Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

  * * * * *

  Bronson walked out of Wal-Mart, bag in hand. He opened the trunk, supposedly to put the bag there. Instead, as unobtrusively as possible, he retrieved the five-shot snub-nose revolver and the box of ammo. He slipped them inside the Wal-Mart bag and slammed the trunk shut.

  He looked at his watch. He had accomplished the task and had three minutes to spare. He folded his arms in front of him and leaned against the car. He watched the people coming in and out of Wal-Mart. None seemed to pay attention to him.

  His phone rang. He looked at the caller I.D. L’ee calling. “Yes?”

  “Good job, Detective Bronson. I assume you’ve got the GPS unit. That’s what’s in that Wal-Mart bag, isn’t it?”

  Bronson’s gaze scoped the parking lot. No one stood out. Everyone seemed to be minding their own business. “Now that I have it, what do I do?”

  “Now you’ll go geocaching. Since this is your first geocache, I’m breaking you in nice and easy. Unfortunately, I can’t send you to a computer to look up the information on this particular cache. After all, this cache was created just for you.”

  “I feel very special.”

  L’ee laughed. “I’m glad to see you’re able to maintain your good sense of humor. I wonder how long that will last. I’m going to give you all of the information you’ll need to find your first geocache. Do you have a piece of paper handy?”

  Bronson retrieved his notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. “I’m ready.”

  “The Safford City Park hosts your first geocache. The coordinates are N3250.067 and W109 43.207. This is an easy find, so you only have forty-five minutes. The clock is ticking. All the information you need is in the geocache. Good luck. I’d hate to have something happen to Carol before the four hours she has left are up.”

  The call ended and Bronson opened the trunk and retrieved the Wal-Mart bag. Once inside the car, he took the gun out, loaded it, and placed it in his waistband under his pullover Polo shirt. He started to drive out of the parking lot and realized he didn’t know where he was going. He saw a woman with two small children. He rolled down the window and said, “Excuse me.”

  A worry frown creased her forehead. She reached for her children’s hands. “Yes?” She took a step backward.

  “Do you know where the Safford City Park is?”

  She relaxed and gave him instructions. He thanked her, drove off, and glanced at his watch.

  He had thirty-seven minutes to accomplish this first task.

  * * * * *

  In its prime, the cabin must have been luxurious, but neglect had taken its toll. The upholstery on the chairs and sofa had faded to a dull brown and had worn away in several spots. A thin layer of dust coated the furniture and impregnated the heavy, satin drapes. The place now stood dingy and poorly lit which, in a way, provided Carol with a bit of comfort. At least her captors couldn’t see the fear in her eyes.

  They also wouldn’t spot the bit of hope she clung onto. She had memorized every bit of the cabin’s layout and maybe that knowledge would help her escape.

  That thought brought a new sense of fear. If by some chance such opportunity arose, would she ever be able to find her way back to safety? She doubted it. It seemed they drove forever to reach this isolated place.

  More out of desperation and wanting to keep her mind busy, she began to listen to the creature sounds outside the cabin. Somehow they sounded guttural. Unreal. Menacing. A shiver ran down Carol’s back.

  Chapter Forty

  Either the instructions the lady gave Bronson were extremely good or the park was easy to access. Either way, Bronson felt thankful when he saw the park. He drove past the rodeo barns and pulled into the parking lot.

  As he parked the car, he scanned the area. For a Tuesday afternoon, the park bristled with activity. A group of elderly people packed the benches and jabbered nonstop to each other. Or maybe to themselves, Bronson couldn’t tell. Two couples sprawled on the grass while their children darted between the trees. A teen, wearing a skimpy top and tight shorts that didn’t quite cover all of her, moved to a rhythm only she could hear on her stereo headset. Bronson wondered why she wasn’t in school, but then, with an outfit like that, it was a good thing she wasn’t.

  Bronson retrieved the GPS and took a reading. He was off by several degrees. If he headed west, he would find the correct longitude. He walked until the GPS told him he had reached W109 degrees.

