John poked his head out the door and looked toward the commotion at the nurses’ station. A young man in low-riding jeans and a hooded sweatshirt pounded his fist onto the counter top in front of the nurse. “Damn it! Just need to see for myself that he’s ok.”
Cindy, the ICU nurse whom John had spoken to earlier, was on her feet. She said in a calm, but firm voice, “Sir, you can’t go that way. I will call security if you don’t leave. Only family is allowed in the room.”
The young man paced back and forth in front of the station, "Oh, man. Oh, man. I am so royally fucked here. You’ve got to let me see Rick. I’ve got to know. We didn't think they'd do it! Why won't you people let me see him? Is he gonna make it?”
Cindy’s voice was less patient now. “Sir, don’t make me call security.”
John quickly walked to the nurses’ station. “Can I be of some assistance?”
The man stopped pacing and grabbed John’s arm. “Tell her I can see him.”
John could see the young man’s eyes were clear and his gut told him the kid wasn’t dangerous, just desperate for news of his friend. John felt sorry for the guy; he’d probably do the same thing, if it were his close friend in there. John turned toward the ICU nurse. “Cindy. I got this. Let me have a word with him.”
Her face was still flushed with anger, but she nodded curtly. “He’s all yours.”
John grabbed the young man’s arm and gently steered him down the hall. “I am Doctor Goodman, Rick Wilson's surgeon. I am afraid I can't let you see him right now, but why don't we go down to the café and I’ll see if I can answer some of your questions. I don't know about you, but I could use a shot of caffeine.”
John felt the kid relax a fraction. “Uh, yeah. Guess we can do that. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. Just wanted to make sure he’s ok. Jesus, shot in the fucking head.”
The young man followed John down to the café. He absently thanked John for the cup of coffee, but just fidgeted with the handle when they sat down at a table in the nearly deserted room.
John studied him for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself. Can I ask your name and how you know Rick?”
The young man looked up and mumbled, “Name’s Billy MacGregor. Rick and me go way back. I’ve been helping him lately.”
Billy’s eyes darted around the room and his leg jiggled up and down. When he didn’t say anything more, John said, “What have you been helping him with?”
“Look, what’s with all the questions, huh? I just want to know how Rick is.”
John could see the kid was winding up again and he needed to defuse the situation. In a calm voice, he said, “Of course you do. Look, your friend isn’t out of danger yet, but his body is working hard to heal right now. He’s in an induced coma to help him get better.”
Billy shouted, “A coma? A fucking coma? This is bad, this is really bad.” He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. He began to pace once more.
John quickly stood up and gently pulled Billy’s arms down. “Billy, it’s ok. Come on; let’s go sit back down, where we can talk.”
John righted Rick’s chair and they both sat down. John said, “Billy, I know you are worried about Rick, but he’s getting excellent care. Is there something else going on? You seem pretty worried. Maybe I can help?”
“Nobody can help me with this. It was just some dumb college assignment, you know? Rick needed an A in the class and he knew the prof would be jazzed about the topic.”
John prompted, “The topic….”
“Yeah, you know. Fracking. The topic du jour. About how those fuckers are getting away with raping the land, yadda, yadda. I was just the camera guy.” His leg resumed shaking and he looked into John’s eyes. “Do you think I’ll be next?”
John wanted to tell this kid everything would be okay, that he was just being paranoid. But after what had happened to his friend, who could blame him?
Clearing his throat, John said, “Billy, I don’t know anything about why your friend was shot. Maybe he was at the wrong place, at the wrong….”
Billy interrupted him. “No, that’s not it! Those fuckers were after him! They knew he was getting close. And they knew I was there, right next to him the whole time. Oh, shit.”
He folded his arms, laying them on the table in front of him. He bumped the cup and the coffee sloshed over the sides. Billy rested his forehead on his arms and his shoulders shook.
John was surprised to see the young man cry. He was just a kid, really. He was obviously scared, but of what exactly? John thought about Rick Wilson lying in the hospital bed in a room above their heads and thought, Maybe he has a right to be scared.
