Ricky sometimes talked about his mom. He missed her a lot the year after she died. He had resented Uncle Jimmy and the restrictions placed on him and the low-lying sense of fear that permeated the house. With Joe, Ricky had never been afraid. He could push everything out of his mind and just be.
He realized last night as he lay awake until dawn that the reason he’d decided to help Reverend Browne with the vandalism was because he was angry at Joe for dying, angry at Adam for wanting to change the place, and he desperately wanted someone to talk to. Reverend Browne was a man of God! He had buried Ricky’s mother, and he’d been kind. And when Joe had died, he’d listened to Ricky.
But after what he’d seen at the church last night, Ricky knew that Reverend Browne wasn’t his friend. The so-called holy man had used Ricky, and worse, he was working with the monster.
Ricky hated Aunt Bobbie so deeply that it scared him. He didn’t like the rage and hatred buried deep inside. He’d had these disturbing feelings after his dad went to prison, after his mom died, after he found out Bobbie stole the money his dad had hidden away for his mom’s cancer treatments. Joe taught him to let it go. To use it productively. To study hard and get good grades. To run off the negative energy. Ricky skied in the winter and ran in the summer, because sometimes the only way he could sleep and not remember the pain was if he was exhausted.
When Joe died, Ricky got angry again. In the isolation at the cabin, he realized that the reverend had used his anger, turning it against Adam and Tim.
Ricky sat at the top of Bear Rock and stared at the sinking sun. It had been a warm day, but now the air turned chilly. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the small gun that Jon Callahan had given him last night for protection, but Ricky had never shot anyone. Could he kill a human being? He didn’t know. Except, Aunt Bobbie wasn’t human. She was a monster, through and through.
The sky was so clear, he already saw a few of the brightest stars shining from the heavens. Guilt and grief overwhelmed him, and he prayed that Adam could forgive him. He hoped Joe was up there and understood that Ricky didn’t mean to hurt anyone.
A doe and her fawn walked by only twenty yards away, heading away from the clearing and toward the safety of the woods. Suddenly they froze, their ears at attention. Then Ricky heard what they did, a motor, far in the distance, but coming closer. The deer bolted into the trees, and Ricky almost followed, until he recognized the motor as belonging to an ATV.
He turned and saw the quad emerge from the woods and stop at the base of Bear Rock. Ricky remained alert, staying low on the rock, his hand wrapped around Jon’s pistol. The engine cut out and the rider took off his helmet. It was Adam Hendrickson. He waved. Ricky didn’t wave back.
He watched as Adam climbed Bear Rock. He slipped a few times, and Ricky scowled. They’d come here many times and Adam used to be so sure-footed. Now he was a soft city boy.
Ricky didn’t budge when Adam sat down next to him.
“Leave me alone,” Ricky said. He averted his face so Adam couldn’t see that he’d been crying.
“Sean Rogan seems to think you and I need to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Talking to you isn’t my idea of fun, either. Why did you do it? My dad liked you. He took you fishing and horseback riding, even when I wasn’t around.”
Saying nothing. Ricky stared at the horizon and wished he could disappear as easily as the sun.
“Listen, Ricky, there’s a lot of stuff happening right now, and I’m willing to put this crap aside.”
“Why? Go ahead, call the cops, have them arrest me.”
“We’re not turning you in.”
“I wish you would.” He meant it.
“You want your life to be over? For me to just send you off to juvie and be done with you? Do you think that’s what my dad would have wanted me to do?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t—” He stopped. There was no excuse for what he’d done. He could have said no. He whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. Dad liked fishing with you, even when I wasn’t here. I’m glad he had you around. I’m a little jealous that you knew him so well, and I only got him two months out of the year. But life isn’t fair. Frankly, it sucks sometimes.”
Ricky grinned, then masked it. Adam smiled. “It really does. But from now on, you’re part of my family. That’s what my dad would have wanted. And it’s what I want.” He paused. “I’m sorry about your uncle.”
