Wounded Prey

by Sean Lynch

  He splashed half of the can’s contents throughout the lab. Using his Zippo, he ignited the gasoline and headed for the door.

  Moments later the shed exploded. Slocum walked from the engulfed shed back to the house with the remainder of the five-gallon gas can.

  Cuszack had regained his feet. “Oh Jesus,” he babbled, drool spraying from his lips. He tripped over the splayed legs of Zeke Fornier, falling headlong to the floor. He got up and ran through the front door. He fell down the porch steps, but was up in an instant and scrambling from the Fornier farm in a loping trot.

  Slocum re-entered the house through the back door and poured the last of the gasoline randomly throughout the house. Another explosion roared outside in the shed, as more of the volatile chemicals in the clandestine laboratory fell prey to the flames. Standing on the porch, Slocum put a Pall Mall to his lips. He watched Buddy Cuszack thrashing through snowdrifts trying to reach the road.

  He lit his cigarette and put the flame of his lighter to the gasoline-soaked carpet. In seconds the interior of the living room was engulfed.

  He closed his eyes, feeling the heat from the burning farmhouse. His mind wandered.

  Gia Binh.

  There, he was a Marine; the baddest in the jungle; walking death. He remembered the oppressive heat and the stench of rotting bodies. There, he was a million miles from the hell of his Iowa home, and from the backbreaking labor and torment he endured each day. Away from his father, and sister, and brothers. In Vietnam he was supposed to kill; it was why they sent him. It’s what they trained him for. What he lived for.

  He’d left his mark. Children dangled from village trees for all to see. So they’d know Lance Corporal Vernon E Slocum, 1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment, had paid a visit.

  Slocum snapped out of his trance. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing on the porch, but it was time to leave. The entire farmhouse was in flames, portions of the roof folding in on the walls. The heat was tremendous. He spat out his cigarette and waded through the deep snow to the truck.

  While the engine warmed up he snorted a pinch of crank. The brownish powder warmed him, but started his broken nose bleeding again. He eased the Dodge from the snow bank and onto the road.

  Less than a quarter of a mile down the road he found Buddy huddled in a fetal position in the snow. Slocum stopped the truck and got out. Cuszack looked up at him in stark terror. The only sounds he made were whimpers.

  Slocum opened the passenger door of the truck. Cuszack’s eyes widened even more.

  CHAPTER 19

  Farrell took a moment to pop a couple of breath mints into his mouth before approaching the main desk of the veterans’ hospital. He smiled a greeting at the receptionist.

  “I’d like to see someone from your records department, please.”

  Farrell flashed open his wallet showing his badge. At the same time he handed the receptionist a business card. By the time the receptionist read the card, Farrell had the wallet and badge back in his pocket.

  “One moment, Agent Scanlon. I’ll have to notify my supervisor.”

  “We’ll wait right here.”

  The receptionist left. Kearns was livid, his eyebrows jumping.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You gave her that FBI guy’s card! You’re impersonating a federal agent! That’s a crime!”

  “Keep your voice down, will you? I told you outside to play along, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, and I agreed,” said Kearns in a loud whisper. “But that was before I knew you were going to impersonate an FBI agent!”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know, deputy. But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll quiet down before you give us away.”

  “Us? Who the hell is us?”

  “I said I’d explain when we got outside. Now shut your piehole.”

  Before Kearns could protest any further the receptionist reappeared.

  “Doctor Kennedy will see you; third floor, room 305.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Farrell strolled to the elevator with Kearns on his tail. There was no one else aboard.

  “I don’t like this.”

  Farrell was busy watching the ceiling. “You agreed to trust me, outside in the car. We’ve already started this, so we’ve got to play it out. Who knows, maybe it’ll pay off?”

  “What will pay off? What are you talking about?”

  “Shhhhh,” Farrell said. The elevator doors opened. He walked out to room 305. Kearns hustled behind him, cursing under his breath.

