by David Pepper
“Airport is clear,” a woman’s voice crackled over his radio. “Nothing here.”
Officer Bosko tilted his chin down and to the left while activating the mike of his small radio. “Ten-four. Toth, any word along the roads?”
“Nothing. Woodford was clear. Monagan, too. Circling back to take a second look.”
I had to speak up. “Officer—”
He glared at me for interrupting but listened.
“This guy won’t do what you expect. I’d definitely check any indirect routes as well.”
“We got this, Sharpe.”
He tilted his chin down again.
“Check out Ward and Division, too.”
“Ten-four. Heading to Ward now.”
Bosko’s eyes blazed with intensity. “Only two ways to get here from there, unless your friend’s gonna traipse through deep woods or tiptoe along a bunch of rocks.”
“My guess is that’s exactly what he’ll do.”
As I spoke, he stepped into the other room while pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. He stuck one into a metal locker next to the first cell and opened it.
“Either way, if he makes it this far,” he said, pulling a black pump-action shotgun out of the locker, “he’ll be staring into the wrong end of this.” He flipped the gun over, slid the action forward, and quickly filled the chamber with five shells.
CHAPTER 91
KELLEYS ISLAND, OHIO
Brother, what in the world are you doing out there?” With his portly midsection, ruddy face, and white beard, the man looked every bit the fishing boat captain.
The Butcher, his gray hoodie and jeans soaked all the way through, answered with alarm.
“Captain Rick, I need your help. My wife and kid are back at Marblehead. She needs medical attention. I came out on the ferry but now I’m stuck because of the storm. Can you make a trip back to the mainland?”
Captain Rick’s beard and cheeks shook as he laughed out loud. “The ferry’s canceled for a reason, friend. It’s nasty out there. You’re better off waiting. Come on in out of this mess.”
The Butcher entered the small shack at the end of a long dock. From the bumpy vantage point of the small plane, he’d spotted a few large boats docked in the sparse marinas. So, after landing, he’d jogged the long way—along back roads, away from town, then along the rocky shoreline, then more back roads—to find this place.
“I know it’s rough,” the Butcher said, mimicking the frustration of a worried parent. “I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t urgent. My kid’s eighteen months old. I’ll pay extra. And folks in town said you’re the only guy who can do it.”
The captain laughed again. “What the hell, I can do it. It’s a straight shot, just a rough one.”
“Thank you,” the Butcher said. “Let me get my stuff and I’ll be right back.”
CHAPTER 92
KELLEYS ISLAND, OHIO
So you really think this guy stabbed you in the leg?” Officer Bosko asked. “While you were both in a jail cell?”
Holed up as the other cops scoured the roads near the airport, I walked an entertained Bosko through my past few weeks, leaving out the underlying details of the plot.
“He enjoys using knives, so I assume it was him.”
“I gotta hand it to the guy,” the ex-Marine said, shotgun resting in his lap. “That’s a slick move.”
“I’m glad you’re impressed.”
“But what was the damn point?” he asked gruffly.
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself.”
He trained his gaze on the gun, brushing something off its barrel, then looked back at me.
“I mean, think about all he gave up, tactically, by walking into that jail cell. If he stabbed you, even more so, because an investigation would have delayed his release.”
“I know. He lost days. And missed his chance to trap us when we visited the old man.”
“Even worse, he let you get a good look at him and that battle scar.”
“True.”
“You only take risks like that for a major reward. So he must’ve gotten something out of his voluntary jail stay. Something he only could have gotten by doing exactly what he did.”
He stood up, paced to the front door, and returned to his chair.
“And you have no idea how he knows where you are?”
“Well, if he’s tracking me, it’s either my phone, which is in Youngstown, or something on me.”
“Sharpe, I hate to break it to you, but I wouldn’t be holed up in here clutching a loaded Remington if I wasn’t damn sure that was your man who chartered that plane. And that means he’s definitely tracking you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious.” Chest puffed out, he was in his Marine mode now. “How well did the doctors check that stab wound?”
“Thoroughly, as far as I could tell.”
“Maybe the wound is how he’s tracking you.”
“Wait, you’re saying he implanted something when he stabbed me? Wouldn’t the doctors have found that?”
“You’d think so.”
“And is there even technology that does that?”
“The military was testing it when I was still in Iraq, and that was years ago. Hell, I read a story the other day where a bunch of Swedes are implanting tiny microchips in themselves for all sorts of reasons—like paying for stuff or unlocking doors, for God’s sake. If those are for sale commercially, could some high-priced hit man get his hands on military-grade tech that does that? Wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
It still sounded far-fetched, but I played along.
“That’s a scary thought.”
“Scary, but it also would explain everything that’s happened since this guy arrived on the scene.”
I nodded.
“I’ve got an idea. There’s one way to check.” He bounded into the other room before I could say a word.
I shifted in the chair, fearing that he had something surgical in mind. Right when the thigh was finally feeling better, too.
