The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4)

by T Patrick Phelps

  Curiosity having the tremendous pull that it had on him, Derek stopped his car, put it into reverse and backed into the spot the truck had just vacated. He stepped out and walked around, looking to see if any of the bag’s contents might have fallen to the ground. The ease at which the two men were tossing the stuffed bags around, suggested to Derek that either the two were ridiculously strong, or, whatever was stuffed into the black garbage bags, was light. More volume than mass.

  Besides several small rocks, a cache of spent cigarette butts and a few discarded bottle tops, Derek found nothing of interest. But just before he turned to get back into his car, he caught sight of a single, green, leafy weed laying on the ground. He bent over and picked it up. To him, it looked like a normal weed, one that might drive the homeowners in the area mad as hell at their lawn care service provider. Holding the broad leafed weed in his hands, Derek made another pass around the area. He ventured off into an area of the woods where the vegetation seemed to have been recently trampled. He followed what he believed to be the path of the two men he had seen hoisting the garbage bags into the woods for fifty feet, paying attention to the forest’s floor. As the forest’s floor started to lose its green underbrush and became what Derek expected a forest’s floor to look like—brown dirt covered with decaying leaves and scatters of felled branches, twigs and pine needles—he noticed several more droppings of the green weed. He gathered up ten or more of the weeds, shoved them into his back pocket, then headed back to his car. He was far from being a botanist and, far all he knew, the weeds stuffed into his back pocket were nothing more than a unique breed of dandelion.

  It hit him as he reached for the door handle.

  “Shit balls,” he said out loud. He quickly pulled out a couple of the weeds from his back pocket and inspected them more closely. Though he had only smoked pot one time in his life—during a particularly interesting leave when in the Army—the weeds being pot and the two men he saw carrying the bulging garbage bags being pot dealers made total sense. He pulled out his iPhone from his pocket, was glad to see that despite his location, he had three solid bars of coverage, and launched a Google image search for marijuana. A few seconds later, images appeared on his screen of a long, green-leafed plant. The weed he held in his hands had leaves that looked more like an elongated oak tree’s leaves and not the ragged edged, long, thin leaves of the marijuana plant.

  “Damn,” he said as he saw his theory evaporate.

  He shoved the weeds back into his pocket, opened his car door then continued his drive around Ravenswood.

  The main fire station in Ravenswood, known as Station One to members and townsfolk, was located on Seymour Boulevard, an off road of Main Street. The original station was built in 1951 but had undergone multiple expansions and rebuilds as the town surrounding the station grew. As Derek parked his car in the side lot, he noticed a plaque affixed to the red brick wall beside the main entrance, that read, “2011 Expansion Project in Memory of Vincent Thurber. Past President, Past Chief. Member from 1951-2010.”

  Derek had seen the Thurber name a few different times during his drive through Ravenswood. There was a Thurber Hardware store on Shelly Drive, a Thurber’s Bar and Grill tucked behind a Home Depot off Main Street and a Thurber Road which was lined with beautiful homes that had complex roofs.

  The door to the fire station was wedged open, allowing the heat of the July afternoon to escape from the firehouse. Derek walked into a large room with two dining room style tables off to his right, a fifty-five inch TV mounted high on the facing wall and three open doorways, one on each side of the room. A quick glance through the doorway to his right revealed the main engine bay. To his left, two converted Chevy 2500 Silverado trucks sat ready to respond to any medical emergency. The doorway straight ahead led to the dispatch room.

  The dispatch room, stern and fully utilitarian in the furniture filling the room, was brightly lit. A speaker—tucked somewhat haphazardly against the right hand wall beside a Ricoh copier—was crackling out details of a domestic abuse call in the nearby city of Utica, New York that cops were responding to. A semi-circular shaped desk commanded most of the space in the small room. Sitting at the desk, in a blue upholstered chair Derek believed was as old as the station itself, was an elderly man.

