Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

“My, my. I see you don’t trust me.” The Raven smiled and stepped further back. “Unfasten the ankle bracelets and stand up.”

  He did as told.

  “Good, now take off your shirt.”

  Bronson hesitated.

  “Do it.”

  He removed his shirt.

  “Now drop the pants.”

  Bronson glared at her, unfastened his pants and stepped out of them.

  “I like what I see. Now get rid of the shorts.”

  Bronson glued his eyes on her as he removed them.

  “You hang well.”

  Bronson kept his arms by his side, making no effort to hide himself. He’d be damned if he let her intimidate him.

  “Just for your information, all the others kept their clothes on. You’re special.”

  Lucky him. “You’re thinking you’re not going to win this game, and you’re right.”

  The Raven’s eyes narrowed, sending invisible darts at Bronson. “What does that mean?”

  “You said I’m the only one you’ve sent out naked. That means you don’t trust yourself to win under normal circumstances. So you strip me down.”

  The Raven kicked a chair, sending it flying toward the dining table. The dishes rattled but didn’t fall. “I don’t need any advantages.” Her deep voice came out dry and strained. “I’ll prove you wrong. I’m a hell of a lot better than you. Get dressed and get out of here. Your time starts now.” She turned over the egg timer, and the sand began to trickle out.

  *****

  Joe and Mike studied the rural map spread before them. They had found four cabins in the area, all owned by women, but none by Barbara Culverson. Best they could hope for was that Barbara Culverson bought it under an assumed name.

  Joe focused on the map and circled an area with a red pen he had picked up from his desk. “Best I can figure, all four cabins are located in this general area.”

  Mike pointed to the area Joe had circled. “These are the dirt roads that will lead us to the cabins. They should be easy to find.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. Looks like a snap on the map. Once we’re there, from what I remember, they’ll be so many twists and turns, we won’t know which road leads to the correct path. We’ll have to do a trial and error thing.”

  Mike tapped the map with his index finger. “That’ll take up precious time we don’t have. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Yes, I do. We’ll have to get the troopers involved. Each can cover different areas. Pittsburgh is considered a Class One city and that gives us statewide authority, but as a matter of courtesy, I’d like to notify them.”

  Mike knew that had to be done, but he didn’t want to waste the time required to jump through the proper hoops. “That’ll take too long.”

  “Not if we call Cannady. She can drive out to and rescue Bronson while we’re still at headquarters making our request.”

  “Let’s go for it.”

  Chapter 67

  Bronson, fully dressed, opened the cabin’s front door and stepped out. The cool, morning air hit him with full force but also invigorated him. For the moment, freedom enveloped him but the threat of death hovered above him like a suffocating cloud.

  He had only an hour to execute the plan he had devised last night. Yet, he stood as still as a tree spreading its roots.

  An hour.

  That meant the road to safety lay further down the hill, more than an hour’s distance. The four door silver Ford truck parked in front of the cabin lured him. He could hot wire it and drive out, but the Raven would have thought of that. She had probably disabled it, and if he spent time trying to connect the wires, he would have lost precious minutes.

  His attention shifted from the vehicle to the gigantic pines, white fir, and quaking aspen that whispered in the wind and cast deep shadows as though protecting the evil vines that promised to strangle him. That way, toward the cluster of trees, laid the best chance of survival.

  He could head toward the brush or follow the road that surely led to the main highway. He could see the rough shape of the trail that had brought them to the cabin. Rocks protruded from the ground and enough vegetation had been smothered to qualify this as a dirt road, a crude one at best, but still a road.

  He followed it down the hill, pausing only long enough to cast one last look back at the cabin. He pushed on, faster and harder. When the cabin vanished from view, he stopped and made a sharp right, heading away from the road, deep into the forest’s concealing shadows.

  His movements identified him as a city dweller not familiar with the dangers the shadows hid. He stumbled. He picked himself up, pushed forward, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and the Raven. He moved like a blind man on the run, not sure of his destination.

  He traveled this way for five minutes. He timed it. He stopped. Ten feet ahead of him a branch had recently fallen. Its leaves screamed for water and the green chlorophyll that had kept them alive and green, but now the leaves had started their slow starvation. Perfect. Exactly what Bronson sought.

  He picked it up and walked backwards, retracing his footsteps as much as possible. As he headed away from the road, he had memorized each rock and each root that broke the surface. He had mentally marked the places he had stumbled.

  Almost five minutes later, to the dot, he once again reached the road. Once satisfied these ruts were the same ones that led back to the cabin, he retraced his steps again heading toward the thickets of chokeberry and clusters of trees that made up the forest.

  He knew for sure he followed the same path he had previously taken. Behind him, he dragged the branch obliterating as many of his footsteps as possible.

  A stitch at his side reminded him that the Bronson of yesteryear had aged. He breathed through his mouth. He’d be dammed if he allowed the years to slow him down. He paused only long enough to study the trees that surrounded him.

  The one a little to his left fit the bill. Its lowest branches hung low enough for him to climb and its foliage thick enough to conceal him. He used long steps to reach the foot of the tree.