“Billy, look. I have a friend who is working on Rick’s case. You could tell her what you know and she’d protect you. I’m sure of it.”
Billy looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “Nobody can do anything to protect me, don’t you get it? They have all the power.”
“No, they don’t. My friend works with the FBI. She needs to know what you know, so she can protect you and find whoever did this to Rick.”
Billy continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “Rick was worried. I told him he was paying too much attention to all those conspiracy websites he'd been reading lately. Guess there was something to it after all.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Shit, man. I’m just a glorified gofer.”
John gripped Billy’s forearm. “Please, just talk to my friend, she….”
“No, I shouldn't even be talking to you. Look, can I see Rick or not? “Cause I’ve got to go, man. It isn’t safe for me anymore. Didn't even feel safe coming here. It's just that I owe Rick a lot. We go way back, you know? He convinced me to get clean. Wasn't easy, but Rick was always right there, telling me I could do it.”
John realized he needed to talk to someone. He would rather it be Jo, but maybe if he listened to what Billy had to say, he could convince him to talk to her. He sat still, letting Billy continue without interruption.
Billy ran his index finger through the coffee puddle around his mug as he spoke. “When he asked me to do this fracking project, I was like fuck yeah, road trip across the states. But then we started seeing some heavy shit. Like what those suits were doing to the environment, just to fill their pockets.”
He absently pushed up his sleeves. John saw a tattoo of some phrase running up the inside of his left arm, but he couldn’t make out the words. He also noticed some small white scarring from needle marks. They all looked old and well-healed. John was glad to see the kid was apparently telling the truth about getting clean.
Billy must have seen John’s glance at his scars. He rubbed his thumb across a few of them. “Yeah, I shot up. A lot. But I swear I’m clean now. Rick got me there. I thought about using again when I heard what happened to him. Then I realized he’d be ashamed of me if I went back to being an addict now. It would be like giving up on Rick if I gave up on myself now, you know?”
John nodded. “I’m sure Rick is proud of you.”
Billy took a sip of his coffee, and then started talking again, “I saw what was going on in Williston, North Dakota. Like the fucking old Wild West there, you know? Couldn't even get a hotel room. We had to sleep in the car. Not that I haven't done that before, but Jesus, we had the money. Just nothing was available. Rick called it crazy town.”
He stopped speaking abruptly and closed his eyes for a moment. “Jesus. Here I am, just talking away and he’s lying in that fucking bed up there.”
John prompted, “Maybe you know something that can help find who did this to your friend.”
Billy sat back in the chair for a moment, thinking. Finally, he spoke, “We got to know a guy who worked for the head honcho out there. We first met him when we filmed the documentary, but after a while, he met us on the sly. Said he was sick of covering things up and he wanted it to stop. He worked in a department with a name like conformance, um, something like that.”
John said, “You mean compliance?”
Billy snapped his fingers. “Yeah. That’s it. Anyway, the guy said they made him shred a shitload of papers about water quality and replaced them with bogus ones to send to the Feds.”
John heart beat faster. He wondered if Rick and Billy had uncovered something that had put Rick in the hospital.
He quickly said, “Look, Rick would want you to be safe. Please, talk to my friend and let her help you.”
For the first time, John saw Billy hesitate. “Well…maybe. Are you sure I can trust her?”
John smiled, thinking about how many times his own life had been in Jo’s hands. “She’s protected me a time or two. She’s the best. I can call her now, if you’d like.”
Billy bit his lip. “All right. But only if I can pick the time and place to meet her. Tell her I’ll meet her tomorrow morning at ten. At Nina’s café, on Cathedral Hill in St. Paul. But she’s gotta come alone. Tell her I have a copy.”
John had pulled out his cell phone by the time Billy had said the last phrase. The way the kid said it sounded important. A copy of what, exactly? John wondered.
He nodded and quickly punched in Jo’s number. He offered up a small prayer of thanks that this scared kid had agreed to let her help him.
