Elevation: A London Carter Novel (London Carter Mystery Series Book 5)

by BJ Bourg

  I opened my truck door to toss the flashlight inside, but stopped when a piece of paper fell from my floorboard and onto the driveway. It was a receipt for the hamburger I’d purchased earlier. A soft breeze was blowing and it swept the receipt up before I could snatch it off the ground. It went flying across the street and I strolled patiently after it. I resisted the urge to run, because that would only make me look like a fool.

  When I reached the edge of the street, I shined my light into the shallow ditch and saw the paper resting up against a clump of aquatic grass. I bent and retrieved it, but grunted when I saw another piece of paper on the other side of the ditch. Never one to leave litter laying around, I jumped over the ditch and recovered it.

  I was about to ball up the piece of paper, but stopped when my light flashed across the front of it and I saw a logo I didn’t recognize. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a withdrawal receipt from a bank in Roanoke, Virginia and it was dated Friday, May 23rd—four days before Trace Mullins’ family was found murdered.

  An icy chill came over me as I realized it had to be the receipt of the man who was holding Dawn hostage. Without touching any other parts of it, I rushed to my truck and placed it in a clear evidence bag. I then held it to the dome light of my truck and examined it more closely. Thirty thousand dollars had been withdrawn from the account and the receipt showed that there was a remaining balance in the high six figures. The last four digits of the card from which the money had been withdrawn were displayed at the upper right hand corner of the receipt. I needed to know the account holder’s name, but it would be impossible without the complete account number…unless I could develop a fingerprint on the receipt.

  Without wasting another second, I jumped in my truck and drove to the Seasville Substation. The jailer hit the buzzer to let me in and—after waving to him—I hurried to the processing room and pulled out the fingerprint kit. Processing paper was a little more challenging than smooth surfaces like glass, but I was able to develop what looked like a latent thumb print on the underside of the receipt. I held it up to the light. It was unique in that there was a thin line right down the middle of the print, which meant the individual had a scar running down the center of the pad or the receipt was creased at the time the print was deposited.

  “As soon as I identify this bastard,” I said out loud, gritting my teeth, “I’m heading straight for his house to take his family hostage in exchange for Dawn.”

  Next, I drove across the parish to the detention center in Chateau. It was a slow night at the jail, and the booking officer promptly took the print and scanned it through the AFIS (Automated Fingerprint Identification System) machine. He shook his head and frowned when he was done. “Sorry, but this person isn’t in the system.”

  I felt deflated. After thanking him, I took the print and walked back to the parking lot, where I sat in my truck for a long moment, wondering what to do and where to go. I wanted to call Patrick, but I resisted the urge. He would call when he could. I was about to crank up my engine when my cell phone rang. It was a number with a New Jersey area code—Shannon Reed!

  “This is London,” I said.

  “London Carter, to what do I owe this great honor?”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Not long enough, my friend. My wrists still grow numb from time to time thanks to your metal irons of hate.” He paused briefly. When he spoke again, his voice was cautious. “While I am always happy to hear from an old friend, I am a little curious as to why you would be calling. I never figured you for the type to want to help save the animals—especially since you arrested me for an act of self-defense on behalf of the beautiful alligators in your community—so you must be inquiring about something else.”

  “I need your help,” I admitted slowly. “I can’t tell you what’s going on, but I need any information you might have on eco terrorist groups that engage in violent activities.”

  “What do you mean by violent? What you consider violent might differ from what I consider—”

  “Murder,” I said, interrupting him. “I’m talking about the killing of innocent people.”

  “Dear Lord.” Shannon gasped. “I’m not aware of any animal rights groups that would resort to murder. We’re a peace-loving community who are interested in saving the lives of God’s helpless and beautiful creatures. Sure, we might engage in a little sabotage from time to time in order to save some innocent animal from certain peril, but we don’t engage in acts of violence—period.”

  “Well, what kind of groups might resort to murder as a way of furthering their cause?”

