by Tim Downs
“The lot next to Malone’s property,” Nick said. “Watch your step—there’s construction going on.”
“There he is!” Donovan pointed; halfway to the excavation site the three dogs sat waiting for them.
They hurried over to the dogs and looked down at little Ruckus.
“Why’s he just sitting there?” Donovan asked.
“I don’t know,” Nick said. “Maybe he forgot what he was looking for.”
“Brilliant,” Donovan said with a groan.
“He’s got a brain the size of a golf ball,” Nick said. “What’s your excuse?”
“Maybe he just needs a reminder,” Brenton suggested. “Give him that signal again.”
“Good idea.” Nick was just about to send Ruckus off again when he noticed that the dog was carrying something in his mouth. He pried it out and examined it—it felt smooth and round except for a thumb-sized indentation on one side. He held it up to the moonlight to get a better look . . .
It was a buckeye.
“It’s Alena’s,” Nick said. “It’s a clicker—she uses it to train dogs. She must have come this way. Maybe she’s still—”
Donovan suddenly raised his hand and signaled for everyone to be quiet; he pointed to the excavation.
“In there?” Nick whispered.
“That’s what I’d do.”
Donovan drew his Glock. He signaled for the other men to remain where they were while he eased up to the edge of the excavation and peered down at the bottom fifteen feet below. The left half was hidden in darkness, but the right half was illuminated by the moon—and at the edge of the shadows he saw Malone dragging Alena up out of a hole.
“Federal officer!” Donovan shouted. “Lay down your weapon and release the woman immediately!”
Malone responded by hooking his left arm around Alena’s throat, shoving the muzzle of his gun against her right temple, and dragging her back into the concealing shadows. “Don’t come any closer!” he shouted up from the darkness. “I’ll kill her—I swear I will!”
Donovan stepped back from the edge and turned to the other men. “He’s got her and he’s armed.”
“Let me see if I can get a shot,” Brenton said.
“No,” Donovan said. “You can’t see a thing down there and I don’t want him to spot that rifle of yours. He can’t go anywhere—he’s boxed in on three sides. Head down toward the lake. See if you can find a tree or something—get some elevation and signal when you get a good position. I’ll try to talk him out, but if he won’t do it and you’ve got a clear shot— take it.”
Brenton hurried off in the direction of the lake while Nick and Donovan worked their way around to the open side of the excavation. Just as they were about to round the corner and step out into the open where Malone could clearly see them, Nick put a hand on Donovan’s arm and stopped him. “No—I’m doing this.”
“Nick—I’m the one with the gun.”
“So what? You can’t see any better than I can in this light.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“So do I. This is the second time tonight I’ve put your life in danger, Donovan. The first time was just pretend—this is for real. Alena’s my fiancée—it’s my call.”
Donovan reluctantly nodded.
Nick turned and stepped out into the open.
“Don’t come any closer!” Malone called from the shadows.
“Alena,” Nick called out. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” she shouted back. “It’s Malone, Nick. From the lake house—”
“Talk to me!” Malone screamed. “I’m the one in charge here—talk to her again and I’ll put a bullet in her head!”
“Take it easy, Malone. Nobody has to get hurt here.” Nick raised his arms and slowly turned around. “I’m not armed—see?”
“Where’s the guy with the gun?”
Nick pointed to his left. “He’s right over there, staying out of the way—I’m handling this.”
“Tell him to come out where I can see him!”
Donovan stepped out next to Nick. He rubbed his nose and whispered, “Can you see where he is?”
“No—it’s just a solid wall of black. His voice seems to come from different places—I think he’s moving around.”
“He’s scared,” Donovan whispered.
“Show me your gun!” Malone yelled to Donovan.
“Show me yours.”
“I’m not kidding around here! Take out your gun and drop it!”
Donovan leaned closer to Nick. “Still got that .40 caliber?”
“You took it from me, remember? To break that window.”
“Crap,” Donovan said. “I left it back at the truck.” He took out his Glock and held it up so Malone could see it, then tossed it aside.
“What are you doing?” Nick whispered.
“We need him out in the light where Brenton can see him— he won’t come out if he thinks we’re armed.”
“Now I want both of you to lie down on your faces with your hands behind your heads!”
“This is moving too fast,” Donovan whispered. “Brenton needs time to get into position.”
Nick took a step forward. “Leave the woman, Malone. Nobody cares what happens to you—just leave her where she is and we’ll let you walk right out of here.”
“Yeah, right!”
“I didn’t come here looking for you—I came for her. She’s my fiancée, and we’re supposed to get married tomorrow. I can’t have a wedding without a bride, now can I?”
“She’s coming with me!”
“You’re a smart guy, Malone—think it over. Your only chance is to move fast, and she’ll just slow you down. You think the cops will go easier on you if you take a woman hostage?
They’ll tear you to pieces.”
“He’s right,” Donovan called out. “Trust me—it’s a guy thing.”
“Shut up, both of you!”
“So you did a bad thing three years ago and now it caught up with you. So what? You’ve got money—get yourself a good lawyer and fight it in court. You might pull it off—it happens all the time.”