  A secretary looked up from her typing and said, “You must be the gentlemen from the FBI. Come in; I’ll tell the doctor you’re here.”

  The secretary disappeared through a door and returned a moment later. “You may go in.”

  Farrell and Kearns stepped inside the office to find a portly man of about sixty years sitting behind a mahogany desk. He was nearly bald, and wore an expensively-tailored suit. Farrell couldn’t help thinking the man was truly obese if he looked portly in such well-crafted attire.

  “I’m Doctor Kennedy, senior administrator here.”

  When the doctor spoke he stepped from behind the desk and offered a soft hand to Farrell. Taking it, Farrell said, “Steve Scanlon, Des Moines Bureau. This is my partner, Kevin Smith.” The doctor shook Kearns’ hand. Kearns merely nodded.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the FBI?”

  “We’re here as part of an ongoing investigation into possible medical fraud.”

  “My goodness,” exclaimed Kennedy, the first signs of worry showing on his face. “How does that investigation involve this hospital?”

  “We aren’t certain yet,” Farrell said melodramatically. “We’re hoping the allegations will be groundless. As part of investigative protocol we’re going to have to examine some of your records.”

  “An audit? You’re talking about an audit, aren’t you?” Small beads of sweat began to form on the administrator’s brow. “We’ve always been given several weeks’ written notice prior to an audit. This is most unusual. I’m afraid before I allow any inquiries into the administrative workings of the hospital I’m going to have to call my legal staff.” He picked up the phone.

  Kearns felt sweat trickle under his arms. One phone call and the doctor would discover the two men in his office were attempting to fraudulently gain access to hospital medical records by impersonating agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. How did he let himself get bamboozled into such an insane act?

  How he’d gotten himself into the charade no longer mattered. Kearns only knew it was time to get out. He cleared his throat, and was about to speak up and tell Kennedy the truth about his and Farrell’s identity, when Farrell acted.

  Farrell yanked the phone violently from the physician’s hand from across the desk. “Who do you think you’re dealing with?”

  Kennedy’s eyes widened as Farrell walked around the desk and closed in. Kearns’ stomach lurched. The Californian was now going to add assault and battery to the list of crimes they’d committed since entering the facility.

  “Do you think we’re here to play games?” said Farrell indignantly. “Do you think you can cover up your improprieties with a phone call to your lawyer?”

  “Cover what up? What improprieties?” Kennedy babbled, his eyes wide.

  “Don’t mince words with me!” Farrell accused, a bony, nicotine-yellowed finger pointed at the doctor like a gun. “I don’t know who you’re used to dealing with, Bucko, but you’re talking to the Federal Bureau of Investigation now.”

  “Agent Scanlon, if you think...”

  “Did you think we were going to be put off by such tactics? Do you think we’re amateurs?”

  “No, of course not. I would never–”

  “That’s right, of course not.” Farrell put his hands on his hips and glared at Kennedy, shaking his head. Over his shoulder, he said, “Isn’t this a tragic way to administrate a federally-funded hospital, Agent Smith?
”

  “Uh... yeah. I mean...” Kearns stammered.

  Kennedy mopped his glistening brow with a handkerchief. “I was only going to verify–”

  “Verify what? We’re federal agents, remember? Do you think we need your approval to inspect a federal hospital? Our authority comes from the United States Constitution,” Farrell lied. “Are you challenging our patriotism, Doctor Kennedy?”

  “Goodness, no! I would never impugn–”

  “I didn’t think so. But I’m skeptical. A hospital administrator guilty of no improprieties has no need to call his legal staff. Frankly, it’s suspicious. Perhaps we need to take a much closer look at this facility. We were originally only going to conduct a cursory examination of some of your EPA records to see if this hospital is in compliance with federal asbestos-contamination standards. But now we may have to widen the scope of our inquiry. What do you think, Agent Smith?”

