Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  She considered mentioning the boy to Rashly … nice kid, but he’s wearing this pin. Then she’d have to explain Ted’s drawing, which would lead to explaining how she happened to have the drawings. Marty had been along during her B&E, which wouldn’t gain him any points. Besides, she needed Rashly’s full concentration when she told him about the Church of The Light.

  She hated turning everything over to the task force, knowing they’d move like snails. Any investigation into a church would be frustratingly slow and cautious. Perhaps she could figure a way to stay involved. No reason her early departure this morning should tip off Mike that she was on to his odious scheme. Maybe Rashly could convince the task force that Dixie was their best bet at gaining enough evidence to hang Mike Tesche. While Edna’s notes hadn’t specifically incriminated him, they’d back up what Dixie’d seen in Mike’s files.

  It was the final entry in Aunt Edna’s journal, penned the night before she held up the Richmond bank, that had chilled Dixie: Lucy’s dead! Oh, I know she’s moved on to a happier place, but we planned so carefully. How could this happen? I’ll miss her. I’ll do well for us both tomorrow.

  Not suicide but a desperate attempt to champion a cause she earnestly believed in. Reading those pages, Dixie’d grasped the depth of Edna’s need for validation of her own worth. That validation should have come from lifelong friends who knew and loved her, not from a faction of zealots. Dixie, caught up in her own life, had failed to see Aunt Edna’s downward spiral into desolation, just as she’d failed to see Kathleen’s advancing frailty as the cancer claimed her. But Rose Yenik—somebody’s friend and mother—could still damn well be saved.

  On the main stage, the band signaled the start of the commemoration ceremony by playing louder and more vigorously. Other bands ended their numbers and people began to congregate near the big event. As Dixie called out to Rashly, dozens of moving bodies squeezed in front of her, cutting her off. Rashly vanished.

  She spied Chief Wanamaker and his wife, Mira, near the main stage, surrounded by Secret Service types. Rashly might join them. Then she saw the Mayor talking with the young man from the “Preservation Society.” He must be part of the program.

  Drawing nearer, Dixie realized her mistake. The kid with the Mayor was freckle-faced Philip Laskey. He wore similar clothes, crisp khaki pants and jacket, light blue shirt. Certainly not a uniform—the jacket was longer than the one the other boy wore, but the impression of a uniform, as if they both attended the same private school.

  Nearer the main platform, the crowd thickened. Dixie squeezed through, murmuring apologies. The master of ceremonies finished his welcoming comments. The band started a Sousa strain. Mayor Banning approached the stage, his wife Kaylynn applauding nearby.

  As Dixie eeled through the crowd, the Mayor praised Houstonians for their support over the past six months and voters who turned out at the polls during the recent bond election. Then he praised the HPD officers, two slain and one wounded, for valor in the line of duty. He commended Chief Wanamaker for squashing an insidious drug ring that had preyed specifically on elementary schools. The Chief joined the Mayor at the lectern—

  Crack!

  The sound came from behind her.

  Banning fell.

  Shrieks. Shouts. A swell of movement toward the stage. Dixie muscled through for a better view.

  Crack! The Chief went down.

  Screams and motion erupted as people realized what had happened. Paramedics scrambled into action. FBI agents swarmed the main stage, ordering everyone back.

  More shots behind her.

  “They got him!” A cheer among the clamor.

  Dixie pushed through a dense wall of shrieking, shoving bodies headed toward the nearest exit, forcing her way in the direction of the gunshots. As she neared the Uncle Sam display, a female voice on a loudspeaker identified herself as FBI and commanded everyone away. Two men lay sprawled on the grass, khaki-clad legs splayed awkwardly.

  A woman clutched Dixie’s arm and shook her, babbling. Dixie jerked free and the screaming woman grabbed a man ahead of her. At the edge of the crowd encircling the slain assassins, a small boy stood crying and pointing. A young girl tried to tug him away.

  Dixie pushed closer. One slain man was black, the other Hispanic. Both wore light blue shirts, khaki jackets. No triangular pins, but both looked as all-American as the “Preservation Society” member. And Philip Laskey.