  Still clinging to the branch, he walked away from the tree, brushing the path behind him, making sure the leaves obliterated his trail. This time he paid attention to details so that even the smallest of hints disappeared.

  Bronson sat on the ground and removed his right boot. He took out the knife—thank God the Raven never found it. He practiced opening it four, five times. Feeling confident he had the required skill to snap it open at an instant’s command, he set the knife down. He hoped he didn’t need to use the knife this way, but he better be prepared.

  He took off his sock and something stabbed his thigh. He looked at the ground. No sharp rocks or twigs that would hurt him. He reached in his pants pocket and felt the fingernail file Mike had given him to put in the glove compartment. He probably wouldn’t use the file, but he’d keep it anyway.

  He filled his sock with rocks ranging from pebbles to small fist size. He snuck a peek at his watch. Time had lapsed and his hour had almost run out.

  He better hurry. His thoughts turned to the tree that would conceal him.

  Chapter 68

  A thin little giggle escaped out of the Raven’s mouth. Only a minute or two at the most, and the sand would release its last grain. Death had already begun its waltz with Bronson.

  Hurry, sand.

  Hurry.

  Unburden your load.

  The last trickled out and a mad rising laugh filled the tiny cabin echoing off the walls, announcing the Raven’s impending victory.

  Already dressed in hiking shoes, brown Khakis, and an earth-colored shirt, the Raven walked out the door. She carried a small backpack which held the extra gun and the camera which would record yet another victory.

  She had also prepared a special sandwich, had even added two slices of cheese, something she never did. But this called for a special celebration. Killing Bronson would add an extra mark on her Wall of Success, but this carving would be
deeper and bigger. Maybe even the same size as good ol’ Dad’s. Or maybe not. Bronson called for a larger carving. It was, after all, a bigger victory.

  The Raven could almost taste the sandwich now. Her mouth salivated. As with the others, she’d eat her sandwich and drink her water after she had shot her victim. While Bronson squirmed and yelled in agony, she would be eating and recording each scream to savor later, over a steak.

  But none of this would happen if she didn’t focus. She pushed all thoughts aside and studied the ground.

  Bronson had also stood here in this same spot evaluating his circumstances. She liked that. All the others had dashed out of the cabin running like scared rabbits. Not Bronson.

  Others had headed for the truck, trying to find a way to start its engine. None succeeded. How could they? The distributor cap lay carefully hidden inside the cabin.

  Filled with frustration, her previous captors ran down the road, hoping it would lead them to other cabins or the main road. Fools. They should have known they couldn’t cover the distance in an hour’s time. Yet, they followed the road.

  So did Bronson.

  That bothered the hell out of her. She had thought him smarter. Maybe she had expected too much out of him. She hoped he wouldn’t let her down.

  The Raven moved down the road with the confidence of a lioness following the scent of prey. She stopped and smiled. Bronson had left the road here. She looked behind her. She could no longer see the cabin.

  Bronson had followed the road only long enough to make her think he’d continue down this path, just in case she was watching from the window. Not that she’d ever do that. She wouldn’t cheat.

  But that dubious Bronson wouldn’t know that. He had to assume she had. So now that the cabin lay concealed behind the dense forest, Bronson deviated from the path and headed north.

  She could see his trail. A broken twig here, a partial footprint there. He ran like a madman, not giving much thought to anything but escape. But at least he had been smart enough to use something to erase his footsteps, probably a branch to sweep the ground, thinking that would obliterate his prints.

  The fool. He had erased most, but not all. An expert like her could read the deception with the ease of a parent playing hide-and-seek with a one year old.

  I’m coming to get you, Bronson.

  She turned and followed his trail deep into the woods.

  Chapter 69

  A fat sock bulging with rocks and tied with a knot at the top rested beside Bronson. He sat on the ground and removed the shoelace from his boot. He held the shoelace, one end in each hand, and pulled. Good, it didn’t tear. If luck held, it would serve its purpose.

  He set the piece down and picked up the branch he had carefully chosen because of its width, length, and shape. He used the knife to remove any side branches so that when he finished, the wood resembled a semi-smooth, straight limb. He catapulted the discarded pieces of branches as far away as he could, all in different directions. Anyone crossing the forest would think the branch had fallen off one of the neighboring trees.

  Several large droplets of sweat trickled across his forehead. With the back of his hand, he wiped away the sweat only because he didn’t want it running into his eyes. Using the shoelace as a rope, he secured the opened knife to the limb. He stood up and threw the spear he had just designed, aiming for a tree. The blade held and embedded itself into the tree trunk.

  Success. Sweet success. He thought of the fingernail file he could use as a backup just in case. Maybe he should make it into a mini spear too, but time was tight, best be spent doing other things. He retrieved his spear and froze.

  Goose bumps formed on the back of his neck and traveled down his spine. Something had changed. He cocked his head, listening . . . listening to a deathly silence. The forest had grown eerily quiet. The goose bumps spread down his arms. The silence of the forest yelled at him, warning him a predator approached—the worst kind of predator, human.

  He had run out of time. Bronson bit his lip.

