[Tom Reed and Walt Sydowski 04.0] No Way Back

by Rick Mofina

  Ann was here. I was here. The man, Engler, was there. His gun. His attempt to confuse things. How Ann had dropped to her knees, pleading. Misty came in here. Ann ran out there.

  Reed’s eyes went to the glass of the sliding patio door and the gray-black fingerprint powder smeared on it. He stepped closer and leaned his face into the smudges. A fingerprint tech was packing up her equipment.

  “Is this where my wife’s hand touched the glass?” Reed said.

  “Yes,” the tech said. “Confirmed her prints with the California DMV. It’s okay. I’m done there.”

  Unable to take his eyes from the black smudges, Reed let his hand hover over the spot.

  Ann’s hand, the hand he had held on their first date, the hand he had squeezed on their wedding day, the hand that had crushed his in the delivery room when Zach was born, the hand that had waved the last time he’d seen her, then handcuffed to the wheelchair. Oh Jesus. She was here, less than six hours ago. She was here.

  70

  They disappeared into the swamps, creek-beds, and deep pine-woods of East Texas.

  Engler drove while Tribe used torn sections of county maps to navigate through a serpentine course of paved, gravel, and dirt back roads where they traveled undetected while scanning radio news reports.

  “...the incident has focused the nationwide manhunt on Texas...”

  Over Tribe’s shoulder Ann saw handwritten notes and arrows covering the maps but couldn’t find their destination. At times they’d stop to consult notes as if searching for something before continuing.

  Ann thought she’d heard the distant thump of a helicopter and prayed for it to be police. But she saw nothing and her heart sank. She’d lost count of the hours and grew confused as they took yet another back road through another dense forest. Gravel pop-corned against the undercarriage.

  “Stop! I saw it!” Tribe said.

  Engler braked. The SUV was swallowed by its own dust cloud. When it settled, Engler reversed until coming upon a hand-scrawled NO TRESPASSING sign on the right side. It marked the beginning of an unmarked road, an overgrown grassy pathway invisible in the thicket.

  “See?” Tribe said. “The NO is underlined and the sign’s framed in bright orange, just like Driscoll’s notes. He set it up good.”

  Engler inched their way delicately along the path, awakening branches that slapped and scraped against the wheels, the doors, the windows.

  “It’d better be here like we planned it,” Engler said.

  The late afternoon sky dimmed under the natural canopy of the forest as they bumped along for nearly half an hour, coming to a tranquil lake, the shore lined with shortleaf pine and loblollies. They stopped near a huge thicket of underbrush covered by a sweeping natural forest roof of towering pine, willow, and Cypress trees. Undetectable from the sky. Driscoll had good friends here, graduates of the Texas Department of Corrections who knew how to help when it counted.

  “I think it’s here. Damn,” Tribe said.

  They got out and began pulling away at the boughs, branches and undergrowth, revealing a huge sheet like military camouflage and a white late-model van. Ann saw a Texas license plate. Tribe reached under one of the wheels for keys. Soon the engine purred. Ann read the small commercial sign on the van’s door, EFFCT HOSPITAL WASTE, CAUTION: HAZARDOUS PRODUCTS.

  Engler looked through the van. It was filled with boxes of food, clothing, radios, blankets, medical smocks, supplies, camping gear, a tent. A full tank of gas. Everything he’d told Driscoll to do. Man, he’d done a good job. For about two seconds, Engler felt sad that he’d killed Driscoll, an outstanding wheelman. But then again, it was never part of their plan to let Driscoll live long enough to receive his cut of the heist. Engler glanced at Tribe. He studied him, thinking; then he looked at Ann, handcuffed in the SUV, and re-evaluated the situation.

  “I told you, Del, we’ve come too far to drop this.”

  “It’s getting dark, John. Let’s eat.”

  “Sure, then we’ll load up the van and head to the meeting place at dawn. It’s not far and this will get us by any roadblocks along the way.”

  “Not far at all.” Tribe rummaged through potato chips, beer, beans, pork rinds, soda, water, snack cakes, delighted to find beef jerky.

