The Crafty Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  We awakened to an Andrea Bocelli CD in the alarm clock. It was 5:30 A.M. and the sky was already gray. Ash went downstairs to let Kitch outside and make some coffee and hot cocoa, while I got into the shower. I felt like death warmed over and my eyelids were sandpapery, but I perked up a little once I’d had a couple cups of strong, black coffee. After getting dressed, I pulled my gun, shoulder holster, and handcuffs from my sock drawer and experienced a powerful and unpleasant sense of déjà vu. The last time I’d worn all this equipment, I’d been shot.

  Later, I stood in front of the freestanding mirror in our bedroom, frowning at my image. I was wearing jeans, an Anchor Steam Beer T-shirt, and my shoulder holster, which felt oddly constraining. Partly because I weighed a little more now than I had when I was a homicide inspector, but mostly because over two years had passed since I’d worn the black nylon harness and I’d simply forgotten how it felt. I slipped the seventeen-shot Glock pistol into the holster and secured the safety strap. The gun felt strange under my arm.

  Ash finished buttoning her blouse and came over to join me in staring into the looking glass. She said, “So, are we looking for Alice?”

  “No…but does this outfit make my butt look big?” I asked in an artificially worried tone while pivoting for a profile view. The last thing I wanted was to infect her with my own anxieties.

  She laughed, kissed me on the cheek, and grabbed the baggy short sleeve button-down shirt that was hanging from the bedpost. “Here, this will cover your shoulder holster and tush, which, by the way, I think is perfect.”

  I tucked the handcuffs into the back of my pants and got my old binoculars from the top shelf of the closet. Going downstairs, we put an unhappy Kitch into his crate, I grabbed my cane and my old San Francisco Giants ball cap from the coat rack, and we went out to the Xterra. It was already in the low-seventies and promised to be another hot and muggy day.

  Tina and Sergei were already at the sheriff’s department, sipping coffee from disposable cups and standing beside a white Ford Taurus four-door sedan. Both were dressed in casual clothing and I noticed that Tina was also wearing an oversized and unbuttoned blouse to conceal her gun. Unfortunately, the same thing couldn’t be done for the Taurus. The county motor pool vehicle screamed unmarked cop car, but I didn’t say anything, because I knew it was the best Tina could do. As I pulled up beside them, she picked up a portable radio from the trunk of the Taurus and came over to my open window.

  Handing me the radio, she said, “Good morning, you guys. Sergei was just telling me about your run-in with the Yakuza last night. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I couldn’t see any point in waking you up. We ready to roll?” I asked.

  “Yeah. We’ll operate on channel two. My call sign is Mike One, and yours is—”

  “Mike Tyson? That way, I can also be like McGruff the Crime Dog and take a bite out of crime…or someone’s ear,” I said in a gravelly voice.

  “It’s a little too early in the morning for your insanity,” Tina said with tired laugh. “Your call sign is Mike Fourteen.”

  “Heck, you’re no fun. So, how do you want to make the arrest?”

  “Sergei told me there was mail in the P.O. box, so let’s let the suspect go into the post office and get his mail. We’ll nail him when he comes back out. That way, we’ll catch him with evidence and also avoid a hostage situation.”

  “Good thinking. Did you let the locals know we’ll be operating on their turf?”

  “Yeah, I talked with both the Rockingham County Sheriff and the state police. They’ve agreed to stay out of the area, unless they get a service call or we shout for backup. You can do that on channel five on your radio.”

  “And will these work back in the foothills?” I held up the radio.

  “I wouldn’t want to bet my life on it,” said Tina, her demeanor suddenly verging on grim. “That’s why I wanted you armed.”

  “And on that cheerful note, let’s go to work.”

  It was just a little past 7:30 A.M. when we arrived. Shefford Gap didn’t look much different by daylight, although I did notice a road sign just past the post office that said the West Virginia state line was nine miles away. We had nearly a half hour before the post office opened, but as much as I craved another cup of coffee, we decided to stay out of the convenience store. We were strangers up here and once word got out that cops were watching the post office, the news would spread like a wind-driven brushfire. Inevitably, our suspect would learn about the stakeout and then disappear faster than good judgment at an office Christmas party.