  He headed north, looking for the right latitude. That led him up toward a creek and a footbridge. Halfway across the bridge, he stopped. According to the GPS, he was standing right on top of the treasure. How could that be? He looked around and spotted nothing unusual.

  The rail—maybe there was something attached to the rail. He checked. Nothing. The opposite side, then. Again, the search proved fruitless.

  That meant that the only other place the treasure could be hidden was on the bridge itself, or more likely, under the bridge. He had two choices. Get in the water and look under the bridge or lie down on the bridge and try to see under it. The dry approach appealed to him more.

  He lay on his stomach and looked under the bridge. He saw an envelope. Four thumbtacks, one in each corner of the envelope, held it under the bridge. Bronson reached for the envelope.

  He sat up and ripped the envelope open. He noticed his hand shaking as he unfolded the note. It read:

  Congratulations, genius.

  You’ve actually mastered the skill of geocaching. Then again, this was such an easy find. Let’s see how you do on a real geocache.

  Your next set of coordinates are N3750.261 and W109 54.311. The location, you ask? Well, first tell me whom the eighteenth president of the United States was and what fort he was assigned to. There are somewhere between 191 to 266 reasons why you need to know that. Try listing 157 of these reasons. You do that and it might just lead you down the right f_ _ _ _ road to Carol’s cabin.

  By the way, the game began at 1:06. Carol’s time runs out at 6:06. Do you think you’ll be able to find her before then? Tell me, Detective Bronson, are you worried about time? If you find the next geocache within an hour’s time, you’re still on schedule.

  Good luck—or should I say—good luck to Carol? Hmm. . .

  Bronson couldn’t help but look at his watch. It read 2:22. He looked around. Damn. No public restroom. Of course not, dummy. This is a city park and few come equipped with any kind of facilities.

  He drove to the first gasoline station, parked in front of the men’s room and went inside. He locked the door and retrieved his phone. He punched in the numbers to the hotel and asked to be connected to the O’Days.

  Marie picked up the phone in the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Marie? Bronson.”

  “Bronson, thank God you called. Are you okay? We got your message. Is there anything you want us to do?”

  “I’m worried to death, and yes, there’s something you can do. Do you have access to the Internet?”

  “We’ve got our lap top with us and it’s got wireless connection.”

  “Good. I need to know who the eighteenth president of the United States was and what fort he was assigned to.”

  “I’ll get on it right away. Tom’s out in the field, driving around, seeing if he can locate the car. He’s also made a couple of calls. See what he can dig up. Ahh, here it is. The eighteenth president of the United States was Ulysses S. Grant. Damn!”

  Bronson felt panic tightening in his chest. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Grant, you know, Commanding General of all of the Union Forces. I’m sure we’re going to find a lot of battlefields and forts mentioned.”

  Shiiit! “Maybe one will trigger something. Would you mind checking?”

  “No, of course not. What’s this about?”

  Bronson briefly explained about geocaching and the hints L’ee had left. “That information should lead me to the location of the next geocache.”

  “I don’t see how. Good luck dec
iphering the message. From my end, I’ll try to get that information as soon as possible. When I find it, do you want me to call?” Marie asked.

  “I’m not sure if I’m being watched, but just in case I am, I sneaked into the men’s room and that’s where I’m calling from. Just to be on the safe side, I’ll leave my phone on vibrate and I’ll call you back. You can also text me. Let me have yours and Tom’s cell number so I have them in my contact list.”

  She gave them to him. He entered the numbers in his cell phone, thanked her, disconnected, placed the phone back in his pocket, and walked out. He approached the gasoline attendant. “I need to know where there’s a Barnes & Noble.”

  Her hand froze halfway to the cash register. “This is Safford, not Phoenix or even Tucson.”

  Damn. He knew that. Of course there would be no big name bookstore here. “How about a Big Five Sporting Goods?”

  She glared at him.

  Bronson bit his tongue. “Does this town have a sportin’ goods store?”

  “Yes.”

