by L C Hayden
“Why the big frown?”
Bronson looked up to see Carol looking down at him and smiling. He opened his arms and drew her in. God, he never wanted to hurt this woman.
“I’m meeting the girls at eight.” Carol drew away from her husband’s embrace. “Have you called Little Carol to let her know we’ll be arriving later than expected?”
He nodded.
Carol wrapped her hands around her husband’s. “This is something I really want to do. It’s silly, I know, but I’ve always had this childhood dream of being on stage. This is my one and only chance. Silly, huh?” She looked away.
Bronson’s heart swelled with love. Carol looked so vulnerable, so embarrassed. “Sweetheart, we all have secret dreams. I’m glad you’re able to live yours.”
Carol’s eyebrows arched. “Really? You don’t mind?”
Bronson smiled and shook his head. “Go for it.”
She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a big kiss, then stepped back. “I’m running late. We’re going to be busy all day today and tomorrow. I probably won’t be home until nine or ten o’clock tonight. That’s okay, right?”
You betcha. “I don’t mind at all. You go on and have a good time.”
She kissed him. “That’s why I love you so much.”
He patted her behind. “Go take your shower before you’re late.”
She headed toward the bathroom, but stopped. “What will you do all day long?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll find something to do. I hear there’s a pretty good geology museum in Rapid City. I like that stuff. You don’t. Think I’ll drive up there.”
“Go for it.”
You bet I will. He sipped his coffee and smiled.
* * * * *
As Bronson drove up Highway 16 heading toward Rapid City, he reached for his cell and dialed Mike Hoover’s number. Back in Dallas when they were both detectives, Mike had been Bronson’s partner. Today, Mike still carried the detective title. The sting pierced Bronson’s heart.
Bronson expected to hear Homicide, Hoover speaking. Instead, Mike said, “Bronson, don’t tell me you’ve got yourself involved in someone else’s problem again.”
“Hi to you, too.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Avoiding answering my question.”
“Can’t a guy call just to say hi to his buddy?”
“Not if that guy is named Bronson. What’s up?”
Bronson drove past Crazy Horse Monument, a carving-in-progress similar to Mount Rushmore. Some individual had taken upon himself to carve the mountain into a giant statue of Crazy Horse riding his horse and pointing. Bronson made a mental note to bring Carol to this monument honoring the Indians. That’d be something she’d enjoy. Besides, its snack bar served buffalo burgers, something both of them wanted to try.
“Bronson? You there?”
That brought his mind back to the reason he had called his once-upon-a-time partner. “I need a contact in Rapid City, South Dakota.”
“What kind of contact?”
“There’s two people in Rapid City whose lives may be in danger—and one is still an infant.”
“Geesh, Bronson. What have you got yourself into now?”
Bronson briefly explained. When he’d finished, Mike said, “Talk about a cross to bear. That poor lady. Her entire world has either collapsed on top of her, or she’s created some kind of soap opera world to live in.”
“I thought so too, at the beginning. Then she showed me those photos, and I found her place and car had been bugged. Turned me into a believer. Think you can help?”
“Depends. What do you want?”
“I’m looking for someone who can provide protection. Bodyguards for Eric and his son.”
“Geesh, Bronson. What do you think I am? Do you think I can just push a button and get you connected to anybody in the world?”
“Exactly.”
A small pause followed. Bronson could almost see Mike thumbing through his index file, searching for a contact. “This’ll take longer than I thought. Give me a few minutes. I need to make a couple of calls before I get back to you. I assume this is a paying job?”
“You assume right. Talked to Linda last night. Seems she’s loaded. Money is no object to her. They’ll be paid and paid well.”
“Good. That’ll make it easier to find someone.”
“Thanks, buddy. I owe you.”
“Exactly,” Mike said, and hung up.
Bronson smiled and put the phone away. He turned his attention to his driving and the surrounding scenery. The vast number of ponderosa pines that surrounded him made him suspect that this was the dominant tree in the Black Hills area. He liked ponderosa pines.
* * * * *
Finding Eric Randig proved to be a snap. Linda had given him excellent directions. A long, sweeping driveway led to the old, wooden house. Bronson pulled in, parked, got out, and rang the doorbell.
A tall, lean man in his mid-to-late twenties opened the door. Bronson recognized him from Linda’s picture. “Yeah?”
“Eric Randig?”
“What if I am?”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“About?”
“It’s a delicate matter. Is there someplace we can talk in private?”
Eric looked around. “Looks pretty private to me.”
He had a point. Bronson gestured toward the porch swing. “Mind if we sit down? Out here would be fine.”
Eric stared at him through inquisitive, blue eyes. He stepped out and closed the door behind him. He walked quietly to the swing, thrusting his head up as though stalking prey. Bronson followed him and they both sat.