  “How can I help you?” the man said to Derek.

  “My name is Derek Cole, Freelance Detective. My services have been retained to assist Bo Randall. I’m hoping I can speak with someone about Bo, the fire and whatever else may be important.”

  The sitting man, his voice wet with phlegm, coughed a short series of high pitched, breath-stealing coughs. He then pulled an off-brand pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his stained jeans, lit the stick with a lighter that was resting on the desk in front of him. “You know, Bo means a lot to a lot of people down here. You may not get very far if you’re digging for shit to put him away. We’ve always had a good relationship with local police, and I’m not saying that this whole Bo Randall thing is going to bring an end to that. I’m just saying Bo means a lot to a lot of people in this department and none of us are raising their hands to volunteer any information that may hurt Bo.” The man drew heavily on his cigarette, brought the smoke deep into his lungs, creating two-toned whistling sounds, then exhaled the blueish colored smoke into the air. A few crackling coughs punctuated the end of his statement.

  Derek waited for the sitting man’s coughing spell to end, then said, “Actually, I’m working for Bo Randall. I’m investigating on his behalf. Not looking to dig up anything that would hurt his case, but only for information that may help his situation.”

  The sitting man considered Derek for several seconds, coughed a few small coughs, then said, “You know you have to tell me if you’re a cop. It’s the law around here. You a cop? You working for the cops?”

  “I’m not a cop,” Derek said, then handed the siting man a business card. “Like I said, my name is Derek Cole. I was hired by Louis Randall, Bo’s father, to help exonerate Bo.”

  The elderly man took the proffered business card, glanced at it then handed it back to Derek. “I left my cheaters back home. Can’t read a damn thing. Don’t matter much, though, I suppose. If you say you aren’t a cop and you’re working for Bo, I guess I can trust you.”

  “Wonderful,” Derek said. “Mind telling me your name?”

  “Earl Turner,” the sitting man said. “Tell me, Derek Cole, what has your investigation turned up so far?”

  “Just started today. Besides driving from my hotel to here, I haven’t seen or spoken with anyone.”

  “Well then,” Earl said, “you ought to prepare yourself. There’re some strange things going on in this town. Things I can’t explain. The fire, the killing of Brian Mack and his mother, Bo being arrested? Those things are just icing on the cake.”

  Derek said, “What do you mean by ‘strange things’ Earl? Can you give me an example?”

  “People aren’t themselves. Some of them, anyways. I’m still me and most of the guys around this department are still the same guys around the department. But I keep hearing about people in town doing things they never done before. Doing things that surprise everyone else.”

  “Like?”

  “Like Adam Strafford up over Factory Road giving his wife Jean a busted up lip and a rash of bruises on her face. Like Pat Waterhouse firing up his chainsaw at three in the morning and taking down his neighbor Bill Prescot’s elm tree in his front yard. Or Saul Troffert, Andy Bennet and Bruce Ibsen getting arrested last week for slashing car tires up and down Delaney Street. Them three, Saul, Andy and Bruce are all decent men. Working men, all three. Saul’s a shift supervisor up at the compounding facility on Green Street. At least he was before he got arrested. Not sure what will happen to him or become of his position after all of this. Andy’s a volunteer member in this very department. I don’t know much about Bruce but I never heard anything bad about the guy. I know he works for Saul at the plant, is married and has a couple of
kids.

  “I could tell you a laundry list more of strange things the people of this town have been doing as of late, but that’s not what you’re here for. You’re here to find out about what Bo Randall did. And let me tell you, that’s the strangest thing of all, what Bo did. The strangest thing of all. I’ve known Bo since he joined this department. He’s grew into having a bit of a wild side, but hell, if I had his looks and his gift of gab, I’d probably have done the same things he’s done. Except for what he did a couple days ago. That wasn’t like Bo at all and is something no one in their right mind would ever do.”

  Derek was about to ask Earl some prepared questions, when the radio speaker blared out the voice of a very calm sounding woman.