  Kearns loosened his tie and glanced nervously around the room. If he could only slip quietly out and get back to the station...

  “There’s no need for that!” Kennedy pleaded. “You can keep the scope of your inquiry as narrow as you want!”

  Sensing the upper hand, Farrell switched tactics. His demeanor again became that of the courteous civil servant.

  “Certainly my colleague and I don’t want to believe you’re guilty of any impropriety.”

  Kennedy sat heavily down in his chair, drained. Farrell continued.

  “Initial reluctance to cooperate fully with a federal investigation is often tantamount to having something to hide. You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”

  Kennedy only shook his head.

  “Then I can report to my superiors that you cooperated fully?”

  “Anything you need. Help yourself.”

  “Your cooperation is indicative of your patriotism, and it’s always a pleasure to work with a fellow patriot. Agent Smith, make a note of Doctor Kennedy’s patriotism.”

  “Uh... duly noted.”

  “Very good,” said Farrell cheerfully. “If that’s settled, we can get down to business. We’ll need to see all patients’ records from 1967 to the present, in alphabetical order.”

  Kennedy wasn’t even listening. He pressed a button on his desk. The secretary appeared. “Eva, take these gentlemen down to records storage and have the staff there show them full cooperation.”

  “Your country thanks you,” said Farrell to the deflated administrator.

  Doctor Kennedy halted them. “Forgive me, Agent Scanlon, but is there a number where I can reach you? In case my superiors want to follow up?”

  “Here,” said Farrell. “Take one of my cards.” Kearns gagged.

  Farrell and a relieved Kearns left the administrator’s office and followed Kennedy’s secretary to the elevator.

  “I’ll leave you here, gentlemen,” she said at the elevator. “Go to the basement and proceed left until you get to the east wing. The staff there will be expecting you.”

  “You’ve been most helpful,” said Farrell with a Cheshire cat grin. Eva left them.

  Kearns exploded. “What in the hell kind of a stunt were you trying to pull up there? Do you want to get us thrown in jail?”

  Farrell ignored the angry deputy and uncorked his flask. After a quick swig he stashed it and popped a breath mint into his mouth. The elevator stopped and the doors opened.

  Farrell headed for the records section. Kearns trailed behind him muttering obscenities under his breath.

  The records department implied an office complex; it was not. It was a dank, dusty, dungeon of a room of vast proportions. Hundreds of crates of records lined the water-stained walls. It was cold enough to see your breath. The “staff” there was an old man in janitor’s coveralls. He stood leaning on a mop and stared at Farrell and Kearns.

  “Sir, I’m Special Agent Scanlon of the FBI, and this is my partner, Agent–”

  “I know who you are and what you’re here for,” snorted the old man. “Just don’t mess the place up.” With that he left.

  Farrell shook his head, chuckled, and lit a cigarette. “How ironic. All those theatrics to get access to medical records, and all we needed was a pair of coveralls and a mop.”

  “I don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

  “All in good time, my impetuous young deputy.” Farrell began examining boxes. Each box had a series of dates scribbled on it, as well as alphabetized letters to denote the names contained within. He spent a long time looking at the writing on several of the boxes using his lighter for illumination. Eventually he found the one he was looking for.

  Kearns watched as Farrell pulled a box from a lower shelf. The box was bulging, and on one side was written in black marker, SH-SP. After scrolling through the box for another minute or so, he extracted a thick folder. Setting it aside, he carefully replaced the box into its original position on the shelf. He tucked the folder inside the waistband of his pants and buttoned his coat over it.

  “OK,” he said with finality. “Let’s go.”

  Kearns breathed a sigh of relief and checked his watch. It was a little after 2 o’clock. Scanlon and the Sheriff were probably wondering why he wasn’t back.

  “I’ve got to get back to the station. It’s late as hell.”

  “I said we were done, didn’t I?” He ground out his cigarette.