  “It would depend on the subject of the murder,” Shannon explained. “If the murdered individual is looking to destroy a particular tract of land, then perhaps an environmental group might be behind the murder, or it could simply be the property owner. I do know of one environmental group out west that was investigated by the FBI for plotting an attack on an oil company, but that was many years ago.” He sighed. “I’m afraid if I don’t know the details about which you speak, I can’t offer my opinion on who is doing it.”

  I hesitated, unwilling to give away too much information. Finally, I asked if he knew of any violent activists operating out of the Washington D.C. or Virginia areas.

  “None that I know about.” He paused again, then lowered his voice. “Look, since you helped me out with the district attorney, I’ll put out some feelers for you. If I hear anything back from my people about a murderer in the community, I’ll let you know. Of course, it would help if I knew more about the case.”

  I hesitated again, then asked if he knew anyone named Bruce who liked to make reference to “Bruce Lee, the legend”.

  “Can’t say that I have ever heard of such a person.”

  “What about a man who likes to wear masks at protests and wears Bruce Lee T-shirts?”

  “Again, I can’t say that I recognize such a description.”

  “Well, eighteen years ago you were at a protest with five other men. One of them was wearing a mask and a Bruce Lee T-shirt. The man I’m looking for, he likes to make reference to Bruce Lee and he hates the vice president because of her political views.”

  “Ah…” Shannon suddenly realized what was going on. “Am I to assume this call is in relation to the attempted assassination of the vice president merely a week ago?”

  “I need you to keep this quiet, Shannon,” I said. “If you say anything to anyone, I’ll—”

  “No need for dramatics,” Shannon said. “Mum’s the word. Send me the picture via this number and I’ll see if I recognize the gentleman about which you speak.”

  I thanked him and ended the call. After texting him the picture, I drove home to get some sleep for the next day. It was going to be a big one, and I didn’t know how I would handle the polygraph examination.

  CHAPTER 40

  1:35 a.m., Tuesday, June 3

  400 Yards East of the Chism Home, Western Arkansas Wilderness

  Patrick Stanger had been in his sniper hide for the past two hours. He’d found a spot that offered the perfect blend of cover/concealment and visibility. While there were patches of brown all along his side of the mountain, he had set up in a thick patch of greenery that was about a yard away from a large boulder. The boulder was about four feet high and just as round, and it would stop any kind of gunfire that might come from the cabin, which was four hundred yards away.

  The large rock would also shield him from the afternoon sun later in the day—if he had to stay out there that long. His wish was to get all of the men in one place and take them out early in the morning. He certainly didn’t want the operation to go into tomorrow, because that would be cutting it too close. He needed to rescue Dawn in enough time to call London and let him know she was safe, so he wouldn’t go ahead with killing the vice president. That would ruin everyone’s day.

  While Patrick would’ve never guessed London capable of murdering an innocent person, he could hear the pain in the man’s
voice earlier when he spoke about Dawn. Knowing that pain all too well, Patrick was keenly aware of the lengths good people might go to for the ones they loved.

  As he kept his right eye on the cabin and his right hand on his rifle, he reached for some beef jerky with his left hand. He carefully bit off a piece and savored the smoky flavor. He’d purchased the jerky from a smokehouse off of one of the country roads along his route, and it was some of the best he’d ever had. After swallowing the piece, he took a tiny sip of water. The bladder sewn to the inside back of his ghillie suit was about half empty, so he began rationing it. If he was stingy, the jerky and water could last him two days, which was more time than he had to accomplish his mission.

  A triangle of light suddenly appeared in the darkness as someone opened the front door of the cabin and pushed through the screen door. Turning his full attention to the activity, Patrick watched carefully as a man walked outside and strode to the edge of the porch, where he stood talking on what had to be a satellite phone. It was dark under the porch overhang, but the light from the doorway allowed Patrick to easily identify the man through his scope. It was the leader of the group and Patrick had dubbed him Asshole One. Asshole Two was a mean looking bastard who was always playing with a large knife, and Asshole Three seemed to be the computer tech amongst the group.

