by BJ Bourg
“It’s not our call. If they want to come down here every day and talk to the people of this parish, I’ll happily accommodate them.”
On any other day, I would’ve readily agreed with him, but considering what was going on in the background, I wasn’t happy about losing a few days to save Dawn. As I sat there across the desk from him, I wanted so bad to tell him what was going on, but I dared not involve him. If things happened to go bad, I didn’t want good people getting caught up in my mess.
When I didn’t respond, the sheriff continued.
“I’ll need your help putting together a list of SWAT members and perimeter officers to work the detail, and I’ll need that list as soon as possible. The feds are sending a team down first thing in the morning to start screening the officers we put on the security detail.”
“What are you talking about?” I scowled. “Since when do the feds start screening our officers? Last I checked, it was their people who tried to kill VP Browning.”
“You’re right, of course, but I’ve already agreed to it.” The sheriff waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not a big deal and they’re doing the same thing with their own agents.”
I nodded slowly, wondering what kind of screening it entailed. When I asked, I didn’t like the answer.
“They’re bringing some body language experts down and running everyone on the polygraph.”
“They’re running everyone on the polygraph?” I asked incredulously. “Do you know how time-consuming that’ll be?”
“That’s why they’re starting early and why I need that list as soon as possible. I want our people lined up and ready to go when they get here. We’ll work out a schedule and make sure there’re no lapses in time.”
While I thought it was a brilliant idea, I didn’t say so. Instead, I just sank back in my chair and wondered if I could pass a polygraph under the circumstances. I’d taken one during the application process as a new recruit for the sheriff’s office, but I’d had nothing to hide back then. I’d also been around the devices on a number of occasions during my duties as a detective. I was aware it measured and recorded blood pressure, breathing, heart rate, and skin conductivity—all of which I could control. My only doubt was about whether or not I could turn the anxiety up during the controlled questions which required a known lie as a response.
“London, are you okay?” I looked up to see the sheriff leaning forward, his arms resting on his desk and his eyebrows nearly touching. “It looks like you’ve got something heavy on your mind. And your eyes are red. Have you been getting enough sleep?”
“I’m fine.” I stood and headed for the door. “I’ll start working on that list now. After all, they didn’t give us much notice.”
Before I could step out into the hallway, he called out my name again and stopped me.
“Yes, sir?”
“After the rally, we’re having a ceremony to recognize you and Rachael for saving the vice president’s life,” the sheriff said. “And there’ll be news reporters there who’ll want to interview you. I hope you remember our little deal.”
“I do.”
“Good.” He nodded smugly. “You’ll do the department proud. Now get to work.”
“Rachael,” I called when I reached my desk. “Can you help me with something?”
“Sure.” She rolled her chair away from her desk and rode it down the aisle between the rows of work stations. “What’s going on?”
I explained about the screening procedures and asked her to help me compile a list of names for the security detail.
“Polygraph?” She grunted. “I’m not taking a polygraph unless those Secret Service agents take one, too. It was one of their own who betrayed this country in the first place. We were the ones who saved VP Browning.”
“Everybody’s taking one,” I explained. “I don’t like the idea, either, but it’s brilliant. Had they done this last weekend we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
And Dawn wouldn’t be held up in some mountain wilderness with her life hanging in the balance, I thought.
Rachael was thoughtful, and then shrugged. “I guess it makes sense.”
Without saying anything more about the polygraph, we began making a list of the best officers we had. In addition to our sniper team and SWAT members, we selected patrol officers and detectives who had proven themselves trustworthy in the past.
I wrote down Abraham Wilson’s name. “Remember this kid?”
Rachael nodded. “He was at the shooting last week.”
“He handled himself like a pro. I want him working the crowd in plain clothes.” After finishing the list, I fired up my computer and accessed the electronic personnel directory. “Let’s split the list—you call the first half and I’ll call the second.”
Rachael agreed and ripped the page down the middle, handing me one of the pieces. Once she had retreated to her desk, I dipped into my cubicle and checked my phone. Nothing. No calls or messages from Patrick, Bruce, or Shannon. I had to bite back the choking sensation I felt as I wondered what Dawn was doing right at that moment and if she was okay. Was she hurt? Was she scared? Did she know I was working on freeing her?
It took every ounce of energy inside me to remain calm as I picked up the phone and began calling the officers on my half of the page. It felt as though I were hovering above my body and watching myself work. The feeling of detachment was so real that I began to wonder if my speech was even coherent. No one asked me to repeat myself, so I figured I was functioning beyond the pressure and anxiety that was building in my chest.