  We exchanged some brief messages over the radio. Tina opted for a surveillance spot near the large propane tank on the west side of the convenience store, while Ash and I parked next to a couple of abandoned vehicles on the east side of the empty produce market. When the post office opened, Tina radioed to tell us to maintain our position while she and Sergei went to speak to the clerk. We watched as they walked across the road and went inside the post office. They came out a few minutes later and once they were back in the Taurus the radio crackled.

  Tina said, “Mike One to Mike Fourteen, the clerk won’t give us the guy’s name until she checks with the postal inspectors.”

  I keyed the microphone. “Which I hope she’s doing right now.”

  “Affirmative. I gave her my cell number to call me directly.”

  “Was she any help?”

  “As much as she could be without endangering her job. She confirmed the suspect’s description and that he drives a black SUV. Also, that he ships packages about twice a week and receives mail from foreign countries on a pretty regular basis.”

  “How often does he come here?”

  “She said every day, but the times vary.”

  “So, we wait.”

  Ash said, “Don’t we already know that the P.O. box is registered to Adam Mumford?”

  “Yeah, but we want to get the guy’s residential address and to make sure there’re no other people, or even businesses, receiving mail at that box.”

  Forty-five minutes passed and during that time three vehicles stopped at the post office, but none of them even remotely resembled the suspect’s SUV. It was getting hot and I couldn’t keep my window down because a behemoth yellow jacket kept trying to fly inside the Xterra. Between the boredom and discomfort it was a pretty routine stakeout, but Ash was still completely alert and from the tenor of her comments, seemed to be enjoying herself immensely.

  Tina’s voice sounded from the radio. “Okay, we’ve got a name. The postal inspectors just called and confirmed that the P.O. box belongs to our old friend, Adam Mumford. The box rental card says he lives on Kimsey Pond Road.”

  “Is that a Richmond address?” I asked.

  “Negative. It’s a little west of here, near the state line.”

  “Well, with any luck we’ll know his real name soon.”

  Over an hour passed and the sun was turning our SUV into an oven. During that time, seventeen cars passed the post office and our only entertainment came from watching some tourists from New Jersey puzzle over the fact that there wasn’t a credit card scanner on the gasoline pump.

  Ash shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m not complaining, but my butt is starting to hurt.”

  “Me too. Welcome to the wonderful world of police stakeouts, honey.”

  “Do you think he’s going to come?”

  “I don’t—oh, hell, it’s showtime.”

  With our view to the west, we were the first to see the black SUV coming down the road toward the post office. I raised the binoculars and saw the vehicle was an older model Mercury Mountaineer, which looked very much like a Ford Explorer. Although the windows were tinted, it looked as if the driver was the only person in the SUV.

  Raising the portable radio, I said, “Mike Fourteen to Mike One, I think we’ve got the suspect vehicle eastbound on Vaughn Quarry Road. You should be seeing him in a second.”

  Tina replied, “Okay, we’ve got him. One m
ale occupant…can’t see the plates yet.”

  “I copy,” I said and handed the radio to Ash. “Honey, when we go mobile, I’m going to need both hands, so why don’t you take over on the radio?”

  “Got it.”

  I fired up the Xterra’s engine in preparation for swooping down on the post office. We watched in silence as the truck slowed and made the left turn into the gravel parking lot of the post office. A tall bearded man climbed from the truck and I lifted the field glasses to get a better look at him. He had the seedy look of not having washed recently, longish stringy hair and wore mirrored sunglasses. Still, there was something about him that seemed vaguely familiar.

  Tina’s voice came over the radio: “I don’t know if you could see it from your angle, but there’s a hole in his left rear brake light.”

  “Ten-four,” said Ash. Lowering the radio, she asked, “The man who broke into our house?”

  I said, “Yeah, and this just keeps getting better and better. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “What?” Ash said.

  “It’s as hot as the hinges on the gates of hell and he’s wearing a freaking windbreaker? The guy is carrying a gun.”

