“You don’t know who Angela Woodward is?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of her.”
“Eight months after this article appeared, she got married to an up-and-coming politician from an old Louisiana family and became Angela Roseau.”
“The Secretary of State?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Small world.”
Cohen nodded. Her eyes darted in the direction of her open door then back to Simmons. She leaned toward him and spoke in a hushed tone.
“Spike, I checked the dates. According to the article, Mahler would have proposed on August 28, all those years ago.”
“So?”
“That’s the exact date he was killed.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve heard the expression, haven’t you?” Cohen raised her hands to the sides of her head and curled her fingers to form quotation marks. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
Simmons stood up abruptly.
“Now you’re really clutching at straws, Sarah. First you try to suggest that that dam in Canada was deliberately busted up, and now you’re taking the most tenuous connection and trying to implicate the Secretary of State in Mahler’s murder?”
“I’m just trying to—”
“Come up with something better than that before the director calls for me again.”
Simmons stomped out the door and banged it shut behind him.
Chapter 30
Towing a fishing boat, the red pickup cut through the low, early morning mist much faster than the posted speed limit.
It was a Saturday morning. Few vehicles were on the road, and the driver probably knew this route, with all its twists and turns, like the back of his hand. Driving like a man should, Williams thought, as he followed at a distance, maintaining the same pace.
This gig had been turning out much better than he’d expected it would when his cousin, Young, had introduced him to Quinn.
Since being kicked out of the Army, he’d been drifting, drinking, and getting into trouble with no clue as to what to do with himself. Except for those delicious few months with that illegal French chamber maid, Monique, it just seemed like his life was on an inevitable spiral downward. He’d been half expecting to soon end up dead or in jail, and wouldn’t have been surprised if his undoing came from a brawl over some piffling matter like returning from the john and noticing someone had taken his bar stool.
Now, tagging along with his cousin and Quinn, things were looking up. The last thirteen days had been almost like a holiday. Just rolling around through some nice country, trailing some redneck to work, way up in the bush, following him back home, or when he went fishing, or to the casino.
That Quinn was a real ass sometimes, but he had a head for business, Williams conceded. Quinn had convinced some high-up fool with more money than sense to pay them to hang out like this. They had two motel rooms, and there was plenty of time to enjoy some strong Canadian beer, and some real willing ladies, too. Life was good.
They had one more week of this. Then they’d split up until Quinn called if he needed them for a new job, Young had said. Williams thought he sure as hell would sign up again with Quinn, even if the guy was a jerk, big-time.
The pickup turned off onto a smaller road. The sign read “Seldom Seen Road,” and it coursed though a dense conifer forest. Ten minutes in, the Dodge pulled into the driveway of a large sectional mobile home that would have seen better days, maybe a century ago, Williams thought.
He continued past the trailer, then turned around and parked on the shoulder. He peered through binoculars.
He rang Quinn’s cell.
“Followed him up a road. Seldom Seen, it’s called. Twenty minutes out from the town.”
“What’s he up to?”
“He just picked up some guy. Nobody I’ve seen before. Long, gray hair. Long beard.”
“Okay. Where’s he headed?”
“He’s coming back out onto the highway. The guy he picked up dumped fishing gear in the tray. I’m guessing he’ll be heading for his camp.”
“Okay. We’ll pick up his trail once he gets out on the highway. Unless you hear from me again, we’ll park at the public boat launch then walk back to his camp, like the last time. Hang back, then do the same.”
“Got you.”
Another nice, sunny day in the great outdoors, Williams thought.
Quinn would set up that parabolic listening device he’d bought and they would sit around with some cans of Labatt Maximum Ice in a cooler, just like the previous weekend.
Actually, it would be better; the guy had gone solo on his last fishing trip. Now that he had company, this time, there’d be more to hear than just the cawing of crows and the weird cries of loons.
Chapter 31
Eric Tremblay backed the trailer into the lake and tapped his foot on the brake. The boat jerked, then slid off the trailer and into the shallow water. Tremblay jumped out of the truck, unhitched the strap and moored the boat to a large rock without saying a word.
Osgood sat on a stump with his rod leaning against him and his tackle box on his lap. He fiddled aimlessly with spoons and jigs.
Done with launching the boat and parking the truck, Tremblay walked up to Osgood with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Look, you’re just killing the spirit of the day, you know that?”
Osgood kept his gaze fixed on the jiggling plastic worms that he rearranged in a tray.
“You haven’t said a word since I picked you up,” Tremblay said. “What’s up with that?”
“You’re who hasn’t said a word. You never showed up and you’ve said squat about it.”
“Is this about the elections? About me not turning up for your speech, or to go door-to-door with you, last weekend? I told you I wasn’t feeling sociable. Didn’t I say I’d call if I felt like it, but if I didn’t call, not to expect me?”
