The Coast-to-Coast Murders

by J. D. Barker

  “Or what?” Kepler laughed. “You’ll repeat what you just said? We both know the score here. You’re a lousy liar. Send out Longtin. He’s all I want. Send him out and you can wait in the cabin with the other two for your backup to arrive. The nearest sheriff’s station is thirty-seven minutes away. That means they’re thirty-two minutes out if they left the second you called, which I imagine was about the time the lights went off. Of course, the rain might slow them down a little.”

  Another shot rang out. The rifle again.

  “Shooting at ghosts, Gimble? Who is that? Did I miss someone?”

  Gimble had assumed Kepler had the rifle. If it wasn’t Kepler, then who? His sister?

  “Send out Longtin and I’ll let your shooter live too. I think enough people have bled today, don’t you?”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “You’re a stickler for rules. I get it. Let’s be honest, though—Longtin isn’t really contributing to society. Frankly, he’s a drain. You’ve got Doc Fitzgerald sending him money, and he also gets food stamps, welfare…who knows what kind of handouts this guy picks up when he runs into town. Don’t ask him; he won’t be able to tell you. His brain is Swiss cheese. I just killed six of your people—six well-educated, useful citizens, gone. Just the thought of it made me a little sick. Felt like the scale tipped a bit in the wrong direction, but it had to be done. I gotta draw the line somewhere, though. You’ve got a psychologist in there, a computer wiz, yourself. I really don’t want to kill the rest of you, not for him. Don’t make me do that. It’s not worth it. They don’t pay you enough, none of you. Send out Longtin, I let the rest of you walk. There’s honor in saving your own skin. There’s none in dying for a scumbag like that.”

  Gimble peered into the trees, her eyes searching for the slightest of movements, but if Kepler was close, nothing betrayed his position.

  She did the only thing she could think of. She tapped her earbud. “I’m not dying today. Let me walk back into the cabin to talk to my friends. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Written Statement,

  Megan Fitzgerald

  The note fell from my fingers into a puddle at my side, and the last of the words melted in the rainwater.

  The next bullet hit the ground less than two inches from my left foot.

  Another cracked into the metal of the door to the right of my head.

  Warning shots.

  I looked down at my black dress. An Oscar de la Renta I’d bought at the airport. Yeah, the money wasn’t mine, I used Dr. Rose’s plastic, but that dress was a work of art and now it was ruined because some lunatic was shooting at me in a muddy hole in the sticks. I was missing a shoe too. I didn’t know if it came off in the car or when I not so gracefully exited. I didn’t see it anywhere. I shook the other shoe off.

  I twisted my fingers around the hem of the dress and tore off a two-foot-long strip of the soft wool fabric. I pinched one end between my torso and my damaged arm, then wrapped it around as tight as I could. The bullet had grazed me, leaving a trench in my arm. Whoever had shot me must have had a collection of Boy Scout badges for anything that involved excellent aim. He was watching me, letting me tie my dress around my arm.

  I tied a knot in the material, pulled it tight with my teeth.

  Stand. Walk toward the cabin. Call your brother’s name. Anything else = bullet to the head.

  I slowly stood. White washed over my vision. I moved toward the cabin with tiny steps, my toes sinking in the mud. Michael’s name dropped from my lips.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Gimble

  I think I’d prefer you stay right there,” Kepler replied over Gimble’s earbud.

  Remaining low, Gimble pointed Montgomery’s MP5 toward the tree line and slowly swept it back and forth. Rain rolled off the barrel, over the stock, and she fought the urge to wipe off her hands or readjust her grip. “Where’s your sister?” Gimble said. “That was a neat little trick she pulled back at the truck stop with all the alarms. That was her idea, right? From what Dobbs tells me, you’re not smart enough to come up with something like that.”

  Gimble saw a movement out of the corner of her left eye. She spun around, leveled the gun, and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. Pop! Pop! Pop!

  The reports echoed off the trees, the log pile beside her, muffled only by the rain.