Ricky coughed to hide his sudden emotion. “Thanks.”
“I need to call Sean and tell him I found you. Trust us, okay? Sean’s going to keep you safe, but you have to listen to him.”
“I didn’t know Aunt Bobbie was in town. My father always hated her, but I never knew why. When he went to jail she came to see my mother. She—” He stopped. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t want to think about it anymore.
“Sean went to visit your father today. And we found out that Bobbie Swain had my dad killed.”
Ricky shook his head. “It was a heart attack.”
“He was poisoned. There was no autopsy because Doc Griffin signed off that he had heart trouble. I didn’t know he hadn’t. I should have been here. I could have saved him. Or at least known about his medical condition so that I’d known enough to demand an autopsy.”
“Bobbie would have killed you, too, Adam,” Ricky said. He stared at the glowing horizon. “She knew my mom had cancer and was going through chemotherapy. But with dad in jail and everything we owned seized by the government, we had nothing. Dad never had insurance because he had plenty of money selling drugs to pay for Mom’s treatment. And she was getting better.
“Bobbie said she would pay for everything, Mom’s treatment, our house, anything we needed. I thought she was an angel. And Mom told her no, said she was a monster.”
Now the tears came and he couldn’t stop them.
“Bobbie was furious. I thought she was going to hit Mom, so I stood between them. I would have killed her if she’d touched my mom, and I wouldn’t have felt guilty.”
“I would have done the same thing.”
Emboldened, Ricky finished. “Bobbie said Mom would be dead within the year and I would be living with her in New York. Her exact words: ‘I’ll teach Rick the Swain family business like his father never had the balls to do.’ I didn’t realize until after she left that she’d stolen two hundred thousand dollars that my dad had hidden to take care of my mom.”
He turned his head, hating the tears of rage that ate him up inside. Against his father for sheltering him so much that he didn’t know what to do when threatened.
“How old were you?”
“Eleven. Mom died nearly a year later. We couldn’t afford anything. Even my mom’s inheritance from her parents—it wasn’t big, but it would have paid for another round of chemo—the fucking FBI took it. After my mom … died … and my uncle Jimmy was my guardian. And for a while, it was okay.
“But after Joe died,” he glanced at Adam, “Reverend Browne said I could hang out with him. I didn’t know what he had planned. He’s the one who wanted me to sabotage your place.”
“Why did you run from Sean yesterday?”
“I didn’t know why he would help me. Usually when someone offers to help you, they want to use you. But after I saw the reverend with Bobbie at the church, I was scared.”
“So you went into hiding.”
“I went to see Jon Callahan. My mom told me in an emergency I could go to Jon and he would help. But even Jon has changed.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to hide out at the Fosters’ place and not leave until he came for me on Sunday. But I had to get out for a while.”
“That’s a good place to hide out. I’m going to let Sean and Tim know that I found you and we’ll hang together until all this shit goes down. I don’t want to be in the middle of it.”
Neither did Ricky.
The Kelley Mi
ne’s field office was built up against the hillside, and though boarded up and abandoned for decades, it had been shielded from the worst of the weather and remained standing. It would be a good place to hide out—in fact, it looked like a good place for teenagers to party. Tim noted that some of the boards had been replaced within the last year or two, being far less weathered than others. But he didn’t find any sign of Ricky here.
He approached the building cautiously, though he heard nothing except bird calls and the scurrying of rodents. He tried the boards. Most were firmly in place, but a few were loose, and he noticed one that appeared nailed in was actually on a hook.
His phone vibrated. He glanced down, and read a message sent simultaneously to him and Sean from Adam that he’d found Ricky and they were going to lay low at the Fosters’.
Tim responded that he’d meet them there, then pocketed the phone and assessed the building.
He carefully removed the large board, revealing a brand-new door with a padlock. Who would go to this trouble? There were plenty of abandoned buildings and houses in Spruce Lake. Why use this relatively insecure location?