“Um, not sure if there’s anything we can do about—”
“Sure there is.” He stepped back through the door. “This should do the trick.”
I was about to protest again when he held up a black and yellow device shaped like a cricket bat, the type of handheld metal detector cops used for large crowds.
“Okay. I can live with that.”
His radio crackled, the woman’s voice coming back on. “I ran into Elmer Saunders, who spotted a guy in a gray hoodie jogging east from the airport.”
“East? Towards Barnum’s Point?”
“Yep.”
He glanced at me, then spoke into the radio again. “But that goes nowhere.”
“I know,” she radioed back. “I drove to the dead end and didn’t see him. But there were some fresh tracks in the mud along the shore, heading southeast.”
“That’s him,” I muttered. “This guy doesn’t quit.”
“Shit,” Bosko said. “He can connect up to Point Road that way, and double back to town.”
“I’m headed there now.”
The male voice piped back in, talking quickly. “I’m down here already. On Lakeshore. But haven’t seen a thing.”
“Keep your eyes out. This guy’s a pro.”
Bosko pointed the wand at me.
“Drop those.”
“Huh?”
“Drop your jeans.”
He stepped toward me, wand in hand. Two short high-pitched beeps sounded from around its handle.
“You got some metal in your jacket?” He waved the wand near my midsection as the beeps picked up their pace.
“No, but I got a nice rod in my throwing arm.” I angled my elbow out. The beeps ran together into an uninterrupted hig
h-pitched tone as he brought the wand up to my forearm.
“That’s some rod.”
“It was some hit.”
“Well, at least we know it’s working. Now, where is that stab wound?”
Standing awkwardly in my boxers, jeans down to my knees, I pointed to the thick bandage on my left thigh.
He lowered the wand over the front of the bandage.
Nothing.
He moved it to the back of the leg, then around both sides.
Still nothing.
“Guess not.” I wasn’t surprised. “The doctor would have found it.”
“Right. Up they go.”
As I pulled my jeans back up, I winced as the lower-right pant leg tugged against the bandage of my other jail cell injury, the puncture in my right calf. The sharp pinch reminded me of the slow healing, the itching, the raised scab, and the infection, all from this odd injury that never went away.
“Before you put that thing away, let’s check one other spot.”
I sat down in the chair and removed my jeans entirely.
“Where?”
“There.” I pointed to the smaller bandage over my right calf.
“That come in the jail, too?”
“Sure did,” I said, angry at myself for not having thought of it earlier.
He lowered to one knee and positioned the wand close to the bandage.
Nothing.
I ripped off the bandage. This had to be it.
“Do it again.”
“As long as you clean this thing after,” he joked as he pushed the wand against the scab.
A series of soft beeps emanated from the device.
CHAPTER 93
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Ma’am, it’s quitting time. You’ll need to call back Monday.” The detective’s Brooklyn accent couldn’t have been thicker.
“I’m looking for information on two deaths that happened there eleven years ago,” Cassie said, “but I can’t find a thing in the papers.”
“Monday, ma’am.”
“It’s five till four. And this is an emergency.” Although it really wasn’t, waiting the entire weekend would be torture.
A long sigh came through the phone. “What kind of deaths were they?”
“A mom and son. Murdered, I believe. Last name was Rivers. In the Brighton Beach area, likely in September. Survived by a daughter named Katrina.”
“You said eleven years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Give me a few.”
He came back in ten minutes.
“Ma’am, I got nothing like that in my records. And if it happened like you said it did, it would be there. Have a nice weekend.”
CHAPTER 94
KELLEYS ISLAND, OHIO
I’ve got a medical kit in the back,” Officer Bosko said, leaping to his feet. “I can dig the thing out.”
Knowing I was being tracked like an animal, and that my own leg was the traitor, had sent goose bumps rising all over my skin. But Officer Bosko’s enthusiasm to dig into my leg was giving me a cold sweat.
“Are you sure? That’s like doing surgery.”
“Hell, I dig fishhooks out around here a couple times a week in the summer. And the things I had to do in Iraq probably qualified me to be an ER doc.”
In the end, there was no choice. Taking my silence as a yes, he jumped back into the other room and returned with a medical kit in his hand.
Then his radio crackled again.
“There’s a guy walking this way from the docks.” The male officer sounded amped up. “Gray hoodie.”
Bosko dropped the kit on a chair and picked the rifle back up.
The grunts and quick breaths of a larger man running came through the radio. Then a loud yell: “PUT YOUR HANDS UP. DON’T MOVE.”
The woman’s voice joined in. “I’m right down the street. Wait up—”
“Wait for backup,” Bosko ordered through his mike, pacing back and forth. “This man is dangerous.”
“KEEP YOUR HANDS UP. DO NOT MOVE.” A pause. “GOOD. NOW TURN AROUND.”
“Wait for backup,” Bosko warned again.