  The radio crackled and this time it was Sergei’s voice: “Brad, he’s probably armed.”

  Ash raised the radio. “We know—I mean, ten-four.”

  I handed her the binoculars. “We’ve seen this guy someplace. Who is he?”

  She looked through the binoculars for a few seconds and then gasped, “Oh my God! He’s gained a lot of weight, but I’m almost certain that’s Marc Poole!”

  Suddenly, the circumstances of our Farnell bear being stolen and the other teddies being vandalized made sense. Pastor Marc Poole had been an occasional guest in our home, up until Ash and I had uncovered and terminated his secret career as a crook. He had plenty of reasons to hate us. Knowing that he was about to be arrested, he’d fled town with nothing more than the clothes on his back. It was only natural that Poole would want revenge on us.

  With an unsavory chuckle, I said, “Oh, I must have been a very good boy that Santa would bring me this present.”

  “Hey, you wouldn’t let me hit him last time, so I’ve got first dibs on dismembering him,” said Ash, who had neither forgiven nor forgotten the clergyman’s treacherous behavior.

  “That’s fine, but keep one thing in mind: He probably killed Merrit, so we’re going to approach him like we would a copperhead.”

  Poole stood in the parking lot for a second, scanning his surroundings like a chubby deer preparing to move from the safety of the forest into naked pastureland. Then he stared across the road at the gas station and almost dove back into the Mountaineer. Obviously, he’d recognized his former neighbors from Remmelkemp Mill, Tina and Sergei.

  “He’s made them! Hang on!” I slammed my foot down on the accelerator.

  As I sped toward the post office, Poole threw the SUV into reverse and backed up onto the highway. The Mountaineer’s brake lights flashed for a second and I noted the damage to the left red plastic cover. It was definitely the same vehicle I’d seen the night our house was burglarized. With tires squealing, the black SUV took off the way it had come, toward the West Virginia state line. Meanwhile, the Taurus, which now had one of those magnetized flashing blue lights on its roof, was careening from the gas station parking lot. Since hers was the only vehicle with emergency lights, I hit the brakes for a second to let Tina take the lead in the pursuit. A second later, we were both rocketing down the road after the SUV.

  “He spotted us,” said Sergei over the radio.

  “No kidding,” I said.

  “Ten-four. Did you notice that it was Marc Poole?” Ash replied into the radio.

  “Affirmative. He’s changed a lot since October. We didn’t initially recognize him in his Rasputin disguise.”

  It wasn’t long before we were in the foothills of the Alleghenies and the road became increasing serpentine as it began to parallel a mountain stream on our left. We passed through a dense grove of trees and then, ahead, I could see a long straight section of highway. Here was our chance to close some of the distance on the Mountaineer. Then suddenly the SUV’s right turn signal began to blink and the vehicle slowed down. It appeared that Poole had decided to pull over and abandon his bid for escape. The SUV came to a stop on the right shoulder and Tina pulled up almost right behind it. Suspicious of Poole’s abrupt and inexplicable surrender, I stayed back about four car lengths.

  Then I realized that Poole hadn’t turned the Mountaineer’s engine off. It was one of the moments when you know exactly what’s going to happen next, but you just can’t react quickly enough to prevent it. I yelled, “Call and tell them they’re too close!”

  Ash keyed the microphone, “Move back, you’re—”

  But it was too late. Suddenly, the Mountaineer’s backing lights flashed on and Poole hit the gas. The back of the SUV slammed into the front of the Taurus with an enormous crash and pushed it backward along the shoulder for about fifteen yards. A second later, Poole was again headed westbound toward the state line. I drove up and stopped so that we were parallel to the wrecked Taurus. Sergei looked furious, but was otherwise uninjured. However, Tina was bent forward and cradling both her wrists against her stomach. I realized that she’d probably broken them while clutching the steering wheel during the collision.

  I yelled out Ash’s window, “Are you guys all right?”

  Sergei shouted back, “Don’t stop! Get that bastard and bring him back so I can geld him!”

  Hitting the gas, I said to Ash, “I guess Sergei’s got first dibs on Poole now.”