He couldn’t break the lock, so he tried the other boards. The plywood blocking the windows of the locked room had been nailed from the inside, so he couldn’t get to those.
On the far side, where the building abutted the hillside, a two-by-four over one of the windows looked different than the others. Tim got out his Swiss Army knife and pried out the nails. He wouldn’t be able to fit in through the opening, but he could see what was inside.
Tim shined his flashlight inside and his stomach turned sour.
An open box of C-4 explosives sat on the floor in front of him. It looked as though four bricks were missing. Enough to take out a building or three.
He surveyed the small room. There was a recent calendar on the far wall, a small metal desk and chair, and some boxes of wires and other electrical supplies.
The sound of a vehicle on the gravel road startled Tim. He propped the wood back up and skirted around the edge of the building to see who was coming. He heard but didn’t see the car. He glanced at his truck, visible from the long drive. No sense in hiding. He bolted to his truck and reached the driver’s side just as a big black F-350 came into view.
Two men with guns aimed at Tim jumped out of the slowing truck. He recognized them but didn’t remember their names. The driver stopped and opened his door. Tim knew Gary Clarke from the Lock & Barrel.
“Tim Hendrickson, right?” Gary said.
“Hello, Gary.”
“Funny thing is, we were looking for you.”
“Funny thing that you found me here.”
“Not really. We followed you from your place. I need Sean Rogan, but he wasn’t there.”
“I’ll give you his number.”
“Naw, you’re going to tell him to meet you at your house. He’s stirred up a bunch of shit, and I need to sit on him for a while, make sure he doesn’t get himself hurt.”
Gary motioned to one of the guys to grab Tim. Tim bolted, but hadn’t gotten far when Gary shot him in the leg. He went down fast, vision blurred, hot bolts of pain shooting up his left leg. He grabbed his thigh. The bullet had gone in right above his knee.
One of the guys searched him, taking his knife, flashlight, and cell phone. He tossed the phone to Gary. “I’ll just send Mr. Sean Rogan a little message that you’ll meet him at the house in an hour.” He looked at the phone, then started to laugh. “Shit, this is even better! I’m going to get a fucking gold star. We’ve been looking for that brat everywhere.”
He grinned and said as he typed, “What time should we meet?” A minute later he hollered and jumped in the air. “We’ve just redeemed ourselves, boys. I know where Rogan will be in an hour. We’re going to get there first.”
He pocketed Tim’s phone and took his car keys. He tossed the keys to one of his partners. “Follow me.” Gary glanced at Tim. Tim flipped him off.
“With that bum leg, I figure it’ll take you a day or two to get back to your place, if you survive the night. Good luck.”
They left.
The sun was nearly gone and the temperature would plummet. He glanced at the mine entrance, then at the outbuilding. The latter was closer, so he dragged himself over there.
He’d have to pry off another board or two to get inside, but he liked his chances of survival better in the building full of explosives than in the cold, deadly mine.
THIRTY-THREE
The sun was a thin line on the horizon by the time Noah flew Sean’s Cessna over the greater Spruce Lake area.
Lucy had the Argus thermal imaging camera in her hands. “Is this going to work?” she asked. She was familiar with the imaging technology, but didn’t think a handheld device had the range that surveillance aircraft did.
“It’s top of the line,” Noah said.
Lucy smiled. “Sean likes his toys.”
“The weather is perfect and the plane is in good shape,” Noah said, “but this is still a risky maneuver.”
“I don’t understand. Because of the trees? Or that it’s getting dark? Do we have to fly too low?”
Noah glanced at her. “You didn’t seem like a nervous flyer this morning.”
“I’m not, usually.” She wouldn’t admit to it, at any rate. She didn’t consider herself phobic about flying. She was just having a touch of nerves when they flew low over rolling mountains with trees suddenly popping up here and there while she looked for a barn full of cannabis through a thermal imaging camera.