“He’s right about that too,” Donovan shouted.
“But if you hurt that woman in any way, the authorities will be all over you. And believe me—they’ll be the least of your worries.”
There was no response from Malone.
“Here’s how we’ll do it,” Nick said. “My friend and I will back away and give you plenty of space. Come on out whenever you’re ready and take a look around. When you feel comfortable, just leave the woman and take off—we won’t follow.”
“How do I know that?”
“You want a straight answer? Because all kinds of people will be looking for you and they won’t need our help. I told you—I’m only interested in her.” Nick took a few steps back and motioned for Donovan to do the same. “We’re moving back now,” he said. “Come on out whenever you’re ready.”
Just then there was a brief, shrill whistle from the direction of the lake.
“What was that?” Malone shouted.
“What was what?”
“That whistle!”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Who else is with you?”
“We’re next to water, Malone—it could have come from the other side of the lake.”
“I’m not an idiot!” Malone shouted. “I warned you!”
Nick turned to Donovan. “He’s panicking—we need to do something fast.”
“Brenton can’t get a shot as long as he stays in that shadow.”
“We need more light—and we don’t have time to wait for the moon to come up.” Nick glanced up the hillside and saw the silhouette of a bulldozer. “Hey—can you drive that thing?”
Donovan looked. “Yeah, I drove one in the Marines. It’s basically just two handles—one to steer and one to work the blade. Why?”
“Get it down here,” Nick said, “and hurry—we don’t have much
time.”
39
The stillness of the night was broken by the throaty thunder of a diesel engine and the heavy clank of iron tracks. The bulldozer came rumbling down the side of the excavation with Donovan at the controls and Nick balanced behind the blade.
As the bulldozer neared the bottom its left side was completely exposed; when a gunshot echoed out over the lake Donovan crouched down lower in the operator’s seat. When he reached the open side of the excavation, Donovan shoved the left stick and turned the bulldozer ninety degrees to the left. Now he was even more exposed, and a second gunshot rang out—the bullet ricocheted off the bulldozer’s engine hood with a bang. Donovan shoved the stick hard; the left track froze, but the right track kept rotating, causing the bulldozer to pivot in place until it was facing Malone’s position. At the same moment, Donovan pulled back hard on the right stick and the thick metal blade rose up like a shield.
When it did, Nick scrambled up behind the blade and leaned across the engine hood to Donovan. “Hit the lights,” he said, “and kill the engine.”
Suddenly the excavation was awash with light—but the light was much dimmer than Nick had hoped. He poked his head up above the blade and looked—he saw Malone and Alena huddled against the dirt wall, squinting as their eyes adjusted to the bulldozer’s headlamps. Nick could see that Malone still had his left arm hooked around Alena’s throat with his gun pressed against her head; he kept his body almost completely behind hers, using her as a human shield.
“That’s not much light,” Donovan said. “I’m not sure Brenton can even tell them apart.”
“I have to find a way to separate them,” Nick said.
“How do you plan to do that?”
Nick stepped out from behind the blade and held out both hands to show them empty. When he did, Malone pulled the gun away from Alena’s head and pointed it at Nick.
Good, Nick thought. Focus on me, not her.
“Turn off those lights!” Malone shouted.
“Relax,” Nick said. “I just want to talk. It’s hard to talk to someone you can’t see.”
“We can still talk!”
“There’s a lot more to conversation than words, don’t you think? There’s facial expression, and gesture . . . It’s hard to tell what somebody’s thinking when you can’t see them.” It’s hard to shoot them too, he thought.
Then Nick realized there was a problem: Malone and Alena were standing directly in front of the bulldozer—the metallic monster was blocking Brenton’s line of fire. There was no way to tell Donovan to move the bulldozer—that would just tip Malone off. No, he had to get Malone to move out to the side— and he only knew one way to do it.
Nick took a step forward.
“Stop!” Malone shouted.
“I just want you to see that I’m still not armed—okay?” As he held out his arms he took one step closer—just enough to clear the front of the blade. “I only want to talk,” he said. “Everything’s fine; nothing’s changed; I just wanted to throw a little light on the situation, that’s all.”
As Nick spoke, he began to move to the right; he was directly in front of the bulldozer’s blade now, and he realized he had put himself in a very vulnerable position. If Malone was even a half-decent marksman, he would have no trouble hitting Nick at this short distance—and even if the bullet missed, there was a chance it would ricochet off the blade and kill him on the rebound. It definitely wasn’t the place to linger, but he knew that any sudden movement might set Malone off—so he continued to move slowly and steadily, one step at a time, circling around to the right.
And then Malone did exactly what Nick expected: He took a step in the opposite direction, maintaining the distance between them, dragging Alena with him as he went.
Good boy, Malone.
“Don’t come any closer!” Malone shouted.
“I’m not—I just thought I’d come around where you can see me.”
Another step to the right for Nick, another step to the left for Malone and Alena.
“Now isn’t this better? Nobody likes staring into headlights.”