  A strange notion popped into Dixie’s head. What if a gang didn’t look like a gang? What if the members dressed against type, adopted a wholesome, all-American facade, appeared as harmless as the proverbial boy next door? Like Poe’s purloined letter, such a gang could mingle in a crowd like this one with little notice, while a young man in baggies—shaved head, tattoos, skin piercings, gang colors—wouldn’t get two feet inside the park without a cavity search.

  She scanned the mob. No way she could get to Rashly now. And the FBI would never listen to such a wacky tale. Not when they already had the shooters.

  Dixie angled toward a park entrance and worked her sharp elbows, stretching to see over shoulders and heads as she wind-milled through the throng. If her hunch was right, other gang members would be making their escape.

  Out on the sidewalk, the crowd divided around a news truck from a local TV station parked at the curb. A newscaster shouted into a microphone, a camera trained on her face.

  “Two suspects have been shot and apprehended!” The news-woman wore an earphone that probably connected her to another team inside. “Officers are now securing the area around a kiosk where the snipers apparently concealed themselves to carry out the assassinations. Camouflaged with blue and white bunting, the tower-shaped …”

  Dixie headed toward her Mustang, parked a block away. As she jogged, she scanned for khaki clothing—and finally saw them: two clean-cut young men striding toward a green Jeep Cherokee.

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  “You were told not to wear the pin, Cronin.” Philip barely contained his rage as they left Tranquility Park.

  “Never mind the damn pin. What happened?” the rookie demanded. “How did they screw up?”

  “Order and consistency guarantee predictable outcomes.” Philip clicked the doors open to his Cherokee and they climbed in. “One neglected detail undermines predictability. You were told not to wear the pin.”

  “C’mon, Laskey, forget the fuck—”

  Philip’s fist shot out, a hard right jab at Cronin’s mouth. Teeth scraped his knuckles. Thin drops of blood sprayed the dash.

  Cronin yelped.

  “You don’t have what it takes to be one with The People, Wynn Cronin.”

  The rookie lashed back with a fist. Philip clamped a hand over his wrist and twisted, stopping just short of breaking it.

  “Hey! All right!” Cronin squealed.

  “One weak strut topples the tower. If you can’t follow simple orders, how can you be trusted to follow important ones?”

  “You’re nuts, yammering about a pin when men are dead back there.”

  Philip applied more thumb pressure on the wrist, compressing the nerves. The rookie gasped, tears sliding from his eyes.

  “Soldiers die in battle,” Philip whispered roughly. “Did you think this was playtime?” But Martinez, dead? Dodge, dead? Nothing right about that. They should’ve had time to blend with the crowd. “One neglected detail can get men killed.” He released Cronin’s wrist. “Now, go home.”

  “Home? My parents will know something’s wrong. I’m too jumpy.”

  He did look ready to crawl out of his skin. Philip reached across the rookie and pushed open the passenger door. “The People don’t allow nerves to rule their actions. Walk home.”

  “Walk? It’s six god—” Cronin bit off the blasphemy. “Walk six miles? It’ll take an hour.”

  “By then you’ll no longer be jumpy.”

  “Why can’t I hang around the park, see what happens next?”

  “Colonel Jay issued an order
: When Chief Wanamaker is dead, everyone goes home. We meet at the training center at noon.”

  “You always do exactly what the Colonel says?”

  Philip itched to wipe the petulant smirk off the rookie’s face, but not here. Not now.

  “The Colonel doesn’t issue orders lightly. Everything’s been thought out, discussed, and decided upon. Colonel Jay commands the will of The People. Each of us took a vow to honor that will. Are you already backing down on your vow?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “Go home, Cronin.”

  The boy hesitated. “The Colonel didn’t say anything about walking six miles.”

  “Then do what your heart tells you.” Philip made his face as expressionless as he’d seen the Colonel’s on such occasions. Then he placed his foot against Cronin’s side and pushed him out of the Jeep.

  The rookie grappled for balance and managed to land on his feet, then glared for a count of five.

  “You’re nuts, Laskey.” But he started walking.