“The terrain is not my primary concern. I’ve flown under far worse conditions. I’m more concerned about ground security. We may draw unwanted attention.” He checked his gauges and slowly descended as they approached the town boundaries. “I don’t think Sean realizes this is like finding a needle in a haystack.”
They’d discussed strategy during the flight. Noah mapped the coordinates surrounding the greater Spruce Lake area and planned to fly in a circular pattern while Lucy monitored the thermal imaging camera. Barns or warehouses that might be growing marijuana would be easily spotted because of the extensive light needed to grow the crops indoors, which generated plenty of heat.
“Why didn’t ATF inform the local FBI? That’s protocol,” Lucy said.
“Because they do whatever they damn well please.” Noah shot her a glance. “A lot like your boyfriend.”
“Is this going to be pick-on-Sean day?”
Noah grinned. “That might be fun.”
Noah’s phone rang. He glanced down at the center console. “It’s Stockton. Answer it. I’m going to stay at this altitude so we don’t lose him.”
“Sean has a built-in cellular thingy,” Lucy said, feeling stupid that she didn’t remember the technical name.
Noah laughed, for the second time that day. “Why am I not surprised?”
Lucy answered the phone. “Lucy Kincaid.”
“Hello, Lucy. Rick Stockton.”
“Noah is flying. I’m putting you on speaker.”
“Where are you now?” Stockton asked.
Noah said, “We’re fifteen miles from the town proper. I’m beginning a circular rotation, starting wide. Lucy has the Argus. We’re at the upper range of this unit’s capabilities, but I still have visibility for the next forty minutes and can lower altitude if we see a potential hot spot.”
“Good. I spoke to the ATF operations director in Brooklyn. Took me nearly two hours to reach him—I could have flown to New York and met him in person faster. He bullshitted me for the requisite ten minutes while trying to figure out what we knew, so I pulled my ace out of the hole and informed him that his operative shot at a federal agent who was on vacation and if he didn’t give me everything he had, I’d make his life a nightmare.”
“It worked?”
“As planned. But it’s not good news. They have one deep undercover agent in Spruce Lake. Omar Lewis, going by the alias Omar Jackson. He’s been in deep cover for thirteen months
.”
“That long?”
“A civilian contacted the DEA in January of last year regarding what he believed was an extensive marijuana farm. DEA was going to go in but ATF caught wind of the report and asked for leadership on it because one of the names in the file, Gary Clarke, was a known gunrunner with ties to the notorious Sampson Lowell. DEA stepped aside and ATF went in.”
“Thirteen months is a long time.”
“Yes, and there is no backup. Lewis reports weekly, and last asked that a team be ready within one hour on his call. Brooklyn has a team in Syracuse, which is two hours away. They informed Lewis, but he hasn’t responded that he got the message. They’re moving the team to Canton, but Lewis has yet to call them in.”
“Anything else?”
“He’s sending the files via courier, refuses to fax them. I swear, he’s the most paranoid agent I’ve spoken with.”
“Sir,” Lucy said, “do you have a description of Agent Lewis?”
“Of course.” The sound of flipping papers. “Thirty-nine, fourteen-year veteran of ATF. African-American—wait, I should say Jamaican-American. He was born there, came to the U.S. when he was three. Wears his hair very short or shaved, five foot ten, one hundred seventy pounds.”
“The cook.”
“You know him?” Stockton said.
“Omar is the cook at the Lock & Barrel. Sean and I saw him Thursday night. He stood out because he was the only black man we’d seen in town. No one paid him any attention, though. Reverse psychology—stand out so they don’t think you’re a cop.”
“It worked. According to his boss, he’s in with the number-two bad guy. But these past couple weeks, information has dried up. Lewis thinks there’s a new player, but everyone’s tight-lipped, so he didn’t call in the cavalry yet.”
“Did he report shooting at two civilians?” Noah asked.
“He didn’t know, but isn’t going to let his man get hung out to dry so refused to comment.”
If I Should Die Page 24