  “Not even close, Agent.”

  “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  The echo of the shots faded and died, lost in the storm.

  “Megan!” Gimble shouted. “If you’re out there, it’s not too late to turn yourself in and walk away from all this. Don’t let your brother drag you down with him. It’s not worth it. You’re throwing your entire life away, and for what? Unless you killed those people, unless you killed someone tonight, I can protect you. I can help you. I can keep you safe! Your brother has dug himself a very deep hole, but you don’t need to get caught in it. Pulling a couple fire alarms, that’s misdemeanors, a slap on the wrist. Aiding and abetting, on your clean record, I can make that go away. Help us bring in Michael. Your father clearly thought he was ill. Let me get him the help he needs. You obviously care for him—do the right thing!”

  As Gimble spoke, she squinted back at the trees, searching. She expected him to move while she was speaking. They usually did. If the sister was still helping him, she might be circling around right now—that’s what she would do. Between the rain and gusts of wind, Gimble was damn near deaf and blind. This was no good. She needed to get back inside the cabin.

  The front door was about thirty feet away.

  She imagined Kepler holding one of the other MP5s, waiting for her to make that run. Thinking that’s what she would do.

  She tapped her earbud. “Why are you killing them, Kepler? What did Fitzgerald do to you? Why take it out on his patients?”

  The moment his voice came back over the comm, she pulled the earbud out, held it away from her head, and closed her eyes, attempting to hear Kepler’s actual voice from somewhere in the trees, pinpoint him. She heard only his tinny voice through the small speaker, though.

  “You finally pieced that much together? Was it the book? Is that what clued you in? I’ve dropped so many hints for you over the years, did everything but write out a manifesto. I’m really not a manifesto kind of guy. Maybe I’m just crazy. That would be the easy way out, right? Or maybe I’m not. Maybe there are reasons. Damn good reasons. Tell you what—give me Longtin and I’ll fill you in on everything. We can chat about it while we wait for your backup to arrive.”

  “I can’t give you Longtin.”

  “I could have killed you already, you and the rest of your team. Longtin dies either way. Are you going to make me do that? If you’d rather go that route, we’ll need to get started. By my clock, we’ve got only about twenty-one minutes.”

  Six shots.

  They pelted the log pile from the left to right, sending shards of wood through the air.

  Before the echo died on the last shot, Gimble had her weapon pointing in the direction the shots had come from; her finger flipped the switch to full auto, and she unloaded the magazine with an arcing sweep over the trees as she ran toward the cabin through the mud and rain.

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Gimble

  Gimble flew through the door, slammed it behind her, and dropped to the floor near the corner window. She expected Kepler to fire, but he didn’t. The logs constructing the cabin were at least ten inches thick. “We should be able to hold out in here; just stay away from the doors and windows.”

  Sammy glared at her, his face pasty white. Both he and Vela had heard everything on their comms. “He’s bluffing, right?”

  Gimble crossed the room, set one of the MP5s on the table beside him, then stacked the spare magazines beside it. “I found two dead marshals out there, both with slit throats. There’s no sign of the others. I think we have to assume he killed them. So no
, I don’t think he’s bluffing.”

  “We can try and get to the vehicles,” Vela suggested.

  “Garrison said he moved them to a logging road. We don’t know exactly where, and Kepler probably has the keys.” She scooped up Longtin’s shotgun, handed it to Vela, then turned to Longtin. “Do you have any other weapons?”

  Longtin didn’t move, not at first. When she asked again, he only looked at her.

  “It’s the stress,” Vela said. “I think it’s triggering some kind of episode. He’s retreating.”

  To Sammy, Gimble asked, “Did you reach someone for backup?”

  “The local sheriff. But like Kepler said, they’re more than thirty minutes out. He said it could take closer to an hour if they run into flooding. The St. Louis field office is trying to get a chopper in the air, but they need a break in the weather. Wind gusts are topping forty knots. They’re grounded. They’re allowed to fly if they can get above five hundred feet, but they can’t take off or land in wind like that.”

