by C. E. Nelson
The dark sedan was behind the vehicle that had honked at Carlisle.
“She’s just passing her boyfriend’s place and headed south. I think she’s on her way to you now. Be ready.”
Chapter 40
Linda was at the door when Trask pulled in, leaning on the frame, hands crossed in front of her. It looked to him like she was in her bathrobe with a jacket over that. He jumped out of the truck and raced around the front to her.
“You OK?”
She didn’t look OK. She looked drained of life and scared.
“We need to get to the hospital. My water broke.” She took a step, nearly collapsing, Trask holding her up.
“Should I call an ambulance?”
“There’s no time. Help me into the truck.”
Her breaths were short and shallow. She could get her left leg onto the running board but Dave had to get both arms under her to lift and push her into the cab. He could feel a warm dampness as he did. She slid onto the seat, and her head immediately fell back on the headrest, her eyes closed. Trask secured her seatbelt and raced around to the driver’s seat.
As he pulled out of the driveway, he glanced over. Her eyes were still closed, breathing from her mouth. “Linda?”
“Hurry, Dave.” Her voice was just a whisper.
Trask flipped on his lights and siren and called the dispatcher. The trip to the hospital was barely over a mile, but it seemed to stretch on. The buildings were flying by but he seemed no closer to the hospital. He took a quick glance over to see that his wife had slumped down in her chair, her head now against the door. He called her name as he tried to pull her back up, but she didn’t respond, and he couldn’t move her. Suddenly he was roaring down the entrance to the hospital, slamming on his brakes in front of the emergency entrance. Trask leaped from his seat and raced around the front of the truck to open Linda’s door, but a crew was already there, putting her on a stretcher.
“We’ve got her, Sheriff,” said a nurse. “Park your truck and come back to the desk. They’ll tell you where to go.”
He didn’t want to leave her, taking two steps to follow the now moving stretcher.
The nurse looked back at him. “We’ve got her. You need to move your truck.”
Trask watched them race away into the building. He turned back to his truck, taking a step toward it. Reaching out to close the passenger door he saw it in the light from the hospital. Blood. Lots of blood. Where they had taken her from the seat, it looked like someone had used a broom to try to sweep the blood off the seat. Streaks ran down the side, dark red paint spilled over the edge. He looked at his hands and could see the blood there now too.
“Oh, God.”
What the hell was this? Bishop spotted the small gift bag hanging from the handle of his back door as he lifted his keys from his pocket. He lifted it from the handle, trying to see inside, but the handles of the bag had been tied together with ribbon. Bishop glanced back over his shoulder to the alley. The car was still there. And there was someone in it. He couldn’t make out what kind of car it was against the dark siding of the garage across the alley or who was inside. Might have been a Volkswagen logo he saw when he pulled in, but he just wasn’t sure. He thought about walking over and yelling at whoever was in the car about parking in the alley. Maybe find out who they were and if they had left the bag on his door handle. He quickly decided it wasn’t worth the hassle and went inside.
Bishop put the bag on his table and draped his suit coat over a chair. He pulled aside the drape in the window and looked out. The shadows were deep now, and he couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like the car in the alley was gone. He walked to his counter, retrieved a glass from his cupboard, and poured himself some whiskey from the open bottle there. Took a sip and turned, looking at the yellow and white striped gift bag with the multi-colored ribbon holding the handles together. After setting his drink on the counter, he rummaged in the silverware drawer for a steak knife. He carried it to the table, slid the blade between the handles of the bag and under the ribbons and lifted the knife up and towards him. He cut through two of the ribbons, but two more remained so he did it again.
The handles came open. Bishop set the knife on the table and looked in the bag. More ribbons held a clear cellophane bag inside closed. He lifted the ribbons above his head, the cellophane bag dangling in front of his face. A cookie. Why had someone given him a cookie? Bishop put the cookie on the table and picked up the bag, looking for some clue. He turned it upside down, the realtor card dropping to the table, and read the note on the back. He dropped the card back in the bag, scrunched the bag into a ball, and dropped it in the wastebasket below his sink. “Damn realtors.” Bishop picked up his drink, took a sip, and went to the living room.
Bishop sat in his chair in the dark sipping his drink. He did not turn on the television. The warmth of the alcohol spread through his torso. Bishop stared into the darkness. And thought.
The last two days had been right out of the Book of Weird. Going to the funeral of the brother and sister-in-law he had killed. Going to kill his last remaining sister to find she had already been killed. Going to the funeral of Helen who had dropped dead, maybe. And then finding his last brother dead.
Tom. He couldn’t get the sight of him out of his mind. The gray skin, the eyes, blank and staring, and the look on his face. Like someone had pushed a knife in him, slowly, deeper and deeper, his brother feeling the blade as it cut him, sliced him open. But there wasn’t any blood, at least any he had seen or could remember. And he was pretty sure Tom had not had a heart attack. The guy may have been a worry-wart, but he was younger than he was and in much better shape. It could happen he supposed, but this was just too much of a coincidence. No, someone had killed his brother.