  “He can have my place in line and I’ll loan him a dull knife.” Ash’s voice was stiff with rage.

  The Mountaineer was perhaps two hundred yards ahead of us, but it wasn’t going as fast now and I wondered if it had sustained major damage also. We closed the gap pretty quickly and were soon on the SUV’s tail as we began winding our way up into the Alleghenies. Meanwhile, I heard static-distorted messages from the police radio that told me Tina had called for the cavalry. I hoped the cops would hurry and that we’d remain on the main road so that they could find us. But if Poole decided to go four-wheeling in this wilderness, we might lose him for good and I couldn’t let that happen.

  I said, “Ash my love, do me a favor and hang on tight, because I’m going to PIT Poole the next chance I get.”

  “Pit?”

  “It’s some sort of acronym for me hitting his SUV with our vehicle and making it spin out. With any luck, he’ll hit a big tree, be crippled for life, and forever after talk like he has a mouthful of cat food.”

  Ash glanced at me nervously. “Have you ever done this before?”

  “Once.”

  “Did it work?”

  “No, but the theory is sound and I’m not going to let Poole get away.”

  “You’re damn right you aren’t.”

  “But if this does work, I want you to stay behind the Xterra and out of the line of fire.”

  “I will. Now ram that rotten monster!”

  “God, I do love having you as a partner.”

  We crested a tall hill and I could see that the road ahead curved lazily to the right. This looked like a promising spot to play roadway Russian roulette. Offering a silent prayer that the road would remain free of oncoming traffic, I jammed my foot down on the accelerator, veered to the left, and made as if to pass the Mountaineer. Poole sped up, but not quickly enough and I jerked hard on the steering wheel to the right. There was a crunch of metal as the Xterra’s bumper collided with the left rear quarter-panel of the SUV and I resisted the impulse to hit the brakes. Instead, I buried the gas pedal in the floorboard and pushed the Xterra against the Mountaineer.

  Suddenly, Poole’s SUV was in an out-of-control rotating skid and I hit my brakes to stay out of the way. The Mountaineer slid laterally across the highway and was facing eastward when it slammed sideways into some pine trees lining the opposite side
of the road. I parked on the other side of the highway and realized that I’d have to leave my cane behind, because I was going to need both hands. I threw the door open and came as close as I ever will to jumping from the Xterra.

  Yanking the Glock from my shoulder holster, I glanced to make sure that Ash had taken cover behind our truck. The Mountaineer was partially wrapped around a tree and looked immobilized, but I wasn’t going to take any chances on letting Poole go mobile again. I took quick aim at the back tire of the Mountaineer and fired a round to flatten it. A second later, the front tire was also resting on the metal rim and then I swung the gun upward so that it was pointed at the driver’s window.

  Although my ears were ringing from the gunfire, I heard Poole yell from inside the SUV, “Don’t shoot! I don’t have a gun!”

  “You aren’t going to have a freaking head if you lie to me again! Take your gun by the barrel and throw it out the window, now!”

  “All right! I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt me!” Poole slowly extended his left hand from the vehicle. He was holding a little semiautomatic pistol by the barrel and tossed the weapon onto the asphalt. “There! I’m cooperating!”

  One of the first things drilled into your head at the police academy is to never assume an armed and dangerous suspect is only carrying one gun. That sort of assumption will earn you the place of honor at a police funeral. What’s more, I had a tangible reason for believing Poole had a second firearm. The weapon he’d thrown out the window was a small caliber pistol, but the gun he’d used at our home had been a large bore revolver. It was obvious that Poole was waiting for me to approach the SUV’s window so that he could open fire.

  “Poole!” I shouted. “You are going to throw that other gun out right now or I’m going to give you a Viking funeral!”

  Poole sounded shrill. “You have my gun! Ashleigh, I’d never hurt you! Tell your husband not to kill me!”

  “Shut up, you fraud!” Ash screamed back.

  I hollered, “You’ve got three seconds, or I’m going to start ricocheting rounds off the pavement so that they hit the underside of your SUV! Once I hit the gas tank, you’re going to get a sneak peek at hell! One!”