CHAPTER 38
Somewhere east of the Chism Home, Western Arkansas Wilderness
Patrick Stanger had been crawling on his belly for the past two hours, moving centimeters at a time. The cabin that belonged to Abel Chism’s family had come into view a hundred yards back when he had crested the ridgeline. While it was nearly a thousand horizontal yards away on the opposite ridgeline, Patrick knew if he could see the cabin, the occupants could potentially see him, so he’d slipped to his belly like a snake and slithered forward utilizing a sniper’s crawl. He could not afford to be detected.
He stopped often to put glass on the cabin, but hadn’t detected any movement yet. What if this is the wrong place? His heart sank at the thought. If he had wasted half the day creeping up on the wrong place, there would be no hope for Dawn and he would’ve let London down miserably.
It was time to stop and assess again, so he eased into a prone position, putting his rifle out in front of him and peering through his scope. The cabin was weathered and gray and situated on a steep mountain. If he set up shop at that location, he would be in an elevated position, which meant he would have to calculate for angle, distance, and wind. Since the distance was easily a thousand yards, the angle sharper than thirty degrees, and there was a crosswind of nearly fifteen miles per hour, it would be a real challenge to take out multiple targets in quick succession. Nope, he thought, I’ve got to get closer.
After easing his rifle back into the crook of his arm, he lowered his head and pushed forward. If he could slip farther down the mountain, he would be able to close the distance and get on a level plain with the cabin, which would increase his chances of a successful rescue—if Dawn was actually being held there.
The musky smell of wet dirt was thick in his nostrils as he inched forward, careful not to make the tops of the tall weeds sway more than the current breeze would allow. Although the mountain air was cool in the dark shadows at that elevation, he was sweating beneath his ghillie suit. It was much more humid in Arkansas than it had been when he left Utah, and it was also warmer.
Patrick could feel the pull of gravity as he descended the side of the mountain, and he had to force himself to move even slower. In some places, the ground was rocky and bare and he had to change his route to stay within the thick foliage. If he crossed a barren piece of earth, he would stick out like a cockroach in a bowl of white rice.
As he continued moving forward,
he could feel the shadows growing longer as the sun dipped behind the trees that lined the ridge on which the cabin rested. The sun was in his eyes and he didn’t like it one bit. If he’d had a choice, he would’ve approached with the sun to his back. That would’ve put anyone in the cabin at a disadvantage, but those were the breaks. Since the sun was acting like a giant spotlight highlighting his side of the mountain, he’d have to be extra careful.
He had probably moved another hundred yards when he decided to stop to scope out the area again. He glanced at his watch. It was six o’clock. If this was the wrong cabin, he’d have to run off of the mountain. He started to slide his rifle forward when a flicker of movement about twenty feet away caught his eye. He froze and studied the area, not looking directly at the spot. When he saw the movement again, he honed in on the exact location and sighed when he saw a large doe. She didn’t seem to know he was there, which was a good sign.
After watching the doe for about a minute to make sure it wasn’t bothered by anything, he eased his rifle into position and looked through the scope. He cranked it to its highest power and studied the front of the cabin. All seemed quiet, but the front porch swing was swaying ever so slightly. It had been completely still the last time he’d looked. Had someone sat in it or had the wind blown it?
Patrick was focused on the porch when there was a sudden crashing sound from where the deer had been eating. Without moving his head, he lifted his eyes and scanned the area, realizing the deer was gone. She had bolted toward the right and he could hear the underbrush rustle as she continued running away.
Whatever had spooked her was to his left. He turned his eyes in that direction and penetrated the thick shadows with his eyes. He couldn’t hear anything at first, but he knew something was there. He could sense it.
Easing his hand down to his waistband, he slid the Recon Tanto with the seven-inch blade from its sheath. He cocked his right leg and held the knife forward, poised for action. If whatever had scared the deer posed a threat to him, he’d have to dispatch it swiftly and silently. Even if it didn’t pose a threat, he might have to put it down so he could carry on his mission without any interruptions.
He waited for about three minutes, but there was nothing. He was starting to think that the deer had overreacted and his own senses were wrong when it suddenly appeared from out of the shadows directly in front of him. It was a coyote and it was big. He’d seen some nice sized coyotes in Utah, but this one was a monster. It was the size of a healthy German shepherd dog.