A thud and then a loud, guttural groan came through the radio. Then a second thud and another groan. We waited to hear the officer’s voice again.
Nothing.
“MAN DOWN!” the other officer yelled through the radio. Her heavy breathing made it clear she was running. Three loud bangs followed.
“I’ve gotta get out there,” Bosko said, undoing the locks.
“I’m coming, too.”
“The hell you are. Stay in here and don’t move.”
He jumped out the doorway and slammed the door behind him.
With the door closed, no radio, and no Bosko, the station fell silent. Even the rain and wind outside were muffled by its thick stone walls.
Following Bosko’s order, I twisted the first lock, the bolt clicking loudly into place. I reached for the second lock, then stopped, staring at the door for a few seconds.
Then I reconsidered.
These three young officers were in danger only because of me, and here I was cowering in a dry, quiet mini-fortress behind a locked door. What was I going to do? Wait all night? Pathetic.
And as long as I was holed up here, the hit man had all the time he needed to wipe out this small Kelleys Island police force, whose first concern was to help their fallen comrade. My sitting put was doing him a favor.
If this hit man was going to trace me, he should at least have to chase me. I ran across the room, threw the medical kit Officer Bosko had left behind into my backpack, and rushed out the door.
* * *
• • •
As the short drive in Bosko’s car had made clear, the most common inhabitant of Kelleys Island was the golf cart.
So I charged out of police headquarters on the hunt for one, and three appeared in the first hundred feet. I hopped on a slick black vehicle with rugged tires—it was a cross between a golf cart and an ATV—found the keys in the ignition, and drove off.
With the drama taking place in the marina area, east of the police station, I drove west along a road that paralleled the shore. The wind and rain lashed my face as I drove, not because of the speed of the vehicle—with the accelerator floored it was still only going thirty miles per hour—but because the storm was blowing so fiercely in off the lake. The gusts and the crashing waves nearly drowned out the chugging of the motor beneath me, while the low, dark clouds made it feel like nightfall even though it was only 4:30.
After a few minutes the road curved to the right, around the far western edge of the island, then north, then slightly east. Out of the direct line of the wind, and desperate to know what was going on back at the harbor, I took out my cellphone.
Chief Santini picked up after two rings.
“Chief, he’s on the island. He’s got some kind of tracking device in my leg. And he may have taken an officer down alrea—”
“Jack, slow down! One thing at a time. Where the hell are you?”
“On a golf cart driving away from town.”
“What? You’re supposed to be in a police station.”
“I was, until he showed up and started stabbing police officers. At least one is down and needs help. I figured going on the run might pull him away.”
“You’re a sitting duck out in the open,” he said. “How can I help now?”
“Did your guy make it?”
“It was too rough. They abandoned that trip five minutes after pulling away from the dock.”
“Damn. Then I need to be able to get in touch with the officer from before.”
“Bosko?”
With no warning, the road dead-ended. I slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop only feet from some large rocks.
“What’s up? You okay?”
“The road ended. I’m turning around. And, yes, Bosko. Do you have his number?”
“Yep. He’s the one I was talking to.”
“Great. Text both of us so we can be in communication.”
“Will do.”
I swerved left on a new road, away from the shore. As I headed east, now sheltered on both sides, the wind died down even further.
Officer, it’s Chief Santini from Youngstown. Connecting you with Jack. He tells me you’re in trouble.
A few seconds passed.
Yes. Officer stabbed in gut. Bleeding bad. Fire chief on his way. Suspect gone. Sharpe, you still at HQ?
I slowed to ten miles per hour so I could text back.
No. Figured running would give you some space. On golf cart.
A longer pause.
You should NOT have ignored my order. Where the f are you?
Circled island to west, now on north side. Approaching state park.
I had just passed a sign saying that the park’s entrance was ahead.
Avoid park. Take your next right. Then your second left a couple minutes after that. If he’s following you, that keeps you ahead of him.
The right came up quickly, a 270-degree turn. The straightaway that followed gave me a moment to think through a plan. With an otherwise losing hand, the past twenty minutes—and the fact that he’d left the cops as I’d hoped—showed that I finally held one good card. How could I best play it?
Guys, I need a boat right away.
The chief replied instantly. Jack, stop.
Bosko seconded. Not a chance.
Anticipating their protest, I had already typed two-thirds of my next message.
No time to waste. Been boating Lake Erie my whole life. Need a boat in the next fifteen minutes. Call someone if you have to or I’ll find one myself.
“Untie the stern before you jump on, sailor,” a smoker’s gravelly voice barked through the roaring wind.
Bosko had texted that the boat was called Old Faithful, but I’d spotted it before even seeing its name. In the ghostly harbor of empty docks and slumbering, tarpaulin-wrapped boats, its tall bridge was lit up like a Christmas tree, illuminating the smoke rising from its stern, the sign of an old engine warming up. And with its worn paint, angular lines, and squarish windows, it definitely matched its moniker of “old.”