Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

  She looked around the office as though wondering if anyone was listening to them. “A simple hi would do.”

  “Hi.”

  “Goodbye. I’m tired. I’m going to find a motel room and sleep the rest of the night away.”

  “You’ll need a ride.”

  “Are you offering?”

  “It’s a small town. I haven’t seen any taxis around, especially this time of the night. Besides, your suitcases are in my car.”

  Ellen looked at the corner where she had left her bags. “Imagine that, my suitcases were stolen right out of the police department. I guess that leaves me no choice but to go with you.”

  “That’s not so bad, is it?”

  “It could be worse.”

  As soon as they stepped out, Mike said, “Bronson’s in a lot of trouble.”

  “Tell me.”

  Mike filled her in. “He needs us. I’m on my way over to Custer. I’d like you to join me.”

  “Why? What can I do besides get in the way?”

  “I’m sure your special trivia knowledge will come in handy.” He snuck a look at her and when he noticed that she was staring back, he quickly looked away. “Okay, it’s more complicated than that. I want you around.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t go there, Mike.” She turned her head so he wouldn’t see her eyes. Silence hung around them like dark, dense clouds. “Actually, I like Bronson. I still consider him and Carol my best friends. That hasn’t changed.”

  Mike felt as if a thousand needles embedded themselves in his heart. They reached the car and Mike opened the door for Ellen. He wished he could come up with a snappy, amusing answer, but nothing came to mind. “Does that mean you won’t create that analysis report?”

  “Mike, that’s not fair. I told Gorman I couldn’t do it because of the relationship between Bronson and me. He said that was the reason he hired me over anyone else. I know him so well, they could rely on the information I provided. He said I was a professional and as such, it was my responsibility to write that analysis. I’d like to agree with him. I am a professional.” She got in the car.

  Mike closed the door, walked around, and slid into the driver’s seat. “You’re right. I’m sorry, but in order to do your job correctly, you need to be in the same place the criminal is. I’m taking you to Two Forks.” He started the engine and looked at her.

  She nodded.

  * * * * *

  Anger and depression, like sisters of sorrow, reached down Bronson’s gut and shook him. He felt the acid in his stomach. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any anti-acid pills. Main Avenue, the street he drove on, had a lot of commercial stores but at this time of the night, all were closed.

  He continued driving and stewing. He had thought himself incapable of hating someone. Every criminal he’d ever known had at least one redeeming factor, even if minute. Maybe the murderer had been a victim of society or cruel parents, and Bronson always felt at least an ounce of compassion for him.

  But not Carrier. He was a genuine asshole with a capital A. The fury Bronson felt consumed him, making it hard to focus on the road.

  He reached into his shirt pocket for the directions Pete had given him, but instead pulled out Carrier’s last note. He’d found it stuck to his windshield. He didn’t need to read it again. He’d already memorized it.

  Harry, oh Harry,

  Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

  Manuel was just a kid, wasn’t he? And you had rescued him, but in the end, you let him die. What’s wrong with you? If it’s any consolation to you, Round Four is a tie. You were supposed to die in the fire. Now we’ll have to go to Round Five. Who are you going to let die this time?

  Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

  Benjamin Carrier

  Bronson crumpled the note and threw it on the passenger side floor. He retrieved the piece of paper where he had scribbled the directions.

  Off Main Avenue, turn right on Monroe. He glanced at the street name. Jackson. Shit. Jackson was two presidents ahead of Monroe. He had missed his turn. Bronson glanced at the rearview mirror and side mirrors, checking for any patrol cars. Last thing he needed was a ticket. He made an illegal U-turn and continued to head to his destination.

  As he pulled up to the address Pete had given him, he searched the street for an unmarked car. Satisfied no one watched him, he pulled into the driveway.

  Pete greeted him. “Perfect timing. I just got here myself.” A set of house keys dangled from his hands. “I’m thinking. You’ll need a place to stay. This is ideal for you. I’ll stay away so the police won’t follow me here. Do you have your luggage with you?”