  Asshole One was waving his hand as he spoke and it appeared he was yelling, but he was too far away to hear and Patrick couldn’t read his lips.

  Now that it was dark outside and the lights were on inside, Patrick was able to get a clear view of the living room and dining room through the screen door. He could see part of a wooden table and a wooden chair to the right side of the doorway. Past the dining room area was a sofa with two lamps on each side of it. He could see a green end table on the near side of the sofa on which one of the lamps was resting, but he could only see the wooden stem and white shade of the lamp on the far side of the sofa.

  Farther into the living room area were two rocking chairs facing a television that was on, and a man was seated in one of the rocking chairs. Dialing up the power on his scope to see better, Patrick studied this man. He hadn’t seen him before and he wondered if it could be Dawn’s father, but only for a fleeting moment. The man turned his head and Patrick recognized him from a photo Tricia had shown him of Abel Chism. He still wasn’t sure if Abel was a threat to Dawn or not. He didn’t have a weapon that Patrick could see and he appeared to be in distress.

  Patrick scanned every inch of the interior that he could see, but there was no sign of Dawn or her dad. He was about to turn his attention back to Asshole One when Asshole Three suddenly appeared from a blind spot at the far left side of the living room. He walked through the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. He moved up beside One and stood staring out into the night as his leader talked on the phone.

  Patrick’s trigger finger twitched in anticipation and he turned his attention back to the interior of the cabin. If only Asshole Two would show his face, he thought, this game would be over in the first quarter.

  Other than Abel rocking gently back and forth, there was no movement from inside. Patrick was tempted to drop the two men on the porch, but he knew he couldn’t. It was all or none—unless he had no choice, at which time he’d try to take out Assholes One and Two. Asshole Three didn’t look so much like a killer and he had an injured leg, so Dawn might be able to kick his ass even if she was tied up.

  After about ten minutes, Asshole One finished his telephone conversation and then he and Three spoke while Three smoked a cigarette.

  Movement from inside brought Patrick’s attention back there once more and he was relieved to see Dawn appear from behind the wall near where Abel was sitting. She was standing there facing the wall and waiting for something. Her hands were cuffed behind her back and there were shackles around her ankles. He cursed in anger as he noticed her swollen nose and raccoon eyes. Someone was going to pay for hitting her…and hopefully very soon.

  A hand reached for Dawn from the hallway and she then turned her back toward the individual. Patrick watched as the rough hands removed the cuffs and then spun Dawn around to secure her hands in the front. A man appeared for a brief second and opened a door along the living room wall that apparently led to a bathroom. It was Asshole Two!

  Before Patrick could center his crosshairs on Two’s nose, Dawn stepped in front of him to enter the bathroom. Right at that moment, Asshole One stepped into the doorway of the cabin and blocked Patrick’s view of the interior. He couldn’t tell if Dawn had entered the bathroom yet or not.

  “Damn it!” he muttered. “Get the hell out of the way—both of you!”

  Even if Dawn was clear, the distance between One and Two was too great to ensure that one bullet would stop both men, so it would be risky to shoot through Asshole One’s head. Although he would go down immediately, Two could drop behind the wall before Patrick got off a second shot and that would put Dawn in danger.

  As Patrick watched—poised for action—Asshole One turned back toward the porch, but Two was already gone. He sighed, relaxing his trigger finger.

  There was movement to the right side of his field of view inside the living room and he saw Abel struggling to stand.

  “What the hell?” Patrick tightened the focus on his scope and zeroed in on Abel’s hip area. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around his body and there was what looked like dried blood in the area of his buttocks. “The kid’s been shot!”