“What’s this about?”
“My name is Harry Bronson and your mom sent me.”
Eric bolted up. “I want nothing to do with her.”
“Wait! This involves your son—and you.”
“I don’t need or want her money.” He started to walk away.
“This has nothin’ to do with money.” Or at least he assumed so.
Eric stopped but did not sit.
Bronson stood up. “Someone wants somethin’ from your mom and is willin’ to kill to get it.”
Something flashed through Eric’s eyes, but before Bronson could pinpoint it, it vanished. “That’s not my problem, is it?”
“It is, because the ones who were threatened were you and your son.” Bronson paused. “What about Brad’s mother?”
Eric cast him a long, hard look. “If it’s any of your business, Nancy walked out on me and Brad shortly after giving birth. I don’t know where she is and I don’t care. Anything else you need to tell me?”
“Right now your mother is followin’ this man’s instructions to the letter in order to protect you and your son.”
Eric’s eyes hardened. He looked like a demolition expert eyeing a deserted building. “My mother is a liar and likes to exaggerate. She’s a drama queen and like I told you before, I want nothing to do with her or her money.”
“Would you have any objections if I provided you with protection—just in case?”
Eric’s expression didn’t change, but his eyebrows twitched. “You’re a cop?”
“Retired, detective.”
“So she called the police even though . . . ?” He wet his lips.
“Does that bother you? Is there somethin’ you don’t want the police to know?”
Eric attempted a smile, but it came out as trembling lips. “I couldn’t care less.” He turned and walked away.
Bronson said, “About the protection . . .”
Eric paused and faced him. “If any of your men come near me, I’ll sue your ass off. Leave us alone.” He walked to the door, reached for the doorknob, and paused. “Wait. On second thought . . . They’ll know what’s . . . I mean, they could tell me . . . Do as you please.”
Bronson watched Eric open the door and close it behind him. The sense of hardne
ss about him bothered Bronson. He recorded Eric’s reaction in his notebook and wondered what game he had chosen to play.
SIX
Bronson spent the next two hours at the Museum of Geology. He had told Carol he’d be going there, and he wasn’t about to lie to her. As he admired the astonishing array of fossils, minerals, and rocks, he wished Carol was with him, but this, she wouldn’t have enjoyed.
He concentrated on the two spectacular marine reptiles that dominated the central exhibit hall and for the moment, his thoughts wandered away from Linda Randig and her problems. When he finished with the museum, he strolled toward the car. He sat behind the wheel, tapped it, and looked at his watch. He considered eating, or better yet, drinking a cup of coffee. After all, he had plenty of time.
His cell rang. He glanced at the caller I. D. Mike had come through. The contacts turned out to be two retired policemen, both in good shape and eager to work again.
Bronson called them and arranged to meet them at a local diner. Thirty minutes later, he sat staring at the two men he was about to hire, and savoring the aroma of the warm cup of coffee in front of him. “I’m assumin’ both of you have surveillance experience.”
The taller of the two, a sixty-year-old with bushy white hair who’d introduced himself as Jay Pilot, nodded. “Yeah, we both do, and it’s boring as hell.”
Bronson smiled. He had used the dead hours of surveillance to write a book. During twenty-eight years on the police force, he had managed to write a bit over one chapter—a darn good chapter even if it was only four pages long. He looked at both men and said, “Then you know I’m not offering you a picnic.”
Pilot raked his white hair with his fingers and looked at his friend, Pete Acevedo. They exchanged amused looks. “Oh yeah, but you know how that goes,” Pete said. “Living on a retirement income is for the birds. I hate it. I need the money. What are the specifics?”
Bronson briefed them on the few skimpy details he had. When he finished, he said, “The main thing to remember is to keep your eyes peeled for any suspicious characters.” He cringed inwardly as the words left his mouth. He sounded like a cliché. He needed to get in with some hip people. Yeah, fat chance. He cleared his throat. “Call the police if you get the smallest inclination that someone plans to harm either the baby or his dad.” He sipped his coffee. He could almost hear Carol’s warning reproach. He hated that. He set the cup down. This would have to be a one-cup-of-coffee meeting. “One more thing, I’ve got the feelin’ Eric knows somethin’ or is involved somehow. If he does anythin’ suspicious, give me a call.”
Pete leaned forward, paying close attention. “Wait. I’m confused. Is this the same Eric we’re supposed to be protecting?”
Bronson nodded.
“And he’s the old lady’s son.”
“He is.”
Pete frowned and shook his head. “Is this a messed-up family?”
“Most of them are.” Bronson drank the last of his coffee and longingly looked at the waitress for some more.
