Only in the darkness could I allow myself to think of home and Drake and Elsa and Ron and how much I missed having a dog. It had been two long months without our old retriever and the ache still would not leave my heart. Tears leaked out and ran down the sides of my face but I refused to sniffle, knowing that Ollie was over there, awake and listening to me. I rolled to my side and dabbed at my cheeks with the old woman’s robe.
I swore there was no way I would fall asleep; I’d spent way too much inactive time these past two days. At some point, though, I guess I did because when String burst back into the room it shocked me awake.
Flashlight beams sliced the air, waving in crazy patterns and bouncing off the walls.
“Get everybody up!” String ordered, smacking Ollie in the shoulder.
I wasn’t sure if my guard had drifted off or not, but he sure bounded out of the chair now. I drew the old robe tighter around me, watchful of String’s erratic movements. He ducked back into the bedroom and came out with his pillowcase of cash, sticking his pistol into the waistband of his pants.
Mole led the procession down the stairs. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded.
The two younger guys kept their mouths shut.
“We’re getting out of here. I got a bad feeling.”
Mole looked impatient and grumpy from being awakened, and I half expected a fight between them. But he acquiesced.
“Get your shit together,” String told them. “Five minutes!”
I tossed the robe aside and sat up.
“Cut the tape. She’s gonna have to walk.”
Ollie dug for a pocket knife and freed my legs.
Minutes later we were jammed into Melinda’s little car again, String and Mole up front, me in the center of the back seat between the other two. I stared at the dashboard clock—1:13 a.m.—as the car sped off into the dark.
Chapter 17
Ron pointed at his computer screen. “I did searches around Alamosa for the names Stringer and Mohler. No hits on the latter, but there have been Stringers there for a long time. Lots of potatoes grown in that valley and I’m betting that’s what Stringer Farms does.”
“Some farmer organized a bank robbery and kidnapping?”
“Probably not. But you know, a guy on the run will often head for the parents, the cousins . . . somebody related. He already headed for his girlfriend’s place yesterday and look where that got her.”
“You think Kingston and Gonzales’s guys know this yet?”
“Possibly. Or they’re getting close. It only took me a little time.”
“Call them?”
“Let’s go back over there. See what else they may have come up with.”
They walked into a squad room filled with guys in Kevlar vests with automatic weapons.
“We thought about waiting for another ransom call,” said Kingston, half apologetically, “but that’s probably not coming until Monday. I’m worried that twenty-four hours gives them too much time. They could do anything.”
Thank goodness. Drake let the relief rush through him.
“How many are going in?” Ron asked.
Drake counted eight men suited up in SWAT gear. “I’ll fly a team up.”
Kingston opened his mouth in protest.
“State Police have an AStar, six guys plus pilot, maybe only four with all that gear. You’ll need two ships. I’m going to be one of them.” He stared at Kingston. “These guys aren’t suiting up just to stay here. You’re not planning on sending them up there in vans, are you?”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Ron said. “Are you seriously thinking of going in there with guns blazing? My sister is trapped with these guys.”
“We’re just getting ready. Stringer and his bunch won’t be expecting any action until it’s time for the ransom pickup. They don’t have any clue that we know where they are. I had Chief Harris at Alamosa PD arrange for a fly-by with a crop duster, some kind of inconspicuous airplane, just before sunset. They confirmed two vehicles behind the farmhouse that belonged to Lonnie Stringer’s grandmother. She died a few years back and the place has been sitting empty. It’s got to be where they are.”
Drake and Ron exchanged a glance.
“But still,” Ron said. “All these guys in black outfits are going to spook them.”
“We don’t plan to get within sight. Just keep an eye on the place at a distance. The armed men will be set up, once the ransom location is known, ready to take down the gang and get Ms Parker back.”
“How soon do we leave?” Drake asked.
Kingston sighed heavily. “There is no we, Drake. I can’t—”
“You damn sure better include me!”
