I had missed a week and a half of work, and I hadn’t even called in until I was already overdue. I had arranged to take one week off, but the extra days that our Glacier trip necessitated added to the deficit of work that I had left behind. I had been trying to catch back up, but I can’t just invent news, and I was struggling. My manager wanted me to come into the office to meet with her on Monday. I wasn’t looking forward to this meeting.
On the plus side, I spoke with Captain Stewart to ask him if he would be interested in helping me write a story about the United States Park Police to make more people aware of who they were and what they did for our country, and he said that he would be glad to after he got this case wrapped up.
Jack had already downloaded all the pictures that I needed for my article to his computer before he went off on the hunting trip, so I got all that submitted to the magazine right away, and the editor was very pleased with our work. He said that the writing and photography was all top notch, and he’d be glad to send me some more assignments. I might need them, depending how my meeting goes on Monday.
The doorbell rang, and Jack jumped up to answer it. I heard a big commotion, and Jack yelled “Run!”
“Don’t run anywhere! Don’t move at all,” came from a different voice that I didn’t recognize.
Jack came around the corner being pulled and pushed from behind by a man holding Jack’s collar in one hand and a gun in the other.
Jack’s eyes were wide open, and he mouthed to me, throw the chili.
I grabbed the handle of my pot with both hands.
“Step back from the stove,” the man ordered.
“Now!” Jack yelled. He dropped like a stone, exposing the man behind him, and I swung that pot of chili around and sent it sailing right toward the man’s face.
Red chili splattered everywhere, and the guy flopped over backward with both arms outspread. His gun went flying, and Jack grabbed an arm and twisted it behind his back, rolling him over in the process.
“Grab that duct tape!” Jack yelled. “It’s under the table.”
I looked underneath the table and saw Jack’s roll of duct tape that I knocked out of his hand three weeks ago. I grabbed it and ran over to Jack, who was really struggling to hold the guy down.
“Wrap it around here,” Jack said. “Around his wrist.”
I jumped down onto the man’s shoulders and did as Jack said.
“Wrap it around twice.”
I wrapped it around three times.
“Now, hold this wrist.”
I grabbed it with both hands and pulled it tight against my stomach, while Jack grabbed his other arm and twisted it around. The man was putting up a strong fight and bucked me off of him. Jack threw his whole body behind the arm and shoved it up behind the man’s shoulders. I heard two really loud snaps, and the man screamed like crazy.
“Tape!” Jack yelled.
I pushed the wrist I was still holding over to meet the one Jack had and wrapped the tape around that wrist two times.
Jack took over and wrapped the tape around both wrists in a figure 8 pattern and then around both wrists together. “He’s not escaping from this,” Jack said.
Jack tore off the tape and taped together the man’s ankles. “Call 9-1-1,” he said.
Well, I didn’t get fired … quite. I did lose my regular position at the Weekly, because my manager said that she needed someone she could depend on...well…weekly. However, she liked my writing a lot, and she liked me, and she offered me my own byline instead.
This is great! I still need to turn in a weekly column, but if I have to miss one once in a while, that’s okay. I just won’t get paid that week. But if I miss one week’s pay because I’m writing a magazine article, then the money all works out.
Getting my apartment cleaned up was a job, let me tell you. I had to rent a carpet cleaner from the grocery store, and I had to scrub the walls with a brush. I can still see where the chili splattered, but I think it will pass the security deposit test.
Of course, chili also got on everything I own: pictures, books, my TV, my couch. What a mess! I did the best I could with spot remover. It will have to do.
The man who attacked us in my apartment was one of the guys from Jack’s hunting expedition named John. Apparently, he hung onto a rope that Jack’s boat was dragging and swam the rest of the way to the dock at the ranger station. He got warmed up at a campfire some hikers had nearby, and he managed to get out of the park. He’s in federal custody right now.
We’ve had several phone calls with Captain Stewart of the National Park Police since the attack, and he’s managed to piece together most of the criminal operation that was going on.
Matt, the guy I interviewed at Many Glacier and later chased us onto the trail, was the ringleader. He worked for the lodge management company in Colorado and transferred up to the Glacier lodges. He got involved with some local drug dealers and somehow wormed his way into their organization by laundering money through the lodges. He had an accomplice in Colorado who helped him transfer money in and out of accounts. Then he met the poachers and did the same thing with them. He also started bringing them customers, who he put up at the lodges.
The client on Jack’s trip, Christopher, was one of the customers that Matt brought to the poachers, and he’s the one who fingered Matt. The police located Christopher pretty easily, and he was cooperating for a reduced sentence.
Now, Matt’s cooperating because they’re offering him a reduced sentence to help them get the people who murdered their agent. He’s still guilty of money laundering and maybe drug dealing, but they’ve also charged him with accessory to murder, and that was their bargaining chip.
Jack and I were sitting on my couch, and he called Captain Stewart again.
“Stewart.”
“Hi Captain. It’s Jack Taylor. I have you on speaker, and Alison’s here with me.”
“Hi Alison.”