Reporting the death was not going to happen. That was a no-brainer. He had to stay as far away from this as he could. He had killed Laura and Tom and Lisa, and now he was the last one left. The last Bishop. No doubt the police would look at him closely. From the smell, it was obvious his brother had been dead for a while. Maybe even the night before. He’d need to be sure he had his story straight about where he was when they all died. Only he didn’t know for sure. Fran and Tom had been in the last day or so, and he’d have to make something up for Tom and Laura, but he really didn’t even know what day Helen died.
Yeah, the cops would be coming, probably soon. What really bugged him though, was who was doing this and why? He was happy someone had done the work for him, but who?
A feeling of paranoia crept over Bishop as he poured the last of his drink down his throat. What if the cops were already watching him? Maybe that was a cop in the car in the alley? Or what if it was the person who had killed Tom and Helen and Fran? He picked up his gun from the table by his chair and walked to the kitchen, turning off the light. He felt his way across the room, bumping into a chair, and then sliding around the table to the window. Pulling back the curtain with his pistol, he looked at the alley again. The light on the front of the garage across the alley had come on. The car was gone, he was sure of it now.
Bishop moved back across the room, found the light switch. After setting his empty glass and gun on the counter, he refilled his glass and took a sip. He picked up the glass in one hand, the pistol in the other, and walked back to the light switch, putting the house in darkness again. The streetlight in front of his house outlined his front window. He meandered across the living room, found his chair and the table with his hip, and moved slowly behind them. Using his gun again, he pulled the curtain to the side. The pine tree in his yard blocked much of his view, but aside from his neighbor’s Suburban that was always parked on the street across from his house, there was nothing.
Bishop shuffled back to his chair and sat in the dark. He put his gun on the table and took another sip of his whiskey. He was feeling better now. More relaxed. If he could just get through the next few days, he would probably be in the clear. And he’d have a lot more money than he had expected onl
y days ago. He would be just fine. Bishop raised his glass in the air. “Thanks, Mom.”
Bishop finished the second drink. Another was in order. He walked to the kitchen and flicked on the light. At the counter, he poured a third drink. Just raising the glass to his lips, his stomach growled. Bishop held the glass in front of his face and tried to think. He remembered barely touching the meal at the church, and he remembered thinking at some time after that he would need to stop and get something to eat, but he didn’t think that had happened. In fact, he was sure. He needed something to eat.
Chapter 41
Carlisle was numb, a zombie, on autopilot. As she was pulling into the lot of her apartment building, she realized she had no idea how she got there. Like the time Hillary had driven her home after too many at the bar. She hoped she had done nothing bad.
Carlisle found her assigned parking space. She sat in the car for a moment, summoning up the energy to open the door and get out. To go into her apartment. Her empty apartment. Alone. She let out what amounted to a soft moan, fought back a new wave of tears, and got out.
Her head hung forward, eyes on the ground, and she did not notice the person standing next to the entryway until she stepped on the curb. It was a woman in dark slacks and a black jacket, hair tucked up into a dark stocking cap. Someone she knew.
“Miss Carlisle?”
The voice was familiar. The thin face. Janet Maples.
“Miss Maples. What can I do for you?”
Maples seemed nervous, looking past Carlisle at the parking lot behind her. “I needed to talk to you. It’s about the drugs.”
“Drugs?”
“My mother’s prescriptions.”
Carlisle the cop started to come out of her emotion induced coma. “Oh, OK. What –-"
Before she could finish her question, a black sedan came to a quick stop immediately behind her. Carlisle instinctively stepped forward, away from the curb, turning to look at the car as she did.
The pain was intense, shooting across the back of her head. Her eyes were filled with a bright light even though they were shut tight. Carlisle pitched forward, unable to catch herself, her arms not responding. Her shoulder hit the pavement and then her head, another blast of pain and light with it. She tried to lift her eyelids, but they seemed too heavy to move. Then she felt that she was being moved, dragged. And then she felt nothing.
James and Janet Maples stuffed Carlisle into the back seat of the black car. They got in the car, James driving, and went to a far corner of the lot. Pulling to a stop next to a late model Honda Civic, they each got out, opening the doors to the backseat. James picked up a roll of duct tape from the floor, ripped off a piece, and put it over Carlisle’s mouth. He rolled her to her stomach and taped her wrists behind her back. James tossed the tape to his sister who used it to tape Carlisle’s ankles together. When she had finished, James rolled Carlisle to her back and pulled her by the shoulders toward him. As he pulled his hands out they passed under Carlisle’s head. James lifted his hands to the dome light to see blood.
“Christ. Did you have to hit her so hard? We need her alive.” He felt for a pulse on Carlisle’s neck.
“She’s not dead, is she?” asked Janet.
“No. There’s a pulse.”
“Does she have a gun?” Janet patted down Carlisle’s legs while James did her upper body.
“Nothing,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. See you at the house.”
They slammed the back doors of the car shut. James jumped back in the black car, Janet running to the Civic. In a few minutes, they were on 2, heading for Superior. At the intersection with 35 in Superior they went south for nine miles. They turned left on County Road G for two miles, and then south again on a gravel road, Timber Lane, for almost a mile until it came to an end. James was leading, turning off Timber Lane between two large oaks. There was a driveway of sorts there, two gravel lines with dying weeds between, the gravel only visible occasionally because of the leaves covering it.