“I was about to say, I can’t risk your life. However, I can use your help in getting the team up there. As long as you do exactly what I say and do not go off on your own . . .”
“What’s our ETD?”
“An hour. Can you be ready?”
“Tell me where.”
With clearance to land on the roof when they returned, Drake and Ron rushed down to the garage and then headed out to Double Eagle Airport to preflight the aircraft. Fifty-one minutes later they touched down on the brightly lit helipad. Ron climbed out and three black-clad men plus Kingston took seats in the JetRanger.
Drake pulled pitch and the loaded aircraft rose above the city lights. He radioed Albuquerque Center before following a bearing northward. His lighted wristwatch showed 11:58 p.m. when they touched down at Alamosa’s small airport. The facility was closed for the night but Drake placed a call to the FBO and requested refueling. The voice on duty grumbled a bit but said he could accommodate them at five a.m.
When Drake protested, he got, “Look buddy, we’re a dawn to dark operation. I got nobody I can send out until then. Four-thirty at the earliest.”
Drake relayed the information to Kingston but the agent was surprisingly not upset.
“We’re not flying within five miles of that farmhouse in the middle of the night,” he said. “They’d hear us for sure. And they might do something desperate.” Harm Charlie. That’s what the agent’s pointed look meant.
Kingston pulled out a detailed aerial photo map. “I’m sending out teams of three. Here, here, and there.” He pointed to each end of the road that led past the farmhouse and a spot at the end of a long narrow lane leading up to the place. “First, though, I’m getting Harris and his men out here. We’ll do a joint briefing.”
While the agent turned away to make his calls, Drake checked his helicopter and then called Ron in Albuquerque to bring him up to speed.
Fifteen minutes later, two police SUVs and two unmarked, ordinary sedans drove up. Kingston, Drake and the eight SWAT team members met them outside the airport turnstile.
Chief Harris surprised Drake. He’d expected a pudgy hometown guy with political connections, the type who fell into the job and kept it forever. Harris was a hundred-eighty pounds of solid muscle, ramrod straight spine, shoulders that packed his windbreaker; he looked like he’d just finished a tour of duty driving tanks over terrorists somewhere in the Middle East. Even Kingston sucked his gut in and stood a little straighter when the lawman approached.
Harris shook hands all around and introduced the driver of the other cruiser as his second in command, Sergeant Rick Hodgkins. The other two officers waited beside the cars. “Glad to help,” he said when Kingston thanked him for being there. “Lonnie Stringer was trouble from the time we were kids. Used to spend some time here in the summers. Elvira tried her best with him, took him to church, had him work the farm right along with the other hands. None of it helped. He’d sneak into town and find the bars, get the men to give him beers. Some of them thought it was cute to see a ten-year-old guzzling booze. Even when he wasn’t drunk, Lonnie would pick fights with the rest of us. Like he was tougher or better because he came from the city. Some guys would take him on, most just stayed clear. Of course I haven’t seen him in more than twenty years. No telling what he’s like now.�
��
“He hasn’t straightened up,” Kingston said.
He unfurled the map again. “Okay, men. Let’s get busy.” Pointing at the locations he’d shown Drake he quickly dispatched three of his team with Hodgkins to a spot two miles west of the turnoff to the Stringer place. Harris would drop two men at the driveway itself where they would stay low and concealed. Then the Chief would take the other three to wait at the east end of the farm road, where it met the main highway. They would use the unmarked cars, trying not to spook the robbers if they were to hit the road.
“There’s no other way to get a vehicle away from that house, so if they make a move we’ll get them.”
Drake cleared his throat.
“Right.” Kingston turned somber. “Remember, they have a female hostage. So far we have reason to believe that they are treating her all right—they want a ransom for her. But . . . well, just be very cautious with these guys. They’ve killed two women already.”
Harris nodded. “It’s a little after one o’clock. Let’s get in place.”