“Hi Captain Stewart.”
“I got a report from my site team yesterday,” Captain Stewart said. “From the human remains and the clothes, we’ve determined that two people were killed in the boat explosion. We’ve identified one of them from your pictures. David Rossal from Waterton. He’s apparently the guy that was driving the boat. We haven’t ID’ed the other guy yet—the one you called Jason—but we will soon. We found enough remains to match him to your picture.”
“Glad I could help.”
“Those pictures are helping us tremendously, by the way. I don’t know how you had the presence of mind to take out your camera’s memory card, but I’m sure glad you did. Those pictures give one hundred percent credence to your statement. This case will be much easier to prosecute because of them.”
“I tend to be pretty anal about backing up my photos,” Jack said. “I’m just glad they came in handy.”
“Captain Stewart,” I said, “since you have your case wrapped up, can you talk with me next week about the article we discussed? Wednesday or Thursday would be good.”
“We’re not wrapped up yet. We still haven’t located Runyan’s body. Just this morning, Matthew Siegel’s lawyer told us that he’s decided to accept our plea deal, and he’ll show us where they moved the body to after Jack scared off their burial. With that, we’ll be able to charge John Anderson—the man that attacked you—two with murder. He’ll go away for life.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I was so caught up in our part of this whole mess that I forgot what started it all. We can do the interview another time.”
“Don’t worry. You and I will be speaking again. I haven’t forgotten about your article.”
“Thank you, Captain. I really hope you find your officer’s body and can lock this guy up for good.”
“Count on it,” Stuart replied. “You two have been a great help. I have to go now. We’ll talk later.”
Jack ended the call.
“What’s the latest on your credit card?” I asked him.
“They’r
e still giving me the runaround. Since the police froze the lodge management company’s bank account, the credit card company says they can’t get their money back, so they won’t refund my five thousand dollars until that clears up. That could take months. At least they’re not charging me interest on the money, so it’s not really costing me anything. It’s just hanging over my head in limbo.”
“Well that’s what you get for running off on a dangerous and illegal poaching trip.”
“I did it for the greater good.”
“That would make a great epitaph.”
Jack smiled. “I could live with that.”
I smacked him in the face with a chili-stained pillow.
He countered by tickling my stomach, which sent me onto the floor.
Jack came down on top of me and I wrapped my legs around him. He stopped tickling me and I wrapped my arms around his neck.
I kissed him long and hard. “Don’t you ever leave me like that again.”
“But I get such a fabulous reception when I return.”
“Maybe you could get this every night if you stayed with me.”
“Race you to the bedroom.”
I twisted my body around and rolled him onto his back. “I can’t wait that long.”
Afterword
Thanks for reading this new series. I hope you enjoyed it. I have loved getting to know Jack and Alison myself and I’d like to take them on another adventure very soon!
First, If you liked my story, would leave me a review on Amazon. You can do so by CLICKING HERE. It helps other find and enjoy the book too.
Second, I have another episode to share…
Jack and Alison are off to Hawaii in their next adventure, and it’s all fun and games until somebody goes and gets killed, which kinda happens right away…as always with these two.
Jack’n’ Alison’s 3rd Thriller, Islands, Bylines & the Goddess of Fire awaits. Here’s a little excerpt to get you started.
Part I
Excerpt from Islands, Bylines & the Goddess of Fire
1
The Real Ironman
I was breathing hard but steady, and my target was in my sights. One foot in front of the other; long, steady strides; pick out a target—someone well ahead of you—and focus on catching him. That’s what my high school track coach taught me. That advice led me to a partial track scholarship to Penn State, and it was going to get me to finish in the top fourth of my age group in my second triathlon. A modest goal, perhaps, but I’m only a so-so swimmer, a total noob to bike racing, and at twenty-three, I have a very competitive age group.
But I survived the swim, rode hard the entire bike segment, and now I was in my element. I’m a runner. This is a sprint triathlon, so the running segment is only 5K. I thought I would have preferred a longer run, but the first two segments definitely took their toll.
Right now I was focused on the black guy in the red T-shirt like mine that was about 150 yards ahead of me. I didn’t know his name, but he had wished me good luck at the starting line, and I had returned his greeting. We came out of the water together, but this guy had a good thirty pounds on me, and it was all muscle that he had put to good use on the bike course. It was only in the last minute that I had gotten back within sight of him.
I cranked up my speed. There was only one mile to go, and I knew how much I had left in me. I had two minutes to cut his lead in half. I started counting seconds. I could have used my digital watch, but I didn’t want to break my rhythm. At 120 seconds, I still saw a football field length between us. I also saw more people along the sidelines, so I knew we were approaching the finish. I went into sprint mode. Still heel-toe, but longer strides and more concentration on the glutes and hams. I was gaining on him.
The finish line came into sight with only twenty yards between us. I flew by him and passed under the banner a full second ahead of my adversary.
“You slowed down!” I said to him at the fruit table after we had both regained normal breathing. The shade that the small awning offered felt good, and it was quickly filling with racers.