  Patrick continued watching as Abel managed to make it to his feet and then began stumbling his way toward the porch. Even from that distance Patrick could tell the kid was in bad shape. His face was pale and his lips looked blue. His eyes drooped a little and he stumbled as he walked, catching himself on the sofa. He said something to the men on the porch and Asshole Three turned and hurried to him, reaching him right before he fell to the ground.

  Asshole One shook his head and walked back inside, but didn’t stop to check on Abel. Instead, he hooked an immediate left, disappearing behind the wall. His head and shoulders appeared in a small window that was positioned about twenty feet left of the doorway. The height and location was consistent with a kitchen window.

  Patrick turned back toward Abel and he saw Asshole Three checking on the injured man’s bandage. Asshole One joined them and handed a wet towel to Three. A shadow appeared from the hallway toward the back of the living room, but before Patrick could center the crosshairs on Two’s head, Asshole One kicked the door shut.

  “Damn it!” Patrick hissed.

  Lights still glowed from the cabin windows, so he remained watchful. With luck, someone would open the door and he would be able to take all three men out tonight. But the more he watched, the more it became apparent that might not happen any time soon.

  As the minutes turned into hours and nothing stirred, Patrick allowed his eyes to close momentarily. He needed to relieve the strain from staring too long through the scope. Tomorrow would be a long day and he didn’t need his right eye getting blurry on him. As he slipped into the unconscious world of sleep, his son’s face materialized from out of a snowy white cloud. He was about to greet him with a hug—just like he did every time his boy appeared in his dreams—when a distant noise jerked through and interrupted his thoughts. His son rapidly faded into the smoke.

  CHAPTER 41

  Never one to startle easy, Patrick slowly pushed his eyes open and gathered his bearings. He was still on the mountainside and it was still dark. The triangles of light from the cabin’s windows were gone and everything was deathly still.

  Suddenly, there was a flash of light through the cabin windows and, a moment later, Patrick heard a muffled pop that sounded like a broom handle hitting a hardwood floor. From that distance, within the enclosed cabin, he knew it was a gunshot. He peered intently through his scope, but couldn’t make out anything through the windows. A second later, there was another flash of light and popping sound.

  Three gunshots, three hostages—if
we’re counting Abel, he thought.

  Had the bad guys just executed Dawn, her dad and Abel? If so…why? Patrick’s heart sank as doubt crept into his mind. Maybe he should’ve taken them out when he had the chance. Sure, it would’ve been risky, but now Dawn might be dead.

  Forcing the doubt from his thoughts, Patrick scanned every inch of the cabin, searching for any signs of movement. Finally, after about twenty minutes, the front door to the cabin opened and the spring on the screen door screamed in protest as someone backed through it. Based on the shape of the person’s body and the limp, Patrick guessed it was Asshole Three. He was struggling with something heavy and a dark figure was helping him.

  When Asshole Three finally got out onto the porch, where the moonlight cloaked the area in a bluish hue, Patrick recognized Asshole Two as the other figure. The men were carrying what looked like a body, but it was wrapped in a large blanket and Patrick couldn’t make out who it was.

  Holding out hope that it wasn’t Dawn, Patrick tracked the men as they carried the body to one side of the cabin toward a gully that snaked down their side of the mountain. When they reached it, they simply tossed the body down into the crevice and walked away, not even bothering to throw dirt or rocks or branches on top of it.

  Patrick swiveled his rifle back toward the cabin, hoping to see the leader at the door. If Asshole One would walk outside at that moment, he could drop all three men and get to that body in a hurry—maybe even render first aid if the person was still alive.

  There was no such luck. Assholes Two and Three lumbered up the porch steps—both of them appearing winded from the heavy lifting—and disappeared inside, slamming the door shut behind them.

  As he continued peering through his scope, Patrick’s mind wandered to that body in the ravine. Was it Dawn? If not, it was either her dad or Abel. Whoever it was, why did they start executing their hostages? Did someone do something to provoke them? Or did they receive information from the outside world that prompted the killing?