After six hundred yards the drive broke out into a clearing, an older two-story farmhouse with white siding at the center. The drive ended up in front of a detached two-car garage with double doors next to the house, but James pulled directly in front of the door to the house. Janet pulled her Civic in front of one of the garage stalls. James waited for her to walk over to him. He had the back door of his car open.
“Did she wake up?”
“No. Moaned a little. You did a good job,” he said.
“I know. It’s kind of fun,” she replied with a grin.
“Remind me never to turn my back on you.” They both looked in at Carlisle. “Let’s get her inside.”
“Hello?”
“Agent Farmer?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“Agent, I’m Jeff Pearson. I’m Danny Carlisle’s fiancé.”
“Oh right. I got the invitation to the engagement party. Looking forward to it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That’s not why you called, is it, Mr. Pearson?”
“No, it’s not. I’m concerned about Danny.”
Farmer was in his kitchen, helping his wife with dishes. He walked into the dining room. “And why is that?”
“I’ve tried calling Danny several times tonight, but she doesn’t answer.”
“Well, I’ve also had that happen with Agent Carlisle. There are times when she will turn her phone off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Bob, please.”
“OK Bob, but there is more. Do you have Danny on some assignment tonight?”
Farmer paused. “No. I couldn’t tell you if I did, but no. That doesn’t mean she isn’t out pursuing leads on her own volition. She is a very determined person.”
“I’ve kind of figured that out. But do you know if she would have any reason to go to Silver Bay and then south of Superior?”
“Wisconsin?”
“Yeah.”
“And, can I ask how you would know this, Mr. Pearson?” said Farmer.
“Please, call me Jeff.”
“OK, Jeff. And …”
“And you can’t tell Danny this, but I had a tracking device installed in the ring I gave her. I kind of sensed she loses things now and then, and well…”
“Where is she now?”
Pearson gave Farmer the location. He said he would check on what he could find out with Carlisle’s partner and would call Pearson back.
Pearson had been driving as he talked to Farmer. He pulled into the lot of Carlisle’s apartment and stopped in front of the building. Carlisle’s parking spot was one row back from the building and Pearson could see there was a car in the spot from his vantage point in his Escalade. He got and walked over to Carlisle’s spot, confirming it was her car. He tried the doors, found them locked. Using the light on his phone, he looked inside of the car, seeing nothing but Danny’s usual mess of sunflower seeds. Pearson buzzed Carlisle’s apartment but got no response. Anxious now, fearing something was seriously wrong, he went back to his truck, pulling a chain with magnetic cards and keys from a locked box under his seat.
Pearson walked back into the entry to the apartment, separated a card from the chain, and swiped it through the slot by the door. The door buzzed, and Pearson was inside, racing up the stairs to the second floor. He held the chain up to the light in the hallway, found the key he wanted, and inserted it in Carlisle’s lock.
Pearson called for Danny as he turned on lights, making a quick pass through the apartment. She hadn’t been here, not recently anyway. He turned off the lights, locked the door and went back to the apartment entryway. Getting impatient and about to call Farmer, his phone buzzed.
“The house belongs to Laura Maples, a woman whose death Danny is investigating,” said Farmer. “She may just be following up on a lead.”
“I don’t think so, Bob. I am at her apartment right now. Danny’s car is here, and her apartment is empty.”
“You were in her apartmen
t? Isn’t there security?”
“I own the building.”
“Oh.”
“And there is something else. I am standing on the sidewalk outside the entry to the apartment building, and it sure looks to me like there’s blood on the pavement.”
Farmer was silent for a moment. “OK, I am going to send a team out to that house and get the lab truck over to Carlisle’s apartment to go over her car, apartment, and check out that blood and the surrounding area. Please do not touch anything there. Can you wait there for the truck?”
Pearson was already opening the door to his SUV. “Sorry Bob, I can’t do that. I need to get Danny.”
“You don’t need to get her killed. You don’t want to be responsible for that.”
Pearson was about to put his truck in gear but paused now. “No, I don’t want to do that.”
“I need to secure the area around the house and set up a plan to get her out safely, assuming she is being held there against her will, which is what it sounds like,” said Farmer. I promise you it will be ten minutes, fifteen at the max until the BCA truck is at the apartment. It could be a great help to them, and to Danny if you would just wait there for them. I promise as soon as you get them in the building, show them Carlisle’s car and where you see the blood, you can come out to the house.”
Pearson did not want to wait. Everything in his gut told him he needed to go after her. “Ten minutes, and I’m gone.”
Chapter 42
Carlisle woke to find herself taped to a chair. Her wrists were still taped together, arms now behind the chair back. Her ankles remained taped as before, but tape had also been wrapped around her stomach and the chair back. She wasn’t going anywhere. Her head hurt like her brain was being inflated inside her skull, trying to push its way out, pushing so hard she could swear her hair hurt. Her lips were sore, and she felt something rough as she ran her tongue over them. Her chin was on her chest, her head too heavy to lift.