  Gimble was looking back at the windows. “Get me some sheets. We need to cover these.”

  “What about the Honda outside…” Sammy’s words trailed off as he rose and started toward the bedroom.

  Gimble quickly dismissed the idea. “Too exposed. That’s probably what he’s waiting for us to do. We’re better off staying in here.”

  Another rifle shot.

  “If that’s not Kepler, who is it?” Vela asked, turning to the window. “He’s firing from a fixed position. The shots aren’t getting closer. If all the marshals are dead, who is this guy even shooting at?”

  “Could be a poacher shooting, maybe, or a hunter. We get a lot of those up here.” The words came from Longtin, but the gravel had left his voice. He sounded like a child speaking.

  Vela’s brow furrowed. He knelt in front of the man. “Who is on the mark?”

  Longtin didn’t reply, only stared at him with watery eyes.

  Sammy returned with a thick quilt. “It’s got to be one of Garrison’s people,” he said. He helped Gimble tear the corners and secure the blanket by tying the ends to a beam above the window. “Why else would he still be shooting? We’re in here. That means he’s targeting Kepler, not us.”

  “Kepler didn’t sound too concerned.”

  “If it was one of Garrison’s, he’d respond on the comm, compromised or not,” Gimble said, lifting up the bottom of the quilt so she could see outside. “Who else would be targeting Kepler?”

  None of them had an answer.

  “I think I see Kepler,” Gimble said. “Northwest corner. Look across the lawn about five feet to the left of the picnic table.”

  Sammy followed her gaze through the rain and swooping branches. “He’s just standing out there.”

  Gimble checked the magazine on her MP5—six shots left, but she had the spares. “He might be trying to draw fire. He’s about two hundred yards out. That’s the edge of the effective range for these weapons.”

  “We don’t know where the sister is. Maybe he’s just a distraction.”

  Gimble snapped the lock on the window and raised it several inches, just enough to get the muzzle out. She lined up the shot—Kepler ducked to the left and disappeared behind the trees. “Shit.”

  “I think he’s circling around,” Sammy said.

  Gimble looked down at the gun in her hands. “Have you used one of these before?”

  “Not since training at Quantico.”

  “There’s not much to it.” She pressed a button and released the magazine into her palm. “To reload, you drop your expended magazine, pull back the charging handle like this, slap in a new magazine, then slide the charging handle forward again. Done. This switch on the side is your new best friend—safety is on in this position, this is auto, this is full-auto. Point and shoot. Understood?”

  Sammy had never looked so uncomfortable.

  “You’ll be okay.” She nodded toward the extra MP5 on the table. “Take that one, and one of the spare magazines too, then find a window on the other side of the house. Cover it like this one if there’s nothing on it. Don’t waste ammunition. Only take a shot if it’s clean. All we need to do is hold him off until our backup gets here. No heroics, Sammy. We just want him to know we have guns on him if he tries to approach.”

  Sammy swallowed, then awkwardly picked up the extra gun and magazine and disappeared down the narrow hallway into the bedroom.

  “Fifteen minutes, by my count,” Kepler said over the comm. “How’s our boy doing? I imagine he’s not much help under pressure.”

  Gimble glanced over at Longtin. His breathing seemed shallow.

  Kepler said, “Can you ask him a question for me? Ask him how much propane he’s got in the tank for the generator. Looks like it holds at least two hundred and fifty gallons.”

  Another shot rang out. Not the rifle this time. From the sound, Gimble knew it came from one of the MP5s.

  “I think I can hit it from here. I missed it by only a few feet with that one. I wonder if it would go up like they do in the movies. Some kind of big fireball. That would be cool, wouldn’t it? Save me the trouble of getting in that cabin. No need for Longtin to come outside in this nasty weather. Seems like a win-win for everyone.”

  Another shot. This one dug into the side of the cabin with a deep thump.

  Longtin twitched, began to hyperventilate, his gaze blank.