  Using the chains and handcuffs, Engler secured Ann to a pine tree, letting her sit on the fragrant pine needles covering the soft forest floor, where they set out the food.

  Ann ate, but not much. Fear kept her numb. The rage between the two men was gone, as if a switch had been thrown. It terrified her. It was as if they’d achieved the next level of whatever it was they were planning, making them even more determined to finish things.

  She prayed police were near.

  Few words were spoken as they ate. Crickets, birdsong, and the occasional splash from the swamps competed with Tribe’s lip-smacking, beer guzzling, and belching. In the twilight, Ann saw a water moccasin thread across the glass surface of the lake.

  Tribe saw what Ann saw.

  “Snakes are beautiful, misunderstood creations. Water round here is filled with them. Gators out there too. Big ones.” Tribe belched, then turned to Engler. “We get our money, I’m going to Belize. Got friends down there. I can live good on my share. Start a reptile farm.”

  Staring at Tribe, Engler probed his teeth with a toothpick and nodded.

  “I ain’t never going back to prison, John. What about you?”

  Engler sucked air through his teeth, then looked at Ann.

  “Del, I think you were right.”

  “About what?”

  “No witnesses.”

  Tribe stared at Engler, then at Ann.

  “About her, you mean?”

  “Yes. Things got tense in the mobile home park. Damn near ruined it all for us. But, Del, you came through, showing up with the truck like you did. You could’ve left me. I mean everything was in the truck. Cash, the jewels. Everything was on the line. How come you didn’t leave me, Del?”

  “’Cause we go back to C Yard, John.”

  “Guess I got messed up, thinking about my wife, about Ann Reed, what her husband took from me. I got a little selfish.”

  “John, we didn’t know she’d be in the jewelry store when we came in. I understand how it messed with your head, brother.”

  “I forgot all about your needs, that’s what got us trouble in Oklahoma.”

  “That was me, John.”

  “But I should’ve let you take care of your needs with her, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone off like you did and get hurt, and draw attention to us.”

  “I won’t argue with you there. So what’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying you’re right. We should’ve stuck to our plan. No witnesses.”

  Tribe looked at Ann. “It’s not too late.”

  Ann’s heart began to race.

  Engler looked at her. “I think she’s grown to like you, Del.”

  “Think so?”

  “I do. And I think you should do something about it. Especially after what she did to us. She’s earned it.” Darkness was descending fast. Large things were splashing in the water. Engler grunted, fishing into his pocket. “Here’s the handcuff key. I’m going to load up the van.” Engler left for the trucks. Tribe leaned back on his elbow, looking at Ann as if he’d won something. He touched the bandage on his face, tugged at it slowly, pulling it off, in an attempt to make himself presentable.

  Drinking beer, he dabbed his facial wound with a tissue and stared at Ann, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. Again, something huge splashed in the swamp nearby; a bird screamed.

  Tribe stood and sighed as he approached Ann, working the chains around the tree upward so he could bring her to her feet. Then he gazed upon her.

  “Darlin’. Darlin’. Darlin’.” Tribe grinned, his big, powerful hands gripped her shoulders. “Now, now, there’s no sense in crying like this.”

  She could smell his body odor, felt his hot foul breath panting against
her skin. His widening eyes, his malformed ear, the running wound on his face, the animal cries and splashes coming from something dying in the swamp. She felt his hands slithering all over her, then his lips and tongue on her neck.

  Ann raised her head to heaven and prayed as the tear tracks glistened down her face. She couldn’t fight anymore. She thought of Tom, of Zach, of her mother and every good thing she’d had in her life.

  Then she wished for death.

  71

  A sheriff’s deputy came to the door of Gloria Pickett’s home, said something into FBI Agent Ira Doyle’s ear that made him nod.

  As they stepped from the double-wide, Doyle told Reed the press wanted a statement from him.

  “It’s entirely up to you, Tom,” Doyle said.

  Buoyed by the recent breaks, Reed decided to say something. The deputy hurried ahead to alert the networks and dozens of press people.

  “Seein’ how you’re a reporter,” Doyle said, “I figure you know how best to handle this, Tom.”