  Two things still needed to be done, both equally as important if he were to survive. He looked at his chosen tree, the one that would be easy to climb. The one whose full foliage could easily conceal a full grown man. He wished he had the time to study the surrounding trees, maybe choose a better one. But time had become his enemy. He had to go with this one. He had to trust his original instinct. This tree would serve his purpose. God, it had to.

  As quickly as possible, he picked up some dirt and rubbed his hands. He then grabbed his homemade spear and the sock filled with rocks, and headed toward the tree. His muscles tensed, demanding rest, but Bronson knew that luxury would not be his.

  He wished he could bolt, but the circumstances dictated he pay special attention to small details. He took three steps and paused only long enough to wipe his footprints away. If only he had the time to double check his work. After all, his life depended on his ability to erase all the evidence. He cast one quick look. Satisfied, he moved on to the next three steps and repeated the process. He did this until he reached the base of the tree.

  Already he could hear the approaching footsteps, each whispering its urgency. Each narrowing the distance between the two of them.

  Bronson climbed the tree.

  Chapter 70

  Confident in her knowledge of the forest and in her ability to read the trail Bronson left behind, the Raven advanced at a steady rate. Now and then, she would lose sight of the trail, just like she had at this moment.

  She stood still, her gaze zooming in on the ground. She analyzed it, inch by inch. She took a step forward and then did it all over again. She saluted herself when she once again picked up his trail. Bronson probably thought she had let him keep his boots on to give him a bit of a chance. What a fool. Boot prints were always easier to track than bare feet.

  Lately, that hadn’t happened as often as it did at the beginning. The deeper Bronson penetrated the woods, the more reckless he got. In his desperation to flee, he hadn’t been erasing his footsteps as carefully as he should have.

  Too bad for him. So good for her.

  Halfway up the hill, she once again paused. She hadn’t lost sight of Bronson’s footprints. That wasn’t the problem.

  Seconds ago, the air vibrated with birds’ songs. The wind blew and the leaves whispered as they captured the breeze. A rabbit dashed from one place to the other. A squirrel chirped as it glided through the trees.

  All that came to an abrupt stop as though Nature had waived her magic wand and silenced the forest. The Raven smiled and breathed hard through her mouth. She knew the significance of the strangling silence.

  Bronson was near. Perhaps just right up the hill. She had finally caught up with him. Time had come to unburden herself of the extra gear. Normally, she didn’t take this precaution, but she would for Bronson.

  The Raven allowed her backpack to slide down her arms. She set it down on the middle of the trail where she could easily find it. She unzipped it, reached for her gun and stuck it in the large right hand side pocket of her Khakis. She left the pocket open, assuring her easy access.

  She climbed the rest of the hill and right before reaching the crest, she paused for the last time. She listened as alert as a bird ready to take flight.

  Only silence greeted her.

  Every inch of her body warned her Bronson waited for her at the top. What kind of trap had he devised? Anticipation caused her to lick her lips.

  She squatted and waited.

  Nothing.

  She dropped to the ground and slithered the rest of the way up the hill.

  She reached the top, her sight darting from place to place. Searching, searching. Always searching.

  She couldn’t see Bronson. Had she been wrong? No, impossible.

  He was here, somewhere, hiding like a coward.

  She would lure him out.

  The Raven looked down at Bronson’s trail now almost too easy to read. She took out the Astra, held it at the ready.
Up ahead, Bronson had made a sharp turn, hoping to confuse her, no doubt. But his footprints didn’t lie. The cluster of trees to her right concealed him.

  She stood up and quickly began to follow the trail that led her to a large tree whose full foliage added a touch of beauty to the forest. Its grandeur awed the Raven, but better yet, Bronson’s footprints dead ended at the foot of the tree. She looked around, double-checking to make sure Bronson hadn’t tricked her.

  He hadn’t.

  He had climbed the tree.

  Her sight rested at the foot of the tree. Slowly her gaze traveled up, inch by inch, absorbing each detail, captivated by the moment.

  She looked up and saw the bottom of Bronson’s boot halfway sticking out of the foliage.

  Her lips slowly formed into the shape of a smile.

  She raised the Astra and fired into the tree.

  Chapter 71

  Cannady’s Bronco found another deep rut in the road, causing her to almost hit her head against the roof of the car. This road had deteriorated tremendously since the last time she’d driven it, which was a heck of a long time ago. She knew she should slow down.

  Should, but wouldn’t. Bronson needed her and if she could save him, that would be reward enough. She liked Bronson and hated the brass who ordered her to stay away from him and anything relating to his sister’s death.

  Someone with a lot of clout had orchestrated this, and she aimed to find and expose that person, but first she’d focus on Bronson. Detective Joe Randig had told her only four cabins had been built eight to twelve years ago. A lot more cabins had gone up around the lake and in other developed areas close to Lake Arthur, but only four in the rural areas. “Let’s focus on those first,” Joe had suggested.

  She agreed. The little Cannady knew about the Raven told her that Barbara Culverson, alias the Raven, would have chosen to build in an isolated area. Two of the four cabins utilized the same road even though more than a couple of miles separated the two. The third and fourth cabins lay at the end of completely different roads. Trooper Hunsicker headed toward the third cabin while Trooper Swanson covered the fourth.