Chapter Eleven
Turners Bend
Early October
CHIP STRETCHED, ROTATED HIS shoulders and flexed his fingers. Long hours at his computer made him stiff. He put on a pot of coffee and began to hunt for the chocolate chip cookies Ingrid made the evening before. A little jolt of sugar would take him through the morning.
Then he heard it, an easily recognizable sound. The rumble in the driveway could only mean one vehicle. Chip peered out the kitchen window to see Iver’s road maintenance truck. Out stepped his best friend, the guy who always had his back, his partner in adventures and mishaps, the first person he always called in an emergency. Circumstances had forged their relationship and brought together the two most unlikely friends one could imagine…a ne’er-do-well crime writer from a prominent Baltimore family and a plain-folks road maintenance worker. Big, burly, unassuming, with a heart as big as the state of Iowa was how he would described his friend.
Chip met Iver at the door and welcomed him with a cup of coffee. Iver sat in one of the kitchen chairs and removed his seed cap, revealing a deep tan line across his forehead. He wore a blue plaid Western-style shirt with snaps and jeans held up by a pair of red suspenders.
“I pulled that fancy car of yours out of the ditch and towed it to the insurance claims center in Ames. My guess is it will be a total loss. That car sure isn’t your lucky charm, is it? I never knew a guy to have as many accidents as you, buddy. Who do you reckon forced you off the road?”
Chip grimaced as he took the chair opposite Iver. Every muscle in his body ached. Doc Schultz warned him about what to expect a few days after his accident and had given him Flexeril to relax his muscles, Percocet for pain and a cervical collar for his whiplash.
He felt like crap.
“Damned if I know, Iver. It wasn’t the same vehicle from the parking ramp in Minneapolis, that was a black Escalade, but it was no accident. The guy purposely ran me off the road.”
“What’s the word on Runt? He gonna make it?”
Still disturbed by the news from Jane that morning, Chip hesitated and sighed deeply before answering. A lump formed at the back of his throat. “Jane is going to assist in surgery today over at the Hixson-Lied Small Animal Hospital. One of his front legs has to be amputated. They can’t save it. The other broken leg is going to be okay. They used an external tibial fixator, a metal rod, which Jane said will stabilize the break and aid in rapid healing of the bone. I can barely think about him without breaking down, Iver. I love that pup like he was my own flesh and blood.”
Iver leaned across the table and put his hand on Chip’s shoulder. “I remember the day he was born and how you resuscitated him. He’ll be a rascal again in no time, you just see.”
“Jane tried to tell me that three-legged dogs learn to cope just fine. She sent me videos of three-legged dogs running and playing Frisbee, but I just feel so sorry for him. If I only had made him stay home that day, as I intended.”
Iver pushed back his chair, crossed an ankle over his knee and started to chuckle. “Hell, this reminds me of Gus, a three-legged goat Knute and I had when we were kids. There wasn’t anything that Billy goat couldn’t do. Plus, you know Jane wouldn’t sugar-coat it; she tells it like it is when it comes to animals. Your boy is going to be just fine.”
The strains of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” sounded, and Iver unsnapped his shirt pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “I never thought I’d get one of these stupid things, but Mabel insisted. Look here, it says Chief Fredrickson’s calling,” Iver said as he showed the screen to Chip, then pressed a button and put the phone to his ear, “What’s up, Chief?”
Chip listened as Iver nodded, shook his head and said, “Sure thing; I’ll be right on it.”
“Trouble?” asked Chip, after Iver had disconnected.
“Two steer reported out on County Road 17. Bet they’re the two that Tom Schmitt thought were rustled. Want to take a ride and check it out with me?”
On previous occasions Chip had ridden shotgun in one of Iver’s vehicles…snowplow, road grater or maintenance truck. Every ride had been eventful. “Sure. I want to get out of this house. Let’s ride, partner.” He smiled for the first time since his accident.
***
Chip winced with each bump in the road. He wished he had taken another Percocet before leaving the house. The hot dust that billowed into the cab did not seem to faze Iver, but Chip was feeling more than a little queasy and was beginning to regret his decision to ride along with his friend.