Drake watched the men load their gear into the two cars and climb in. He felt utterly useless as they drove off into the black night.
“Now what?” he asked Kingston.
The agent picked up the briefcase he’d brought along. “We set up a command post.” He began walking toward the cruisers. “Harris has given us full access to his department.”
Drake fought drowsiness during the ride into the center of town. He couldn’t remember when he’d actually slept. Last night he’d dozed for awhile in Charlie’s office, but the past twenty-four hours were becoming a blur. How did Kingston do this all the time?
“Sir?”
Drake realized that the young officer who’d driven them was speaking to him. The SUV had come to a stop outside a neat brick building.
“If you’re tired, sir, there’s a small lounge inside with a couch.”
“Do it, Drake,” Kingston said. “We’ll do a fly-by at daybreak. I’ll need you alert.”
The prospect of action buoyed him, but he found that he had no trouble drifting off to sleep within minutes after stretching out on the sofa.
He woke to the clatter of porcelain. The officer they’d ridden with last night was on the far side of the small room, setting up a coffee maker and mugs.
“Sorry it wasn’t a very long rest for you, sir.”
“Is Kingston getting ready?”
Drake glanced at his watch and saw that it was after four.
“Yes, sir, he’s in the squad room.”
Drake eyed the coffee maker.
“I’ll bring you both a cup when it’s ready.”
“Thanks.” Drake stood up and stretched out the kinks in his limbs. He located the men’s room and washed his face, running fingers through his hair.
Kingston stood near a window, staring down at the street one floor below, his gray hair neatly combed and his clothing relatively unrumpled. Golden street lamps softened the darkness outside. The quiet street showed no movement, but this was a farming community—people would begin their day soon.
“Figured you might want these to go,” the young police officer said, raising a pair of lidded foam cups.
Kingston and Drake accepted the wake-up juice gladly. After a few sips, Drake began to feel antsy to get moving.
“I was on the phone with the men on stakeout throughout the night,” Kingston told him. “No traffic at all.”
“Are they planning to raid the house?” Drake asked.
“No. We’ll just keep an eye on the place from a distance. Don’t want to spook anyone. It’s Sunday, and I’m guessing the robbers will lie low today, place another ransom call tomorrow.” He pulled a cell phone from an inner pocket of his jacket and held it up. “The clone of Stein’s cell. Darn thing rings constantly but Mitch rigged it up for me so I can forward his legitimate calls with one button.”
He drained his coffee cup and headed toward the lounge for more. “Meanwhile,” he said over his shoulder, “I want to do a recon with your aircraft. Take a look from a distance.”
Drake was glad for something to do. The waiting game felt interminable. Fifteen minutes later, in a borrowed staff car, they arrived back at the airport, just in time to watch a mechanic open the doors.
“Boss said you need fuel this morning?”
“Yeah.” Drake did a few quick calculations on weight, altitude and distance and told him how much to add.
They were airborne twenty minutes later, watching the sky turn from slate to pale gray. Beside him, Kingston adjusted his headset and began to dig into his briefcase. He pulled out an impressive pair of binoculars.
“High power, stabilized. If we approach on the downwind side we should be able to get a look from a half-mile away without them ever knowing we were there.”
Drake checked his wind indicator and made a small course correction. Below, neat square fields filled most of the valley, which was rimmed by high peaks. To the east the sun was beginning to hit the tops of a bunch of the 14-ers, many of which still had snow at their crests. He climbed to a thousand feet above ground level, both to get the lay of the land and to mask their sound.
It only took a couple of minutes for him to spot the layout from the aerial map they’d viewed last night—the highway that ran almost due south into New Mexico, the turnoff where Kingston’s men were posted. Their plain sedan sat near the intersection and he could barely make out the shape of the plain-clothed officer who stood at ease beside it. The SWAT men were undoubtedly nearby, hidden well enough that they wouldn’t alert anyone who drove by.