  They walked through the musty basement to a stairwell. Light filtered in from above. Farrell mounted the steps and opened the door with some difficulty because it was blocked by drifting snow. Both men squinted in the outside light. When they reached the parking lot Farrell tossed Kearns the keys.

  “I fulfilled my part of the bargain. It’s your turn. You said you’d explain when we came out. We’re out. What gives?”

  “Deputy Kearns,” said Farrell, “I promised you answers, and I’ll deliver them. But could we at least drive away? I don’t want to be stopped and questioned by a real FBI agent when Doctor Kennedy finds out he’s been flimflammed.”

  Kearns hesitated, biting his lip. How much further was this going to go? The Californian’s suggestion to leave was prudent however. He got in and switched on the ignition.

  “OK, we’ll go. But if I don’t get answers soon one of us is going to be walking. I’ve taken about all I’m going to take today.”

  “Fair enough,” said Farrell jubilantly. “I think you’ll find your answers worth the trouble.”

  The snow was falling more heavily than when they’d entered the hospital and the roads were even slicker. Kearns noticed more traffic on the streets. The evening commuters were leaving early in anticipation of the poor road conditions.

  Kearns turned north on Merle Hay Road and headed for the shopping mall there. He pulled into the parking lot. Christmas ornaments were draped over the lampposts, and the faint melody of an Andy Williams holiday tune was audible in the distance. He could hear the cling-clang of a Salvation Army volunteer ringing a bell. He parked the Oldsmobile in a remote corner and left the engine idling to run the heater.

  “Mister Lyons, it’s time to come clean. What the hell’s going on? What was that scene at the VA hospital all about?”

  “Easy, kid. I said you’d get answers, and you will.” Farrell paused to light a cigarette. “But before you get them, I want to be sure you really want them.”

  “I’d better start getting some answers. Or you’re going to end up looking like Special Agent Scanlon.”

  Farrell ground out his unfinished cigarette. “I’m sorry, Deputy. The last thing I want to do is play games with you. I know you don’t believe me, but I know what you’re going through.”

  “How could you possibly know what I’ve been through?”

  Farrell reached into his coat and pulled out the file he’d taken from the veterans’ hospital. He opened it and shuffled through the stack of documents until he produced a photograph. He handed the photo to Kearns.

  “How do I know what you’re going through? Because I let the same man sli
p through my fingers twenty years ago.”

  Kearns listened, not believing what he was hearing. He accepted the photograph from the older man and stared at it.

  He looked at the faded black-and-white picture. Staring back at him was the face of the child-killer.

  The picture was of a man in a dress-blue USMC uniform. It was undoubtedly the same man Kearns had confronted in the schoolyard a few days ago, only much younger. The eyes were the same, though. Unchanged by time. Evil eyes. They glared back at Kearns.

  “That’s him,” he said almost inaudibly. “That’s the man from the schoolyard.”

  “I know,” said Farrell soothingly. He put a hand on Kearns’ shoulder. “His name is Vernon Slocum.”

  Kearns set the photo on the dashboard and looked at Farrell skeptically. “You know who he is; you’ve known all along. I don’t understand. Why haven’t you told the authorities?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “We’re heading back to the station right now. We’re going to get this Slocum guy’s identity broadcast so we can get him locked up.”

  Kearns started to put the sedan into gear when he felt something very hard jab into his ribs. He looked over to find Farrell leaning towards him, a snub-nosed .38 in his fist. The muzzle poked into his side.

  “Not so fast, Deputy. Turn off the ignition and take out the keys.”

  Kearns silently cursed himself. How could he have been so foolish? Hadn’t the Californian’s actions been warning enough he was capable of anything? First he’d been duped into impersonating a federal agent. Now he found himself at the business end of a gun. And he knew no more about the man holding the gun than when they’d met.

  He complied with Farrell’s request, but instead of handing over the keys he tossed them at the older man’s face. He expected Farrell to flinch, and hoped for an opening to make a grab for the gun. Farrell didn’t flinch.