Iver looked over at Chip. “You okay?”
“I was just thinking about how smooth riding that Ford was before the accident. This thing got any shocks?”
Iver laughed. “Little hard on your body, huh? Speaking of the accident, I was wondering if any of this has to do with that Finnegan guy who was murdered up in Minneapolis. Is someone gunning for crime writers? You and he nosing around in dangerous stuff?”
“Maybe he was, but I’m writing about fracking. It’s a hot topic, but hardly something someone would kill over. Except in a crime novel, that is.”
Iver pointed to two steer grazing in a pasture. “There they are,” said Iver. “There’ll be hell to pay. That’s Rod Mueller’s place, and they’ve broken through his fence.”
Iver used his cell phone to report the sighting and location to Chief Fredrickson. “The chief is calling Tom to come and get them, and he’s coming out to make sure there isn’t any trouble. We’ll wait here until the two of them arrive, just in case the steer don’t wander off on us.”
“What kind of trouble?” asked Chip.
“You never know with Mueller. He’s a lunatic.”
The heat began to rise in the cab and Chip felt light-headed and nauseated. He feared he was going to vomit. The cervical collar felt like a bull constrictor around his neck. Sweat began to roll down his face. “I’ve got to get out of here, Iver, get some fresh air, move a little.”
He stepped down onto the roadside just in time to spew his breakfast into the tall weeds. Iver jumped down and handed him a bottle of water, looking away. “Ah Chip, you know I can’t handle sick people. Lord, you look like hell.”
They heard a rifle fire and a bullet ping off the side of the truck. “Get on the other side of the truck and keep low,” yelled Iver. “This is the kind of trouble I was talking about.”
Chip did as told, crouched down with his hands over his head and his forehead resting against the truck door. This is insane. I lived in Baltimore for more than forty years and never got shot at. I come to the Midwest and bullets fly at me every time I turn around. I write a couple of lousy crime novels and all of a sudden I’m a target. What the…
Iver placed another call to the chief, who was in route. “Walter, we
got a situation here. Mueller’s shooting at us.”
The Turners Bend police cruiser came speeding down the road, sirens blaring, lights flashing, dust flying. It stopped, and with the motor still running, Chief Fredrickson jumped out and laid an assault rifle over the top of the car. “Rod, it’s Walter. Put that damn gun down. Schmitt’s cattle wandered onto your property. We’ll remove them and leave you alone. Just back off…you hear me?”
“Can’t you read?” yelled the man. “The sign says ‘No Trespassing.’ This is the Republic of Iowa and you’ve got no jurisdiction here.”
“We can read, Rod, but the cows can’t. Calm down. We’ll get them out of here and no one is going to get hurt.”
“I’ll give you half an hour. If them cows ain’t off my property, I’ll shoot the buggers and have myself a fine barbecue.”
The chief kept his rifle on top of the cruiser until Tom Schmitt arrived, loaded up his cattle and drove off. Iver helped Chip into the police vehicle and the chief took him home, sirens sounding and lights flashing, just for the fun of it.
***
Chip took two muscle relaxants, went to bed and slept for twelve hours straight. His dreams were full of danger. He was being followed and Agent Schwann was urging him to run, but he couldn’t seem to move; frac sand was clogging his throat and stinging his eyes, and Dr. Goodman threatened to amputate his leg if he didn’t finish the next
chapter of Head Shot.
Chapter Twelve
Head Shot
St. Paul & Minneapolis, MN
Late October
JO AND FRISCO SAT AT A table in a Thai restaurant in the area known St. Paul’s Little Mekong. The food was authentic and Jo’s mouth watered at all the exotic aromas wafting by her nose as they waited to order.
As if reading her mind, Frisco said, “God, it smells great in here. Nice and spicy, just the way I like it. Have you eaten here before?”
“Yes, I usually get their Pad Thai, but I’ve been meaning to try the whole steamed tilapia. It got rave reviews online.”
Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder Page 7