The coyote stopped to test the wind, seemingly unaware of Patrick’s presence. He didn’t move. If someone was watching his side of the mountain and had seen the deer run off, the coyote would explain that action. But if the coyote got spooked, they might start looking for a human in the bushes.
Patrick wanted to look through his scope to check on the cabin, but he dared not even flinch. He cursed the coyote under his breath, telling it to hurry up and get the hell out of there. Finally, when he started to think it would bed down in that spot for the night, it turned and sauntered off, following the same path the deer had taken.
When he was sure the coyote was gone, he turned his scope back on the cabin and grunted when he saw a man standing on the front porch smoking a cigarette. He had an olive complexion and there was a .44 Magnum revolver tucked into the front of his waistband.
Patrick quickly gauged the distance. Seven hundred yards. Damn, he thought. I need to be a little closer.
Adjusting his scope to its highest power, he tried to penetrate the shadows of the screen door behind the man, but it was no use. It was too dark inside and the screen was too thick.
The only way he could guarantee Dawn’s safety was to take out all of the bad guys in rapid succession, which meant he needed to know how many of them there were and he needed all of them in one place at the same time. If he shot the man outside right at that moment, the remaining captors would surely kill Dawn. And the only way to figure out how many of them were there would be to conduct hours of surveillance and hope they all showed themselves eventually.
When Patrick turned away from the screen door and brought his attention back to the man, he froze. The man was staring through a high-powered set of binoculars and was scanning the ridgeline on Patrick’s side of the mountain.
While Patrick knew his camouflage job was completely undetectable, he also knew the one thing that gave away a sniper’s position more than anything else was movement, so he remained motionless and watched the man. At one point, it felt as though the man was looking directing into Patrick’s eyes, but Patrick knew it was impossible. The corner of his mouth curled upward as he wondered if the man knew how close he was to dying.
“If I put three pounds of pressure on this trigger,” Patrick said softly, settling the crosshairs over the bridge of the man’s nose, “you’re a dead man.” The man didn’t seem bothered at all, as he casually panned the binoculars from left to right. Patrick grunted, realizing the man was just some mercenary hack who was not cut from the same premier sniper cloth as he and London were. He knew that snipers who were at the top of their game could sense crosshairs like a branding iron against their flesh, and this guy was completely oblivious to the fact that he could die at any moment.
Patrick continued watching until the man lowered the binoculars and went back to smoking his cigarette. Once he’d crushed out the cigarette and tossed it onto the ground—something that infuriated Patrick—the man returned inside the cabin and shut the door. After watching for a few more minutes, Patrick gathered up his rifle and continued his painstaking trip down the mountainside.
CHAPTER 39
Detective Bureau, Payneville, Louisiana
It was almost seven o’clock in the evening when I left the bureau. Rachael and I had contacted everyone who would be on the vice president’s security detail and told them about the polygraph examination. Six of them flat out refused to subject themselves to the screening process and, out of respect for their wishes, we found replacements. When I told the sheriff about it, he had sighed and said he wished he hadn’t agreed to the polygraphs, but that there was nothing more he could do about it now. He’d given his word and we would all have to live with it.
When I arrived home I forced myself to eat dinner and then I did what I would always do before I’d met Dawn—I stretched out on my living room floor and dry-fired my sniper rifle for about an hour. As my body went through the motions, my mind was on Dawn. I wanted to be out there looking for her. I didn’t like that her life was in another man’s hands—no matter how capable Patrick was—and I didn’t like that I hadn’t heard anything all afternoon. I knew he was potentially behind enemy lines and didn’t have the free time to call me and provide frequent updates, but I wanted to at least know he’d found the right place.
I finally stopped dry-firing and stood to my feet. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so utterly lost. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I got in my truck and drove south to Dawn’s house. I wanted to feel close to her, so I let myself into her house and crawled in her bed. Her pillow smelled just like her, which only made me miss her more.
I lay there staring at the ceiling for most of the night, unable to sleep. I finally got out of her bed and walked to the kitchen, where I stood staring around the room.
The bastard who kidnapped Dawn stood in this very room, I thought, trying to visualize what he looked like. After I’d stood in one place for too long, I walked outside to where the neighbor had seen the man get out of his vehicle. I walked to my truck and retrieved a flashlight, then returned to the edge of the driveway and studied the ground. As I’d discovered when I first responded to the scene, there was nothing noteworthy.
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 we
nt 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.