  “Thanks, that’s mighty nice of you. I might just take you up on that offer. Let’s talk first.”

  “As you wish.” Pete unlocked the front door but didn’t open it. “My friend, the owner of this house, is deeply religious. He doesn’t want any guns inside. He calls them the Devil’s Weapons. He’s strange that way, you know?”

  “I’ve met a couple of people like that,” Bronson answered. “I’ve learned that you just accept them for what they are.”

  “I like your attitude and I agree. Every time I’d come for a visit when I was still a police officer, I’d leave my gun out here on the porch. Are you carrying?”

  “It’s out in the car.”

  “Good.” Pete opened the door and they stepped in.

  Bronson briefly scanned the room. “You know, I’m really thirsty. Does your friend have any coffee? If not, cold water will do.”

  “I’ll check.” Pete headed toward the kitchen.

  Bronson removed his jacket, revealing the gun tucked under his belt. He took the gun, placed it between the couch’s cushions, and dropped his jacket on top, concealing the hiding place. He joined Paul in the kitchen, who had busied himself preparing coffee. “Mind if I use the head?”

  Pete pointed to the hallway. “It’s to your left.”

  Bronson thanked him and headed down the hallway. As he went past each of the bedrooms, he peeked in. In the bathroom he used the facilities, washed his hands, and rejoined Pete. By that time, Pete had two steaming cups of coffee waiting on the kitchen counter.

  Pete retrieved the milk and sugar bowl and offered them to Bronson. “You must have a lot of unanswered questions.”

  “I do.” Bronson poured in three heaping spoonfuls of sugar—after tonight’s events, he felt he deserved them.

  “I’ll answer each question as clearly as possible.” Pete watched Bronson dump sugar into his coffee.

  Bronson poured the milk, stirred, and led Pete back to the living room. “You know Jay’s dead.”

  Pete dropped his shoulders and nodded. A sick, vacant look glazed his eyes. “I know.” The words came barely above a whisper.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t do it.”

  Bronson sipped his coffee. He’d had better, he’d had worse. He set the cup down. “You know this for a fact.”

  Pete nodded.

  “Who killed him?”

  “Carrier. He called you pretending to be Jay and told you he needed to talk to you. He then went to Jay’s and killed him so that when you arrived you’d find his body. He knew you’d call the police.”

  “So Carrier set me up to be a killer.” Bronson recalled how when “Jay” called, his voice had been indistinct, almost mechanical. The digital display had identified Jay as the caller and Bronson had believed it. “How do you know that’s what happened? Have you been talking to Carrier?”

  Pete nodded.

  “When? How?”

  “Ask me something else.”

  Bronson reached for his coffee, using the time to assess the situation. “Tell me about Doc Ponce.”

  “What about him?”

  “Who is he?”

  “I told you. He’s a lab researcher. He’s also Mitch’s partner—or at least was.”

  Bronson retrieved the spiral notebook from his shirt pocket and thumbed through it. “It says here Henry Clark is his partner. Did they
have a third one?”

  Pete clasped his hands tightly in front of him. Everything about his posture suggested tension. “Do you remember Ponce de Leon?”

  “The conquistador?” Bronson searched his mind. He recalled hearing that name in one of his high school history classes. If he remembered right, Ponce de Leon had led his men through the Southwest in a quest—no, a search—for gold. Bronson shook his head. That didn’t sound right. When the correct answer dawned on him, he smiled at the simplicity of the significance behind the name. “Ponce de Leon’s fame lies in his search for the Fountain of Youth. Clark’s task involved developing an anti-aging cream. In essence, he’s seeking the same fountain. Doc Ponce and Henry Clark, a Ph.D., are one and the same.”

  Pete almost smiled. “Very good.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Bronson said and leaned back.

  “You have been—by Carrier. He’s having too much fun with you to kill you. But you’re next on his list.”

  “How are you involved in all of this?”