“That’s the Stringer property,” Kingston said over the intercom. He pointed out the dirt lane leading to the two-story farmhouse. Even at this distance it looked forlorn.
“I’ll stay to the east,” Drake said. Prevailing wind came from the west. “Tell me if I need to get closer.”
Kingston raised the binoculars to his eyes and took a moment to find the house. “You’re okay. Slow the airspeed a bit, if you can. I want a good long look.”
Drake complied but kept his forward momentum. A helicopter hovering over one spot would be just as conspicuous as one buzzing over the rooftop. He kept the farmhouse in view, studiously observing a safe distance.
“Uhhh-ohhh.” Kingston drawled the word out too long and Drake turned to look at him.
“What?”
“I’m only seeing one vehicle behind the house. Our intel yesterday said there were two, Melinda Davies’s silver Toyota and Stringer’s old white Pontiac. I’m only seeing the Pontiac.”
“What does that mean?” Drake had a sickening feeling he knew the answer.
Kingston had his radio out and began barking questions to the units on the ground. Over the rotor noise and his own headset Drake couldn’t make out their answers. He concentrated on his instruments.
“You sure?” Kingston said clearly. “Okay. I want unit two to approach the house. Come across the western edge of the field until you come to that row of windbreak trees, the pines. Skirt those and get in close. Report if you see any signs of occupation.”
More static buzzing over the radio.
“We need to move off to the side but stay nearby,” the agent told Drake.
Drake concentrated on making a wide circle away from the farmhouse, although everything in his gut told him to head straight there and land on the property.
Fifteen long minutes went by.
He’d cruised the better part of the town by now.
Ten more minutes. They were just about back where they’d been when Kingston’s binoculars revealed the absence of the sedan.
The two-way erupted in static again. Drake strained to hear what they were saying.
Chapter 18
“Just tell me where we’re going, String. I can find the place.” Mole sounded impatient with the whole dead-of-night relocation.
I couldn’t say that I didn’t feel the same. What had possessed String to make the sudden move? At te
n o’clock I would have sworn he’d had enough whiskey to keep him out for hours. Now here we were, at two o’clock in the morning on some pitch-black Colorado road.
“Shut up! I’ll let you know.” String’s voice sounded ragged and desperate.
I slid my gaze toward Billy, who appeared just about as freaked as I. Ollie, to my left, looked like a kid who must have done this before. I pictured him maybe with deadbeat parents who skipped out a jump ahead of the landlord/repo man/loan shark—whatever the occasion demanded. He’d nestled into his corner of the car, watching String through half-lidded eyes, the kind of teenager who would spring like a jumpy cat the second things went wrong.
“Take a left, next junction,” String said. He lowered his visor and stared at his face in the vanity mirror, running a hand over the heavy stubble. Then he caught me looking at him.
“Blindfold her.” The venomous tone made everyone pay attention.
Billy froze for a second.
“Now!”
Billy rummaged around, coming up with a scarf of some kind that Melinda must have left on the little shelf behind the back seats. I didn’t have much choice but to let him tie it around my face. I’d noted enough signs to know that we were headed west but the left turn Mole took just before my vision disappeared would put us southbound again, back toward New Mexico.
“Sorry,” Billy whispered.
“It’s okay. I’m sleepy anyway.” Actually, not. My nerve endings had never felt quite so raw. Almost made me wish I really had swallowed the sleeping pill.
I edged down in my seat and pretended to sleep, hoping to pick up clues as they talked. But conversation lagged after just a few minutes and no further directions seemed to be forthcoming, so I found a semi-comfortable position with my chin dropping toward my chest and eventually dozed a bit to the hum of the car and rush of tires against the road.
Voices intruded into my consciousness, little scraps of conversation, and I snapped awake, realizing with horror that I’d leaned over and was resting my head on Ollie’s shoulder.
Stardom Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #12 Page 11