Within minutes Nick had maneuvered them clear of the bulldozer—now all he had to do was separate them enough to give Brenton a clear shot. But how was he supposed to do that? Malone kept his body directly behind Alena’s, holding her neck so tightly that she couldn’t even turn her head, poking his own head out first on one side and then on the other—there was no way for Brenton to take a shot without possibly hitting her. Malone was not about to relax his grip, and Nick could think of no way to trick him into doing so.
Alena had to do it—she was the one who had to make a move. She had to twist away, or throw her head back into Malone’s face—but why would she? Alena could see that Nick wasn’t armed, and she had seen Donovan throw his gun away too—and she didn’t even know that Brenton was there. What would be the advantage to her in trying to twist out of Malone’s grip? It was exactly what she needed to do—but as far as she knew, it would be suicide.
And Nick had no way to tell her. Even if he could think of something to say, he couldn’t take a chance on saying it. Talk to her again and I’ll put a bullet in her head, Malone had said— and Nick was pretty sure he meant it.
Then he heard a yip and glanced up; he saw Ruckus, Trygg, and Dante standing on the edge of the excavation, looking down at their master’s dilemma below . . .
Bingo.
Nick looked at Alena and snapped his fingers.
Alena turned her eyes to look at him.
He held out his hand palm down.
She looked at his hand, then at his eyes—and Nick saw a spark of recognition.
Alena let her legs go suddenly limp, forcing Malone to carry her full weight. He still had his left arm hooked around her throat, but the sudden and unexpected addition of weight caused his arm to momentarily buckle—and when Alena’s body slid down against his chest, Malone’s head was left sticking up like a nail from a two-by-four.
There was the distant crack of a rifle.
40
Are you sure you’re all right?” Nick asked.
“I told you, I’m fine,” Alena said. “Stop fussing and leave me alone.” She shrugged the blanket off her shoulders and took a water bottle over to her dogs, squatting down and allowing each one to lap from her cupped hand.
The area around the excavation site was now swarming with activity. Both local police from Honesdale and officers from the state police barracks over in Blooming Grove had responded to Sheriff Yanuzzi’s call for assistance. They arrived at the lake house within minutes, where Pete Boudreau pointed them to the trees as Nick had instructed; they were guided the rest of the way by the sound of a rifle shot echoing in the night. Temporary work lights were quickly set up around the perimeter of the excavation, powered by a diesel generator kept onsite by construction crews. The excavation itself, not long ago a pit of perfect darkness, now glistened like a swimming pool at night; a crime scene photographer scurried back and forth in the bottom, snapping photos of a man’s lifeless body slumped against one of the dirt walls.
Nick, Alena, Donovan, Brenton, and Ed Yanuzzi had all spent the last hour briefing officers on the events leading up to the death of Duncan Malone. Statements were signed, photos were taken, contact information was exchanged—Brenton even surrendered the brass casing of the shell responsible for piercing both sides of Malone’s skull. “If you want the bullet, you’ll have to do some digging,” he told them. “At this range a .308 is still supersonic when it hits.”
Now the four men gathered near the bulldozer and watched Alena as she cared for each of her dogs; Pete Boudreau arrived from the lake house a few minutes later.
“She’s one tough cookie,” Yanuzzi said. “Look at her—she almost got shot in the head and she’s taking it like it was a walk in the park.”
“She’s been planning a wedding,” Nick said. “It was probably a nice break.”
“You need to watch her for post-traumatic stress
,” Brenton said. “We see it in hostages all the time. They can be almost euphoric when they’re first released, but sometimes it catches up with them later.”
“You should go talk to her,” Donovan said.
“I keep trying,” Nick said. “She keeps telling me to leave her alone.”
“She says that, but she wants you to try anyway.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m married, that’s how.”
Nick shook his head. “I think she needs some space right now.”
“Classic male mistake,” Yanuzzi said. “You think you’re ‘giving her space,’ but she thinks you don’t give a flip. Donovan’s right, you should go.”
“But what if she does need space? Then she’ll get mad.”
“She’ll get mad either way. Welcome to marriage.”
“Ed’s right,” Donovan said. “It’s important to show her that you care, and when you don’t care, you have to show her that you’re pretending to care. Trust me, women are complicated.”
“I think she’s already mad,” Nick said.
“What do you expect? You left town less than a week before your wedding, you never called her, and you made her drive all the way up here looking for you. Can you blame her?”
“Let’s get something straight,” Nick said. “I left town less than a week before my wedding because Pete wrote and asked me to. I drove all the way up to the Poconos because that’s where Donovan’s cute little ‘clues’ pointed. And the only reason my fiancée ended up at that lake house tonight is because Yanuzzi gave me that stupid cold case to work on. This little plan was all your bright idea, guys—not mine.”
“This is no time to be pointing the finger,” Donovan said.
“Go talk to her.”
“Okay,” Nick said. “I’ll give it another try.”
The four men watched as Nick approached his fiancée again.
“Nick’s right,” Pete said. “We’re the ones who should be talking to her.”
“Us? Why us?”
“Because we’re the ones who almost got her killed.”
“We didn’t do it on purpose,” Donovan said.
The other three just looked at him.