  Reed nodded and they started walking toward the yellow tape at the end of the lane. Sydowski got close enough to Reed to say privately, “Engler and Tribe will be listening. Don’t antagonize them, Tom. They’ve backed themselves into a corner. This is the most dangerous time now.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Assume you’re talking directly to them and be careful.” Doyle went to the microphones first. “This will be short.”

  He paused to let a helicopter pass. “Tom Reed will make a brief statement.”

  The late-afternoon sun and lights hit Reed’s face. He squinted into the cameras.

  “I just want to say to the men who’ve taken my wife, Ann Reed, please let her go. She’s never hurt you. Please let her go. She has a family, a little boy who needs her now, so we’re begging you, I’m begging you, please let her go.” Next to Reed, some news networks juxtaposed smaller inset live footage of the dragnet on Texas highways, the helicopters, dog teams checking pickups and wooded areas as the live press questions came for Reed.

  “Tom, there are reports that you know the men, or have written about them, is that true?” a Dallas Morning News reporter said.

  “I reported on the case of one of them, yes, but we suspect Ann was taken randomly.”

  “Which suspect, Tom? Tribe or Engler?” a Houston Chronicle reporter said.

  “Engler.”

  The networks juxtaposed inset mug shots of Engler, Tribe, then Ann Reed’s photograph. Summary descriptions of the suspects, then a summary of the San Francisco case, murdered SFPD Officer Rod August, suspect Leroy Driscoll, murdered Carrie Dawn Addison, remains found near Death Valley, California, and Winslow, Arizona. Tribe sought for assault in Oklahoma. Several questions were shouted at once, but Reed heard a familiar voice.

  “Tom, Tom,” Tia Layne yelled, “isn’t it true that John Mark Engler holds a grudge against you for your reporting of his Florida death row case?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “And,” Layne pushed on, “what does this mean for Ann, given the circumstances?”

  Pulling Reed from the microphones, Sydowski stepped in. “I think that’s all we’re going to say for now, thank you.”

  “Wait! Tom,” Molly Wilson from the San Francisco Star said. “Tom, some people have been portraying you as a hero for investigating Ann’s kidnapping on your own. Do you agree with that?”

  Reed stepped back to the microphones.

  “No, I don’t. Ann’s been fighting for her life. What happened here a few hours ago is evidence of that fact. She’s the hero. Not me. I’m not giving up. No one’s giving up. No matter what.”

  FBI Agent Ira Doyle held up both hands. “That’s it, folks. Thanks.”

  “Wait, sir, how many officers are on this case and—”

  “Those questions were addressed at an earlier briefing, but we’ll have releases for you shortly, thank you.”

  Bud Tarpell led Reed, Sydowski, and McDaniel back to his van and drove them to Lufkin’s Communications Center. Reed tried to think but couldn’t. He was drained by the time they rolled into the center’s parking lot. Stepping from the van, he realized he’d lost track of time. It would be dark soon.

  Tarpell led them into a room where nearly twenty people from various agencies, FBI, DPS, county and more, were working, talking on phones, radios, or typing on computer keyboards.

  Large maps covered one wall, several large TVs tuned to all-news networks, national and local stations. There was a table heaped with food. Near it were sofas, cots, sleeping bags. Empty desks to work.

  “Washrooms and showers are just down the hall, fellas,” Tarpell said. “You won’t miss a thing. If there’s a break it comes here first.”

  Reed sat on a sofa. He couldn’t bring himself to eat. A young woman approached him.

  “Tom, I’m Sareena Sawyer, the 911 dispatcher who took the call.”

  “Hello.”

  “I just want to say we’re all praying for y’all. Everybody here’s giving one hundred and ten, Tom.” She patted his shoulder.

  “Thank you.”

  Alone, Reed watched TV news reports on what had remained a national story. Sydowski and McDaniel joined other investigators at a table, downing endless cups of coffee, flipping through notes and files.

  Sydowski explained how San Francisco’s chief of police wanted him to accompany Reed to Texas to offer San Francisco’s help to the growing task force on this case. Three San Francisco people had been murdered, two in the city, one was an SFPD officer. A San Francisco woman was being held hostage. Sydowski could offer help. Still, some of the seasoned local detectives questioned Reed’s presence. Sydowski said it was easier for them to keep an eye on Reed, who’d already taken a few risks to pursue matters on his own.

