reflexes.”
Fought joined us in the living room and queried Kelli and me on what had happened. I gave a capsule version of what we had learned, starting with the Dallas Lights, the trail leading to Hedrick Industries and Jill’s visit to Samran. I described our attempt to check with Mickey Evans about Kirk Rottman, and the cell phone calls that convinced us we were on the right track.
Fought looked across with a troubled stare. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“You made it pretty plain last night that you would be tied up all day today. Incidentally, congratulations. I understand you made the biggest marijuana bust in Tennessee history.”
Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4 Page 86