“Huh?”
“You had me beat. There was no way I could have passed you unless you slowed down in the last hundred yards.”
“Oh, man, I was dyin’ out there.”
“It’s a hundred yards! You should have maintained your speed until you crossed the line. Jack Taylor, by the way.” I held out my hand.
He took my hand in a thumb handshake, which I wasn’t expecting. At least he didn’t bro-hug me. “Brad Jones, Buyer’s Agent.” He said it as if it were a title befit a king. “Are you the local track coach, or do you just enjoy bustin’ people’s balls?”
“A little of both. And what’s with the ‘buyer’s agent’?”
“I sell real estate. But I work as a buyer’s agent instead of representing the seller like most agents do. Never pass up an opportunity to promote how I can help people. When you’re ready to buy a house, you’ll remember me.”
“That’s where I know you from! Your billboard on the interstate. You look a lot better in your picture.”
“Wow, you really are the ball buster here.”
I had him smiling now. “It just so happens that I am in the market for a house. Do you negotiate deals better than you run? I’d hate to have an agent that gave out on me just when we’re ready to close.”
That made him laugh. Success!
“Hey,” I said. “Stand right there. Don’t move for ten seconds. Trust me.”
I ducked down below shoulder height so I was hidden behind the other finishers under the awning and snuck around to the backside of the small crowd. After a couple seconds, I ran around to watch my girlfriend Alison walk up behind my new friend and give him a smack on the butt.
Brad jumped, but Alison jumped a lot higher. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” Her hands were on her cheeks. “I thought you were my boyfriend. He’s dressed just like you.”
I came around from behind, laughing. It had gone perfectly. Lately, Alison had been greeting me with a butt slap; I don’t know why. But the instant I saw her walking up to the crowd and realized that Brad and I had on the same shirts from an earlier race and similar shorts, inspiration struck.
“Wait a minute!” Brad protested to Alison. “You mistook this work of art for his skinny ass?” He was pointing to his own prominent butt, and I do believe he was flexing. “Not to mention the finer color of the legs underneath.”
I hugged Alison and said, “Don’t mind him. He’s just a salesman.”
“Ew, you’re all wet!” Alison said.
“Buyer’s agent,” Brad corrected. “Brad Jones, at your service.” He gave her a regular handshake. I guess he reserves his “cool” handshake for cool people, like me.
“Is he trying to sell you a house?” This voice came from a black woman our age who had just walked up from behind.
“This is my wife Kayla,” Brad said to Alison and me. To Kayla, he said, “This is Jack Taylor. He’s the one I’m selling a house to.”
Alison proffered her hand to Kayla. “Hi. I’m Alison Meyers. Does yours act like this all the time, too?”
Kayla replied, “You just can’t train them.”
The four of us walked together toward the transition area so Brad and I could get our bikes. “So are you really looking for a house?” Brad asked me.
“I’m thinking about it. I’ve been in an apartment in Davidson for two years now. I like it here, and I’d rather put my money into something I can own.”
“That’s smart thinkin’. I’d like to work with you. Can we get together sometime to go over what you’re looking for?”
We had to go down separate rows to get our bikes; then we met at the far end. The girls had walked around to meet us.
“I can talk Monday,” I told Brad, “but after that, I’m booked all week.”
“Are you an early riser?”
It turned out that Brad also lives in Davidson, only about a mile from me, so we made arrangeme
nts to meet Monday morning.
“We already exchanged numbers for you,” Kayla told Brad and me. She and Alison were holding our phones.
I loaded my bike onto my car and then grabbed a camera from inside. I’m a photographer by profession and hobby, so you’ll rarely see me without one or two cameras slung around my neck. “Are you still okay with hanging around a little while to get some photos?” I asked Alison.
“Yeah. I wouldn’t dare get between you and your dream.”
“I quit dreaming about photography when I moved down here. This is reality now.”
We started walking back toward the finish line.
“I wasn’t talking about photography,” Alison said. “I was talking about the Ironman.”
“Ha! Now that’s a dream.”
“But you said you want to run one.”
“Oh, I do. I still have to work my way up, though. There’s an official Ironman triathlon in Wilmington next month. Same time as the world championship in Hawaii. Wilmington is a 70.3 miler, though. Half the length of the Hawaii race. Maybe I’ll be ready for it next year.”
“Well, remember when you told me you’d like to go see the Ironman in Hawaii?”
“Aw I’d love to go to that. The real Ironman. Seeing those world-class athletes compete in person, photographing them. And, it’s in Hawaii. That would be a trip.”
“Well, I kinda have something to tell you.”
I stopped walking and looked at her.
“I was just thinking about what you said and did a little research,” she said sheepishly.
“And…”
“Did you know that a lot of coffee comes out of Hawaii?”
“No. I’m not a coffee drinker.”
“Just from one small area: Kona.”
“That’s where the Ironman is.”
“Yeah. They run right past the coffee farms.”
“So what has all this got to do with … whatever we’re talking about?”
Goats, Boats, and Killer Cutthroats Page 12