  DPS and the Texas FBI were scouring Engler’s background history for any connection to Texas. The FBI was pressing its sources who were convinced the stolen jewelry was going to be sold in Texas.

  Police radio chatter and TV news reports filled the room long into the night. The hours melted into each other.

  Reed’s eyes grew heavy and he found himself dreaming of Ann’s hand holding his in sunlight, leaving a silhouette in glass, reaching up from a desert grave. God, please no.

  “Tom.” Sydowski stood over him. “Wake up.”

  Reed rubbed his eyes and sat up. It was dawn. The radios were loud and heavy with a volume of excited cross talk.

  “What’s going on, Walt?”

  “They found something. In the water.”

  72

  At first it looked like a postage stamp in a swimming pool.

  But to the spotter in the Department of Public Safety search plane making its first morning pass over a remote sliver of East Texas it was a find. “Take us closer,” the spotter said over her headset.

  The pilot looped and descended, then cut the speed so the spotter could focus her high-powered binoculars, steadying her line of sight until she had it.

  “Looks like a body.”

  She radioed the location to Lufkin, concentrating the massive search operation to the region and tightening the dragnet.

  A DPS helicopter marked the site, directing scores of agencies to it, deputies, DPS troopers, Rangers, the FBI, game wardens, the county coroner, local fire officials. Rescue boats were trailered and launched, their motors rumbling across the surface some seventy-five yards from shore.

  On land and over the water, investigators sealed the scene. They videotaped, photographed, sketched, and made notes of the time, location, weather, water temp, conditions, as news helicopters recorded events live from above and hurried to locate the scene on the ground.

  In the two lead boats police cut the engines and used oars for positioning. The corpse was facedown, arms outstretched, clothed in a light-colored shirt and blue jeans with what appeared to be a scarf around its neck.

  “Okay, Earl,” an older forensic investigator in one of the boats said, “you boys
bring it in, let’s see what we got here.”

  A grappling pole was extended to the waist, and after two attempts, hooked a belt loop. As the body was pulled to the aluminum boat’s gunwale, the corpse flipped.

  “Goddammit!”

  It had been eviscerated. Instead of a stomach there was a gaping cavity of twisted ribs, with waving ribbons of fabric and visceral matter that had attracted small fish.

  Several investigators winced.

  A water moccasin was coiled around the neck, its head had wormed into the yawning mouth of Delmar James Tribe and had worked its way to his heart, or the few bits the gator had left.

  On the tree-lined shore, police uncovered the SUV with the California plate belonging to a Los Angeles family still vacationing, oblivious of the role their family vehicle had played in a drama that had gripped the nation.

  The dogs had found women’s bras, tops, shoes, and slacks scattered in the forest. Crime scene experts were casting tire impressions from the vehicle that had left the area, identifying them as those commonly found on vans.

  The FBI and Texas Rangers found a chain at the trunk of a pine tree, and a large knife. A detective, expert on blood-splatter patterns, found dried blood on the tree, the chain, and the ground. None of this information was relayed to Tom Reed, who was kept at a distance where he sat with local police, his face buried in his hands.

  In the sky above, Tia Layne adjusted her binoculars.

  “Cooter, can you pull in on Reed?” she said over her headset of the rented helicopter. They had split the hourly cost with a small East Texas daily newspaper so they could keep up with the bigger news outlets to get the best pictures of the latest development. The networks broadcasting live pictures pulled back on the floating corpse, so as not to offend viewers by showing too much detail.

  About an hour after the body was found, one of the news shows went back to Texas for more on the robbery, homicide, kidnapping case.

  “Sources have just told us the body is that of one of the two fugitives, Delmar James Tribe,” a news anchor said over jittery aerial shots of the police activity on the shoreline. “Of course, the question remains, where is San Francisco businesswoman Ann Reed, the wife of San Francisco reporter Tom Reed, whom you see to the extreme right of your screen? We’re going to break now. Stay with us, we’ll have more on this stunning case when we come back....”