“Well that’s two more things you haven’t apologized for.”
Tremblay whipped his baseball cap off his head and flung it to the ground near Osgood.
“For Pete’s sake, Marcus Osgood! I know you’re upset about losing to Mayor Demetriou again, but this is crazy! Why take it out on me? I was one of the seventy-six who voted for you. I must have been the first one. Voted first thing in the morning on my way to work.”
“Forget the election,” Osgood said. “It’s about the Saturday before last week. I waited for you to show up. You never came. You haven’t said a thing about it.”
“Two Saturdays ago?”
“Yes. The weekend after October 14, the day my grandfather died in 1979. You know he was the most important person to me. You know I always take his favorite fishing rod out on that weekend in honor of him. I had it ready, two Saturdays ago. I waited; you never came.”
Tremblay picked up his cap and put it back on his head. He plunked himself down on a pile of leaves, next to Osgood.
“Sorry, buddy,” he said. “It completely slipped me. I wasn’t even around that weekend. It’s been crazy. My mind’s been a mess since that day I broke the….”
Tremblay fell silent.
There was a flutter as crows flew into the trees overhead, cawing loudly. The waves lapped softly against the boat.
“Some days, I think my mind is going to explode if I continue to try to hold all of this inside,” Tremblay said, staring ahead.
“I wasn’t planning on telling you this now,” he said after a pause. “Maybe closer to the end. Yeah, I’m sure I would have told you personally before I went. But it’s all going to come out anyway, and I might as well tell you now, beca
use it’s killing me inside. I was never a saint before, but this was a new low for me.”
Tremblay exhaled heavily. “I broke the tailings pond.”
“What?” Osgood’s eyes burned with the question.
“It wasn’t a flood that caused the spill. It wasn’t the rain. It was me. I did it.”
“Madness! What are you saying, Eric?”
Osgood jumped to his feet. He looked down at Tremblay with a scowl.
“Crazy as hell, is right. But, yes, I did it.”
Tremblay stood and held onto Osgood’s shoulder, as if his legs couldn’t support him.
“It was shortly after I got the news from my doctor. I wasn’t thinking straight. And then these two Americans came and they offered me fifty thousand dollars. They said the company wanted it done. I’ve never had that kind of money saved. Never. And, as I told you, I lost the house and the cam—”
Osgood shoved Tremblay, who fell back on his buttocks.
“You’re sick!” Osgood shouted. “That’s the sickest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He grabbed up his tackle box and rod and stormed off.
Left alone, Tremblay buried his face in his hands and sobbed. He hadn’t even got to explain about the cancer that was eating away his life.
Chapter 32
“Well, I’m ready to finish them off,” Young said.
He held a Colt .45, M1911 at shoulder height, barrel pointed up.
“Put that away,” Quinn growled under his breath.
They were hidden among the trees, just outside Tremblay’s fishing camp.
“But he’s cracked,” Young said. “And that other one sure doesn’t look like he’ll keep quiet.”
“I said put that away!”
Quinn leaned right into Young’s face as he stared him down.
Williams stood frozen, watching the two of them.
Young backed off. He cast a defiant glance about him, then looked back at Quinn. Slowly, he returned the gun to its holster under his jacket.
“We don’t need to attract attention shooting up the place,” Quinn said, in a calmer voice. “The boat launch is just up the road, remember?”
Quinn turned his back to Young and Williams and stepped away a short distance. He stared at the gnarled barks as he tried to organize his thoughts.
“Okay, here’s what we’re doing,” he said, turning to face them, again, after a while.
“You.” He pointed at Williams. “Go get your vehicle and pick up that guy who went walking. Bring him back here. And don’t accept no for an answer. Got it?”
“Got it.” Williams wasted no time in taking off.
Quinn fished out some gloves from the backpack they had on the ground and flung a pair at Young. “You come with me. Leave the other stuff here for the while. But bring the cooler.”
At the camp, Tremblay remained as Osgood had left him, sitting on the ground with his head in his hands.
Quinn rested a gloved hand gently on Tremblay’s shoulder.
“Hey, buddy, what’s up?”
Tremblay recognized the voice. It was one that was imbued with evil. The shock of hearing it at that moment, just after he’d confessed all to Osgood, filled him with an overpowering sense of dread. He could hardly breathe anymore.
He stared at the glove on his shoulder, then slowly looked up with wide eyes.
“We were in the neighborhood,” Quinn said with contrived tenderness. “On company business, you know. And we thought we might just look you up.”
He sat down beside Tremblay, who was too petrified to say a word.
“Nice day for some sun and fresh air,” Quinn said. “And you know what will make it even better?”
He slung his arm around Tremblay’s shoulder and shook him.