  Bronson waited. She didn’t say anything else. So okay, he hadn’t asked her where it was. “How do I get there?”

  “You know where downtown is?”

  “I reckon.” He had driven past it on his way to Dolly’s.

  “Well, it’s there.”

  “And the name?”

  She folded her arms and frowned. “It’s Gayle Connely. Why do you want to know that?”

  Bronson closed his eyes and shook his head. “I meant the name of the sportin’ goods store.”

  “Oh.” She turned red.

  She should have. Bronson waited.

  “It’s the Gila River Outfitters, or just the Gila Outfitters. One or the other, for sure.”

  Bronson thanked her and jumped back into his car. As he worked his way downtown, his mind focused on the note. The eighteenth president: Grant. What fort was he assigned to? And if more than one, which one served as the clue? What were the 191 through 266 reasons he needed to know that and why should he know 157 of them? And finally, what was that about the f_ _ _ _ road?

  Bronson turned onto Main. Thank heaven for small towns. Downtown wasn’t much bigger than two blocks long. He quickly located Gila Outdoors—not the for sure, Gila Outfitters—but finding a parking space proved to be a problem. He ended up having to park on one of the streets off Main and trotting to the store.

  As he swung the door open, he immediately located the sales clerk. “I need a topographical map of the area. Do you have one?”

  “Yes, sir. We have an Arizona atlas and gazetteer that carries the topography of all of Arizona.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  The clerk’s eyebrows arched. “Don’t you want to see it first?”

  “No.” He thought about it. “Yes. Let’s take a look at the map of this area.”

  “Yes, sir.” He opened the atlas and gazetteer to the right page and showed it to Bronson. He scanned the area surrounding Safford. One word on the map shouted at him: Grant. Fort Grant. Located approximately forty miles from Safford. Can be reached by driving south on Highway 191, then west on Highway 266, and finally up Farm Road 157. Rather clever, he thought and wished L’ee’s creativity hadn’t included kidnapping Carol. Bronson’s stomach did a flip-flop. “How much do I owe you?” Bronson asked, attempting to calm his edgy nerves.

  “It’s fourteen ninety-five plus tax.”

  Bronson retrieved a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and shoved it toward the sales clerk. “Keep the change.” Map in hand, he ran out the door.

  The distance between Fort Grant and Safford jumped out at him. Forty miles away!

  Even if he traveled at sixty miles an hour that would leave him less than twenty minutes to locate the next geocache.

  He was running out of time.

  Chapter Forty-one

  As Bronson drove through the mind-dulling expanse of rabbit brush, greasewood, saltbush, sagebush, and the occasional scattered cacti, his mind focused on Carol. Once again, the turmoil about not notifying Quaid ate at him. Getting the police involved was the right thing to do. Why hadn’t he done that? This was Carol’s life he was talking about. The thought froze his blood and a chill covered him.

  He turned west to Highway 266 and soon the parched, barren earth gave way to scrub pine. Carol loved trees, the forest, the lakes. Her idea of heaven would be a cabin by a lake surrounded by trees.

  A cabin!

  L’ee’s note had mentioned Carol’s cabin. Was she indeed being held in such a place?

  He whipped out his cell and punched in the appropriate numbers. When he heard Marie O’Day answer, he said, “Marie? Bronson here. I found a town close to Safford called Fort Grant. I’m headin’ that way right now. I think that’s what L’ee meant when she asked what fort Grant served under. But, if you don’t mind, keep on searchin’, just in case there’s more to it than that. However, I’d like you to switch priorities.”

  “To what?” The static on the line made it sound like to hat.

  “L’ee’s note mentioned something about Carol’s cabin. That’s probably another hint. Mind doin’ a search for cabins? Are there any stores, restaurants—whatever—in the area that contain the word cabin? Also, see if you can find the locations of any cabins, especially in the Fort Grant area.” He heard Marie sigh.

  A brief silence followed, then, “That’s a big job. I’ll get on it right away.”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate it. Any word from Tom?”

  “Soon as he has something, he’ll call.”