  Satisfied at providing a lesson in patience and obedience, Philip maneuvered the Cherokee into impossible traffic. He, too, had been included in the order to return home after the mission was finished … only the Colonel hadn’t expected Dodge and Martinez to go down. Certainly, he would require a report. He would need Philip’s help now more than ever. Philip entered the freeway toward The People’s training center.

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Avoiding pedestrians Dixie inched the Mustang forward as she searched for the green Jeep. She spotted it in a snarl of traffic entering the freeway ramp.

  But headed wrong in the tightly packed muddle, she could not make a U-turn. Recalling a little-known road that dead-ended into a vacant lot, she whipped the wheel right, drove across the lot, picked up another road, and joined the freeway at the next ramp.

  Dixie had a theory about Texas drivers. If all the cars in the state were lined up bumper to bumper, some damn fool would try to pass them—and it would probably be her. Bullying her way into the traffic stream, she found an open lane and stepped on the gas.

  A mile and a half later, she spotted the Jeep again. She memorized the license number, noticing there was only one person in the vehicle. Changing lanes, she eased alongside, recognized the Mayor’s junior assistant, then slowed, leaving a double car length between them.

  The Cherokee remained in the center lane, driving precisely to the speed limit. Finally, it eased over to exit and turned east into a wooded area.

  As the county road wound among Texas pines and thick underbrush, Dixie’s Mustang and the green Jeep were the only cars on it. Impossible to keep the other vehicle constantly in sight without being spotted. She dropped far enough behind to avoid alerting the driver. The road wound northeast, then a sharp curve opened into a long, straight stretch of road. The Jeep should be right ahead. It was gone.

  Dixie braked, U-turned, and backtracked to a gravel side road marked PRIVATE near the spot where she’d lost sight of the Jeep. Taking the turn, she headed east into a dense thicket. Her tires kicked up brown road dust as she snaked among the trees. Ahead, traces of dust already floated on the air, showing a vehicle had passed through in the past few minutes.

  The undergrowth gradually thinned out. In the distance, Dixie heard the roar of an eighteen-wheeler as the private road dead-ended into a narrow blacktop.

  She scanned briefly in both directions before turning north, away from the diesel’s diminishing growl. A mile down the road, she spied another turnoff, the air thick with dust. Nearly two miles after the turn, she spied the Cherokee in the driveway of a boarded-up one-story building. Dixie slowed.

  A heavy-gauge chain stretched across the drive, blocking the entrance to a parking area filled with potholes. Laskey must’ve put up the chain after driving through. The Jeep disappeared around back.

  Cruising past, Dixie made another U-turn a quarter mile down and parked the Mustang off the road near a growth of yaupon. She cut the engine and considered what to do. Whatever was inside the building might be none of her business. She might be mistaken about the young man’s relationship to the sniper. Her odometer had registered thirty-six miles, which meant she could be in one of three police jurisdictions. What would she say if she called for help? “Chased the Mayor’s assistant because he was wearing suspicious clothes? Saw him stop at a deserted building?”

  Climbing out of the car, she circled to the trunk and grabbed a penlight, then considered the battered case containing two handguns and a combat shotgun. If Laskey was part of a gang that had engineered the assassinations, she’d be a fool to be caught in that building unarmed. She removed a .38 Smith & Wesson Airweight, loaded it, snapped it into a belt holster at her waist, then untucked her shirttail to cover it.

  Slipping a pair of handcuffs into her pocket, she sprinted down the road, staying in the shadows of the yaupon. The underbrush cleared. The building came in sight.

  Shit! The Cherokee was driving away!

  What now? Jump back in the Mustang and follow?

  No … she had the license number. And that building intrigued her.

  Laskey had left the chain down—meaning he would likely return. Still, she might have a few minutes to explore. Ten minutes—it would take at least that long to drive anywhere from here, wouldn’t it? Anywhere with grocery stores, strip centers, eateries. Ten there, ten back, twenty minutes total.

  Why would anyone drive to this remote spot in the first place—unless that structure contained secrets?