  Pete took a deep breath. “That’s the ironic part. I wasn’t until you hired me. Carrier approached both me and Jay. He offered us money if we helped him. You’ve got to realize we’re both retired police officers. That puts us barely above the poverty line. I always wanted to have money and enjoy the finer things of life. I deserve them. I always worked hard and what did I get? A damn gold watch when I retired. But Carrier offered us money, lots of money. Jay refused. Now he’s dead. I accepted and I’m alive.”

  Bronson nodded. Pete had answered every single one of his questions truthfully, incriminating himself to a T. Only one reason he had done that. “I’m not going to make it out of this alive, am I?” He reached for his coffee, took a sip, and held on to his coffee mug.

  “No, sorry.”

  Bronson stared at the barrel of Pete’s gun.

  thirty-five

  Freddie Young drummed his fingers on the telephone. He liked the small sum of money he’d made by equipping Paul McKenzie with the .25 caliber. He would make another small bundle once he called Paul with Carrier’s whereabouts. But what if, instead of calling Paul, he called Carrier? Stuart had told him Carrier had money. Why shouldn’t he get some of it? Freddie picked up the handset.

  The phone rang three times before Carrier picked up. “Yes?”

  Sweat prickled Freddie’s forehead when he heard Carrier’s voice. Had he made a mistake? Too late to change his mind. Carrier probably had caller I.D. and could identify him.

  “Speak now or I’m hanging up,” Carrier said.

  Freddie swallowed the lump in his throat. “Mr. Carrier, sir, you don’t know me.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “I have valuable information.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Freddie felt his heart slowing a bit from its rapid pace when he first dialed Carrier’s number. Probably the rumors he’d heard had been nothing more than exaggerations. Even if they weren’t, he’d get his money and be done with Carrier. He mentally patted himself on the back. He’d made the right decision. “Does the name Paul McKenzie mean anything to you?”

  “I’m not in the mood for games. If you have something to say, spit it out.”

  “Paul McKenzie bought a clean gun from me and plans to use it on you.” Freddie paused, waiting for a reaction, or at least a comment. When none came, he continued, “He also hired me to locate you.”

  “Is he a professional?”

  “He works for the Dallas Police Department, but he’s no policeman. He’s some kind of technician, and he’s as green as they come.”

  “Paul McKenzie.” Carrier stretched out the words as though rolling them in his mouth. “I remember him now. I should have done him at the same time I did his wife. Rather a shame. She was such a pretty thing.”

  Carrier’s cold tone frightened Freddie. He should have left well enough alone.

  “Did you tell Paul where to find me?”

  “No, I haven’t. I thought I’d talk to you first.”

  “You’re calling from Custer.”

  Freddie closed his eyes. Carrier did have caller I.D. The area code revealed his location. “Yes. McKenzie’s here, too.”

  “I want you to pick him up and bring him to me. Call me when you’re close to Two Forks and I’ll tell you where to meet me.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to come with me?”

  “Then force him.”

  * * * * *

  Bronson released his grip on the coffee mug. It landed with a loud thud and shattered, spilling its contents everywhere.

  Pete’s gaze went to the falling cup. That one second of distraction provided Bronson with an edge. He twisted and dropped to the couch, making himself a smaller target. His right hand reached under the jacket and found the gun. He pointed without precise aim and pulled the trigger. The bullet found its target. Pete whooshed aloud as the bullet penetrated his chest. He staggered forward and fired, but Bronson had found refuge behind the couch.

  Pete’s body crumpled to the floor. Bronson waited. When Pete didn’t move, he approached him, eyes peeled for the slightest movement. He kicked the gun aside and bent down. He felt for a pulse.

  Pete moaned. A bright red spot formed on his chest as the blood seeped through his shirt. His half-open eyes stared at Bronson. “All I wanted was money.” He spoke slowly and breathed through his mouth. “Was that so wrong?”

  “You tell me. You’re responsible for your partner’s and Manuel’s deaths. Is that so wrong?” Bronson stood, pointing the gun at him, wishing he could shoot the worthless excuse for a human being.

  “I’m sorry . . . about Jay.” His eyes filled with tears. “I loved him. You had a partner. You know how it is.”