  “Ravenswood, medical emergency at 1515 Park Rd. Ravenswood, medical emergency, 1515 Park Rd. Fifty-seven-year-old female, unconscious, apparent head trauma. Stage for law enforcement. No prior history available.”

  Earl reached for the dispatch microphone, acknowledged the call to the Reynold’s county nine-one-one services, then paused, his finger hovering slightly above a button on a second microphone to the right of the one he had just spoken into. “Gonna get loud in here for thirty seconds or so.”

  No sooner had Earl finished his warning, then the wailing siren on top of the Ravenswood Fire Department began screaming its vacillating call. Rising in volume and pitch, in rolling waves, the siren’s scream filled the department, making conversation challenging or damn near impossible. As the siren paused between its bleating call, Derek could hear either its echo or another siren in the distance, mocking the siren he estimated was no more than thirty feet directly above his head.

  Three people, two men and one woman, all dressed in dark blue polyester pants and dark blue short sleeved t-shirts—the Ravenswood Fire Department crest in crisp white on the left breast and “Emergency Services” emblazoned in large, white letters across the backs—appeared from the left side of the room Derek had first entered. One of the responders jumped behind the wheel of one of the 2500 Silverado and the others piled in after him. Derek saw the woman sitting in the passenger’s seat grab the radio and start speaking into the handheld microphone.

  “Rescue One. Responding. ALS.”

  Derek saw the rolling red lights on the rescue truck flashing their angry redness and soon the angry sirens were wailing their warnings down Seymour Boulevard.

  The siren on top of the fire department quieted. Earl dropped his finger on the call button, and said, “Ravenswood, we have an EMS call, 1515 Park Road. Ravenswood, we have an EMS call, 1515 Park Road. Rescue One, ALS is responding. Zero nine forty-five. Ravenswood Station One is manned.”

  Earl then turned to Derek, “It’s going to get busy and loud in here in a few minutes. You might better find your way to a quiet chair. I’ll find you when things return to normal.”

  Within a few minutes, the station was buzzing with activity as members responding to the emergency poured into the station. Derek had chosen to sit at one of the tables in the entrance room but was quickly redirected to wait in the department’s lounge.

  “You’ll be more comfortable in here,” a member told him after escorting Derek through the station and into the member’s lounge area.

  “I can come back later, if you think I’ll be in the way,” Derek said.

  “Earl told me you’re here to talk about Bo and that you’re an investigator?” the man asked as he shot glances over his shoulders.

  “I’m Derek Cole, private investigator. Hired by Bo’s father to run a ground investigation.”

  The man extended his hand to Derek, “I’m John Mather. I’m one of the fire officers here. I think you and I should talk someplace else later on today. If you want to talk about Bo, this isn’t the place to do it.”

  “I figured this would either be the best place or the worst place,” Derek said.

  “It’s neither, actually,” John said. “But it’s more likely to be the worst place than the best if the wrong people take exception to you asking questions about Bo and the fire. Listen, on the west side of town, we have a town park. Let’s meet in the parking lot around two this afternoon. You can’t miss it; just follow the signs for the town hall. The park and the parking lot are adjacent to the town offices.”

  “That sounds fine,” Derek said.

  A young man Derek guessed was no older than nineteen or twenty approached John, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Lieutenant, the call is at Captain Randall’s house. Dispatch got the address wrong.”

  “Son of a bitch,” John said. “Who’s the fifty-seven year-old with the head trauma?”

  “Crown,” Derek said, his voice flushed with panic. “She’s Bo’s mother and my assistant. It has to be her. She’s been staying there since we got in yesterday. Son of a bitch, I need to get over there.”

  Derek’s attempt to rush out of the department’s lounge was halted by John Mather. “It’s a stage for law enforcement call, Derek,” he said. “Meaning no one can get into that house until the police clear the scene.”