  Dixie jogged back to the Mustang, opened the trunk, and removed a Lock-Aid tool, a gun-shaped device capable of opening just about any lock with a keyhole. If the building was occupied, the four-by-eight sheets of plywood covering every door and window would prevent anyone seeing her approach.

  Easing down one side of the building, Dixie looked for peepholes, loose boards, any way to see inside. She found nothing. She scanned the parking area, and finally peeked around the rear. No vehicles. A wide shed with overhead doors suggested enclosed parking for at least ten cars. Dixie lifted one of the doors and looked in. Empty. But it smelled like a garage, stale oil and exhaust fumes.

  Directly behind the building stood a wooden stand facing open pasture, then wooded acreage. A single-station shooting range?

  She circled back and turned her attention to a plywood panel that covered the rear door. It appeared solidly nailed to the building, like the others she’d tested, but closer examination showed that it was merely nailed to lath strips. When she shoved, the whole panel glided sideways on suspension rollers to reveal a padlocked door. She inserted the Lock-Aid tool into the padlock and pulled the trigger, emitting a series of clicks. The lock fell open. She slipped it out of its hasp, flipped the latch back, and rehung the padlock.

  Anyone arriving would know instantly someone was inside—and Texas property owners had been known to shoot trespassers. Dixie glanced behind her at the empty parking area and the land beyond it, then turned the knob and pushed. The dead bolt was also locked, but a few clicks of the Lock-Aid snapped it open. The door swung inward with a creak that made her swallow a curse, even though the padlock suggested the building was empty.

  Stepping inside, she sensed she was in a large open space. Only the thinnest rays of sunlight seeped through the boarded windows. She smelled cordite. Heard no voices, and no other sounds.

  She slid the plywood panel back in place. At least no one would spot the intrusion from a distance, and the noise of the panel sliding back might give her time to take cover.

  Flicking on the penlight, she saw a polished hardwood floor. Folded chairs leaned against one wall. Above the chairs, a poster read: WE ARE THE PEOPLE, WE ARE THE POWER, WE ARE PROTECTORS. Another poster showed a famous battle scene from the Civil War.

  Her penlight picked out white letters on a blue background. She played the light over the writing. We, the People of the United States … the Preamble to the Constitution.

  Preservation Society, the kid had sai
d. The Civil War poster, the Preamble, both would certainly fit such a group.

  She moved forward ten yards to a raised carpeted platform, with steps leading from one side. Mounting the steps, she looked down at the open floor space. She stood on the stage of an old ballroom. Judging by the lectern, with dials and buttons marked for audiovisual presentation, meetings were held here. The wall behind the stage was painted with a large graphic. She aimed her light around the edges and after a few sweeps recognized a letter “P” enclosed in a triangle. Preservation Society.

  A videotape protruded from the VCR play slot. Locating the volume control, Dixie slid it all the way left, toward mute. She pushed the video in. Instantly, the PLAY indicator lit up, and a twelve-foot movie screen descended from the ceiling, covering the logo wall.

  After a short lead, a mountain scene appeared on the screen, snowcapped peaks, then a waterfall, a hiking trail, cotton fields, lakes, streams—preservation of natural resources? The collage might’ve been taken from a travelogue, with a bit of the History Channel edited in.

  As Dixie reached for the REWIND button, the scene changed abruptly to fires, explosions, street fights. News coverage of the Kennedy assassinations. Then a swift series of party photos, wealthy homes, men in tuxedos, women in furs and diamonds.

  With a rough splice, the video jumped to still shots, and this time Dixie felt a thump of apprehension.

  A smiling photo of Lucy Ames appeared, a close-up, with corner tabs to hold it in an album. The image remained onscreen longer than others had, then a similar one of Edna Pine took its place. The photo was obviously recent; Edna wore the calm, determined expression Dixie had noticed during the bank robbery.

  Another abrupt cut brought a grainy black and white video segment: a police car in the foreground. Rapid movement. A figure falling. The camera zoomed in on Lucy Ames, dead.

  Cut to a highway scene: police cars racing to a halt, lights blazing. A cluster of cops. It took another instant for Dixie to realize she was viewing Edna’s death—footage more graphic than any she’d seen on TV news.