  Bronson lowered the gun and stepped back. Pete wouldn’t be trying to make a getaway. “Yeah, I do know. That bond keeps me from betrayin’ him.”

  Tears streamed down Pete’s cheeks. He made no attempt to wipe them away. “I know . . . I’ve got . . . what I deserve. You’ve got . . . to believe me.” He gasped for breath. “I never made that call.” Gurgling and whimpering sounds escaped from his mouth. “I didn’t set Manuel up.”

  Bronson reached for his cell, dialed nine-one-one, gave them the necessary information, and disconnected. “Where are Eric and his mother?”

  “Ask Doc Ponce.” He paused. “He knows.”

  “The ambulance is on the way.”

  “I know. What gave it . . . away?”

  “The plants.”

  “What?”

  “You said you had to water your friend’s plants.” Bronson looked at his watch. He didn’t want to be here when the sirens arrived. “There are no plants to water. I checked the bathroom, the bedrooms, and kitchen. Nothing. Not even plastic ones.”

  “The gun.”

  Bronson smirked. “Did you think I’m a fool? Did you really think I’d come in unarmed? When I stepped in and noticed not one statue of Jesus or any other religious artifacts lying around—not even a Bible anywhere—I knew.”

  Pete’s face was smeared with sweat, and he gasped involuntarily. “It’s not safe . . . for you here. Go.”

  “If you see Carrier, give him a message for me?”

  Pete nodded and took in a deep breath.

  “Tell him I won Round Five, and Round Six is also mine.”

  “Sure. I don’t understand . . . but I guess he will.” He slurred his words and was often hard to understand. “Get out of here. It’s time for me to pay my dues.”

  Bronson hesitated.

  “Go.”

  “God bless you.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  Bronson dashed out.

  thirty-six

  Fatigue encompassed Bronson as he massaged his heavy eyelids with his fingertips. His mind, however, refused to turn off or even slow down. Somehow he had to rescue Linda and Eric. That burden sat heavy in his heart.

  His watch read 12:25. He bet he’d find Henry Clark at home at this time of the
night. Time to pay him a surprise visit. As he pulled out of the driveway, his phone went off. The name Paul McKenzie appeared on the caller I.D. display.

  He’d forgotten about Paul. Not surprising, considering what he’d been through in the past several hours. At least Paul had thought to connect with him. “Hey, Paul,” Bronson said, expecting to hear Paul’s chirpy voice.

  The silence that followed attacked Bronson’s nerves. “Paul?”

  “Help me.”

  The call ended. “Talk to me, Paul. Talk to me,” Bronson whispered as he hit the redial button. With a growing sense of dread, he listened to the unanswered ring. “Pick up, Paul. Pick up.”

  The call went to voice mail. “Hi. This is Paul. I’m currently unavailable. At the tone, please—”

  Bronson snapped the cell shut and let it fall out of his fingers. Adrenaline flowed through his veins as he pumped the gas pedal. He reached down for the cell. The car swerved. He cursed, grateful that the road was deserted. He slowed down and located the cell.

  He punched in Mike’s number.

  “Yo, Bronson. You okay?”

  “I am, but Paul’s not.” Fatigue settled in his nerves and he rolled down the window.

  “Tell me.”

  “I just got a call from him.” The light turned red. Bronson looked both ways. Not a car in sight. He ran the red light. “All he said was help me. I called him back, but the voice message came on.”

  “You didn’t hear anything in the background? Anything that would tell us where he is?”

  “No. Nothin’.” He came to a stop sign and made a California stop. “I’m on my way to Clark’s. I have a lot of questions for him, and one way or the other, he’ll answer them all. We’ll soon know where Paul, Linda, and Eric are.”

  “Be careful, buddy.”

  Good thing Mike wasn’t there to witness his reckless driving. “I am.”

  “We’re an hour away from you. I’ve got Ellen with me. We’ll meet you at Clark’s house unless I hear otherwise from you. I’ll hand Ellen the cell and you give her directions, but before I do, remember you asked me to check on the creams being delivered instead of mailed?”