Tremblay’s lips could not move.
“Some nice, cold beer.” Quinn laughed.
That evil laugh.
“Get this guy a beer!” Quinn said.
Young opened the cooler. The can hissed as Young pulled back the tab. He pushed the can toward Tremblay, who noticed Young was also wearing black gloves.
“Go on.” Quinn shook him by the shoulder. “Take it.”
Tremblay’s protestations, that he was on medication and that the doctor had ordered him not to drink, had no effect.
Quinn insisted.
Reluctantly, Tremblay complied and downed the first two cans. The final two required further persuasion, amply provided by the .45 which Young pressed against Tremblay’s temple.
When he passed out, they dragged him to the boat and dumped him in, along with the empty cans.
Quinn grabbed Tremblay by the hair and slammed his head against the outboard motor.
Thwack!
The impact left a dent in the metal and split Tremblay’s scalp in two.
“Quick, get the rope,” Quinn said to Young. “I don’t want his blood anywhere near the shore.”
He started the engine, and Young detached the boat from the rock to which it had been moored.
“Get a canoe.” Quinn gave the command with calm authority. “Meet me out there.”
He piloted the boat out into the lake and threw down the anchor.
He tumbled Tremblay’s limp body over the side and it hit the water with a loud splash. Quinn then pushed his hand into the cold water and held Tremblay’s head down until there were no more bubbles.
Young paddled up beside the boat. Quinn wobbled into the canoe and Young paddled them back to the shore.
A short while after, Quinn got behind the wheel of the stolen black truck that served as his ride for this mission. They met Williams on Seldom Seen Road, just down from the mobile home where he had been watching.
Williams had been too late to force the long-haired man into his vehicle. Another driver in a pickup ahead of him had slowed down and the man had got in.
Williams had had a clear view of the driver and passenger from the rear windshield of the truck. As far as he could tell, he said, for the entire drive, not a word was exchanged between them. The man with the long hair had stared out the passenger window the whole time.
The driver had dropped off the long-haired man at the mobile home and had gone on his way.
Quinn ordered Williams to continue to keep watch while he and Young tied up this loose end.
He rolled his truck slowly and almost silently into the driveway. He and Young, still wearing gloves, walked to the door. He turned the handle and found that the door was unlocked.
Inside, the long-haired man stood with his back to them. He held a scrap of paper in his right hand; with the other, he held a phone to his ear.
“Oh come on, pick up the phone this time,” the man said into the air.
On Quinn’s whispered orders, Young walked stealthily toward the long-haired man. He held the Colt at the ready, arms fully extended, left hand bracing the right, finger on the trigger. He eased himself into the man’s view.
Quinn saw the man’s body stiffen in surprise and fright; he would add to the man’s confusion.
“Put that phone down,” Quinn shouted, from behind.
The man immediately dropped everything and raised his hands in the air.
Quinn bent down and picked up the receiver. He placed it back on the cradle.
He surveyed the living room. Boxy, cathode ray tube television; piles of dusty, yellowed newspapers and old magazines sitting on torn and broken furniture; lampshade held together with masking tape….
He caught sight of a tall, wooden cabinet wit
h double glass doors.
Inside were two vintage rifles, standing upright. The slot for a third held an ancient-looking fishing rod with a built-in reel and ornate wooden handle.
Quinn had initially planned to let Young put his beloved Colt to work. But why leave behind their own bullets, or make things so obvious?
He walked over to the cabinet, stooped and swung open a small door at the base. It revealed a keyed drawer, firmly shut.
Ammo, he thought.
Quinn looked over his shoulder. Young appeared to be relishing the chance to display his most ferocious sneer. The ghostly pale geezer with long hair still held his hands up above his shoulders, although no one had ordered him to do so.
Getting him to give up the keys to the cabinet would be easy, Quinn figured.
Chapter 33
“Hey, Paul, can you come pick me up?” the voice said.
“Who is this?” Detective Sergeant Parker lay completely buried under the covers, except for a naked arm and the ear to which he held his cell phone.
“Oh, did I wake you up? Sorry, it’s Max.”
“It’s Sunday, Max.”
“I know, bu–”
“It’s the only day I get to sleep in.”
“I wouldn’t have called, except I took my car engine apart and was working on it. Damn near sliced off my left hand and th–”
“Is this Constable Maxwell Kennedy?”
“Yes.”
“As in Constable Maxwell Kennedy whose house is a two-minute walk from the hospital?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Max, think about it; it takes me seven minutes just to drive over to your place. You need to get–”
“But, Paul, I’m not calling about my hand. Alma bandaged it for me before she left for church. The chief called. I need a ride to the boat launch up at Jay Lake. They found a body floating near there.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Parker flung the covers off and sat up. “I’ll be right over.”
Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller Page 15