  “Okay, thanks.” He disconnected and looked at his cell. He only had two power lines. He had been able to make out every word she said, but at times the static on the line had made it difficult to understand. He hoped that didn’t mean that he was about to lose service.

  No sooner had he set the phone down, than it began to ring. Bronson picked it up. The caller ID read Tom O’Day. “Hey, Tom. Bronson here. What have you got?”

  “I located the Cadillac. It’s been parked all of this time at the Wal-Mart parking lot. I’ve checked and doubled checked. L’ee’s not here, nor is Balthasar. But I’ll continue to keep an eye out. Maybe—I hope—somebody will come get the car.”

  A feeling of cold helplessness washed over Bronson. He should have contacted Quaid. Under any other circumstances, Bronson would have spotted the car in the parking lot. Instead, he’d been watching people. He hadn’t been thinking like he should have. “Have you checked the car out?”

  “I called the motel and verified that it’s the one registered under L’ee’s name. License numbers are the same. Is that what you mean?”

  “Are there any cameras attached to the car? Maybe that’s how they were watchin’ me.”

  “I’ll check, but I can’t do a thorough search without blowing my cover.”

  “I understand.”

  “Bronson, there’s something else.”

  Bronson braced himself. “Go on.”

  “I have a police contact back in California. I asked him to run a license check. It turns out that the Cadillac registered under L’ee’s name back at the motel actually belongs to a Joe Simes, better known as Balthasar. L’ee drives a green Jeep Liberty which I remember seeing parked in the motel’s parking lot. I’ve always wanted to buy one so naturally I noticed it, but I couldn’t tell you if it’s the same vehicle. At the time I spotted it, I didn’t have the license number or a reason to check it out. One thing I can tell you, the car is not in the motel’s parking lot. I don’t know how long it’s been gone.”

  A Jeep Liberty, an all-terrain vehicle. Just the kind that would be needed for this case. L’ee sure had thought of all details. “Thanks, you’ve done well. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for that car.”

  “Bronson, don’t you think I should tell Quaid what’s going on?”

  “He’s aware that Carol is missin’. He just doesn’t know about the latest developments.” The conflict Bronson felt formed a tight knot in the pit of his stomach. “
Let me find this second geocache, then I’ll be able to tell better what kind of game L’ee is playin’. As soon as I know, I’ll call you. At that time, we can discuss whether we should turn to Quaid.”

  “I’ll wait for your call.”

  Bronson disconnected and stepped on the gas pedal. He had the road much to himself. For that, he felt thankful. Soon the trees of the Pinaleon National Mountains Forest thinned until Bronson found himself back in the parched waste of desert land. His uneasy feeling mixed with the heat and the quiet suffocated him.

  Carol. Oh, Carol. Be safe, my love. Please be safe.

  Bronson spotted the sign for Farm Road 157. He slowed down and turned right. He drove past Angel Field. Who in their right mind would ever put a so-called airport out here in the middle of nowhere?

  He checked the reading on the GPS. The longitude was almost right. Unless the road made a drastic turn, this road should lead him to the correct longitude, maybe a mile or two ahead.

  Bronson stared at the dilapidated sign announcing Fort Grant’s village limits—if you could call it that. There wasn’t even a gas station in sight. Only the hot, dry heat greeted him. Bronson ignored the oppressive warmth and took another reading off the GPS. He was almost right on target. He pulled over, walked the few feet until he got the correct longitude.

  He headed west, searching now for the designated latitude. He stopped. The treasure was here. Where? A lizard flickered between the cacti and desiccated bushes. He looked under each shrub, between the rocks, on the bushes themselves. Nothing.

  The cactus didn’t—couldn’t—hide much. He walked around them, his heart thumping all the way in his throat. The GPS told him it was here, somewhere within a few feet from him. Why wasn’t he seeing it?

  He stopped.

  Think.

  He looked around, studying each object. Observing the earth. Would L’ee have buried the cache? He had been at a sporting goods store. Why hadn’t he thought of buying a shovel? He would use a rock, if he had to.