  “Someone called in the emergency,” Derek said. “Someone is in there with Crown. It has to be my partner, Nikkie Armani.”

  “Listen,” John said, “doesn’t matter who called it in, you’re not getting within a hundred yards of the house. The cops must have let our EMT’s inside to start patient care, but they won’t let anyone else in. Give me your cell number, I promise I’ll call you once I find out what’s going on. Trust me, if you run over to the scene, you’ll get stopped and turned away. If it is your assistant, Bo’s mother, you’re better off going right up to the hospital in Utica. It’s about a twenty mile drive north. That’s where the ambulance will take her.”

  Derek ripped out a business card from his pocket and handed it to John. “Please call me,” Derek said. “I need to find out if this was Crown first, but considering this recent turn of events, I need to talk with you about this case.”

  John took the proffered business card, flipped it over and scribbled his phone number on the back. He handed the card back to Derek. “I have a bad habit of losing things. That’s my cell number on the back. Call me when you can.” John turned to the young fire fighter and told him to wait for him in the ready-room. “And Derek, I can’t say for sure what’s happening in this town, but I’m pretty sure that whatever is going on, is dangerous. You better watch your six.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nikkie drove slowly back to Bo’s house, occasionally turning down side streets, still keeping a sharp eye out for Bo. When she crossed the town line of Ravenswood—greeted by an eight-foot-wide by six-foot-high wooden sign, with carvings reading “Welcome To Ravenswood: The Gem of Upstate New York—she had given up trying to find Bo and decided to try Crown’s cell again.

  “If Bo trusts anyone,” she thought, “he’d trust his mother.”

  Her call again hit voice mail.

  Fifteen minutes after crossing into Ravenswood, Nikkie pulled her rental car into the driveway of Bo’s house. Things looked quiet and, not surprising, Bo wasn’t sitting on the front porch, drinking a beer and smiling over the prank he had pulled. As she walked up the stamped concrete walkway, which wound around a few expertly managed outcroppings of low-growth bushes and soon to be towering ornamental grass, Nikkie paused. There was nothing out of place that she had noticed, nor were there any sounds coming from Bo’s house that suggested that she approach with caution, but her instincts were whispering otherwise. Keeping a consistent watch on the front door and windows of Bo’s house, she inspected the walkway for anything unusual. As she climbed the single step from the walkway to the front porch, she again tested her memory to see if anything had changed.

  Her instincts were now screaming at her and when she saw that the front door was ajar and what looked like drying blood was smeared just above the brass handle, Nikkie drew her Glock 19 from her concealed holster and held it with two hands to her eyesight.

  She pushed the door open with her hip, then, slow
ly, entered the room. She checked behind the door then quickly scanned the living room.

  Nothing.

  In the doorway which connected the living room to the kitchen, Nikkie spotted a vacuum cleaner sitting upright with its plug winding around into the kitchen, then disappearing from her view. With her 9 millimeter leading her way, she crept through the living room and into the kitchen.

  She was no more than two feet into the kitchen when she saw Crown.

  Lying in a pool of blood that created a sickly smelling, maroon colored halo around her head, Crown looked much too still. Nikkie’s instincts snapped, and instead of rushing to Crown’s side, she scanned the kitchen. Seeing nothing, she raced, gun still leading her way, through the house, checking behind each door as she cleared every room in Bo’s house. As she made her way back to the kitchen, she pulled out her cell, dialed nine-one-one, then knelt beside Crown.

  The nine-one-one dispatcher took the information, and said to Nikkie, “Police and emergency services are on their way. Can you see if the victim is still alive?”

  Nikkie reached down and felt the side of Crown’s neck. Crown was face down, her ragged breath causing a sickening gurgling sound as it pressed against the pooling blood. “She has a pulse,” Nikkie said. “But it doesn’t seem right. Weak and inconsistent.”

  “Is there anyone else in the house with you and the victim?” the dispatcher said, her voice calm, reassuring.