  Vela knelt at the man’s side and snapped his fingers about an inch in front of Longtin’s face. “Jeffery, can you hear me?”

  “I’m fine,” he answered. He didn’t look fine, though; not at all. His pupils were dilated, and he wasn’t blinking. His skin had taken on a damp, feverish pallor.

  Vela placed a hand under the man’s shoulder and helped him to his feet. “Let’s splash some water on your face.” He led him to the small bathroom and sat him down on the edge of the bathtub. “Take deep breaths, Jeff. Hold it for a count of three, then let it out. Think you can do that?”

  Longtin nodded and drew in a breath.

  “Good. That’s good.”

  Some of the color returned to Longtin’s face.

  Gimble shouted to Sammy from the other room, something about spotting Kepler a hundred feet over from where she’d seen him last. Vela closed the bathroom door, sealing out their voices, and knelt on the floor in front of Longtin. “You were very helpful before, Jeff. Those things you told us. I’m sure that wasn’t easy for you.”

  “He’s going to kill me, isn’t he?”

  Vela forced a smile and shook his head. “That woman out there, Special Agent Gimble, she’s one of the best I’ve ever worked with. She won’t let him near you. He won’t get in this house.”

  “I’m glad he’s dead,” Longtin said softly. “Doc Fitzgerald. He was a bad man.”

  “Those things you told us about how he studied you and your illness, how he wanted to re-create it—have you ever told anyone else that?”

  Longtin’s eyes had gone blank again, his gaze fixed on the floor.

  Vela snapped his fingers. “Jeffery?”

  “Only the girl, when she came to see me.”

  Vela frowned. “What girl? When was this?”

  “She said Doc Fitzgerald would be very angry with me if he knew, but she said she wouldn’t tell. She said it was a secret.”

  Longtin’s voice had shifted again, gone back to a childlike tone. He looked up at Vela and smiled. “She said it was our secret.”

  “What was her name?”

  Longtin’s brow wrinkled as he tried to remember. “She had a silly name. It was a boy’s name.”

  “Nick? Was it Nicki? Nicole?”

  Longtin didn’t reply. He looked back at the floor.

  “Did you tell anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Even though it probably felt good to tell, you never told anyone else?”

  Longtin shook his head.

  “That’s good, Jeff. That’s really good.” Vela reached into his jacket poc
ket and took out a hypodermic syringe and a small glass vial. “I’m going to give you something to help you relax. It will calm your nerves.”

  At the sight of the needle, Longtin shrank back against the tile wall. “I don’t take meds, not anymore. I feel much better since I stopped. I don’t need them.”

  Vela plunged the needle into the vial, drew up five milliliters, then snapped his finger against the tip to remove any air bubbles. “You look awfully stressed. This will help.”

  With years of skill and practice behind him, Vela moved quickly. The needle was in Longtin’s neck, the plunger depressed, and the needle out again before the man could object.

  Longtin pressed his hand against the tiny wound. “What is it?”

  Vela placed the syringe and vial back in his pocket. “Potassium chloride. It will stop your heart, Jeffery. In a moment, you’ll find peace.” He smiled down at him. “Dr. Fitzgerald’s work is so important, so close to conclusion. We’ll always be grateful for your participation. I want you to know that.”

  Longtin’s body spasmed. He fell off the edge of the bathtub. His right leg shot out and kicked at the wall.

  Vela took a step back, removed the satellite phone from his pocket, and typed out a quick text:

  Longtin dead. Call off your dog.

  He pressed Send, returned the phone to his pocket, and opened the bathroom door. “I think he’s having a heart attack! We need an ambulance!”

  Sammy was yelling too—something about a girl covered in blood.

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Gimble

  Gimble looked over from her position at the window only long enough to make eye contact with Vela in the hallway behind her. “Can you help him?”

  Vela shook his head. “I tried CPR, but without the proper equipment and medication, there’s nothing I can do…could do…he’s gone.”