* * * * *
If Bronson drove twenty-two miles further, he’d reach Sturgis, Little Carol’s hometown. He smiled at the name. “Little” Carol had turned twenty-five this past month—not so little anymore. He had to acknowledge her as a married, full-grown woman. That image conflicted with his memories of her as Daddy’s little girl. Not that he’d been there all the time while those memories should have been created. He had tried. He had wanted to be the ideal dad, but his job had often interfered, keeping him away for days at a time.
Now Little Carol had become Mrs. Carol Babel, wife to Jim Babel—the Slug with a capital S. All he cared about were his motorcycles, his friends, and partying all the time. He had even dragged her to live in the God-forsaken town of Sturgis, home of the famous Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. This Jim Babel—definitely not family material, not someone Bronson would have chosen for his little girl. Worst of all, the blame fell on Bronson’s shoulders. He hadn’t been there to advise her.
But now he had time. He’d drop in unexpectedly—sort of. She knew her mom and he were in the area and would be stopping by for a visit, but she wouldn’t be expecting him today, and especially him alone. He’d pick her up and take her out to a movie, dinner, and ice cream afterward. Something he should have done a long time ago.
Half an hour later, he pulled into the Babels’ driveway. Pretty little house, he had to admit. Nestled in a neighborhood lined with ponderosa pines, the house seemed to come out of a picture postcard depicting an older time when life and laughter thrived—a simpler time, a better time.
Not what Bronson had expected. He rang the doorbell.
“Daddy!” Little Carol’s voice vibrated with enthusiasm even before she opened the door all the way.
Daddy. She had called him daddy, not dad. Bronson’s heart melted. He could make up for lost time. He embraced her and felt the years fade away. Little Carol, Daddy’s girl. She pulled away.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t be here for several days.” She looked around. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s back at The Roost Resort, still involved with that show.”
“I’m glad she’s doing something she enjoys.” She looked around her father’s massive body. “But she will be joining us, right?”
Bronson detected the edge of panic in his daughter’s voice. “Of course, but not today.” He stepped inside. “Thought maybe you and I—we could go out. How about it?” He stopped.
“Go out, Dad? What are you talking . . . about?” She followed his gaze.
The opened closet door revealed stacked suitcases. “Somebody goin’ somewhere?”
“Me, Dad. I knew you and Mom were coming over one of these days. So I packed. I thought maybe as soon as you all got here, I’d jump in the camper and you’d take me away.”
“Take you away? Where?”
“Anywhere. I don’t care. I need to get away.”
“What about—?”
“He’s a slug—as you so appropriately call him.”
Her words startled him. He had thought it, but he had never voiced his opinion. “I—”
“It’s okay. I know how you feel. Now, let’s get out of here before he returns.”
Bronson reached down for a suitcase and stopped. “Why are you leavin’ him? Is he abusin’ you? Doing drugs? Alcohol?”
“No, Dad. We just don’t get along anymore. His interests are different than mine. Now let’s go before he comes home.”
Bronson grabbed two suitcases and headed for the car.
“Wait. I’ve changed my mind.”
Bronson stopped. Did this mean she’d give the Slug a second chance? If she wasn’t leaving, maybe they could still do dinner and a movie. That’d be good.
“Put the suitcases in my car. I’ll follow you back to The Roost Resort. I’m not going to leave him my car. Can’t wait to see Mom and talk to her.”
“Oh.” Not only were they not going to spend some quality time together, they wouldn’t be driving back together. Bronson put the suitcases in her car, jumped into his own, and drove off. He checked his rearview mirror to be sure Little Carol followed him.
SEVEN
Doc Ponce stared at the phone and bit his lip. He had to make the call, but the rising bile in his esophagus prevented him from doing much of anything. He should have never gotten involved, but the medical bills gnawed at him, a little at a time until there was nothing left.
It had been such a simple plan. He had never meant for anyone to get hurt and especially poor Mitch and his parents-in-law. Innocent bystanders. All dead and their blood stained his hands. Doc Ponce plastered his hands to his face and cried.
After a few moments he got hold of himself. He walked to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and stared at the image in the mirror. These past few days, he had aged. He looked worn out and fragile, but at least he was alive. He had learned the game and knew how to play it well.
The phone in his office beckoned him. Reluctantly,
he picked up the receiver and punched the appropriate numbers.
“This better be damn important,” said the voice at the other end. “I told you not to call me.”
“I know, but I felt you’d want to know what I have to tell you.”
The silence between them lingered, smothering Doc Ponce. He cleared his throat and continued. “There’s been a small delay.”
“There’s no such thing as a small delay. Time is of the essence here. I thought you understood that.”
“I do, but it couldn’t be helped.”
“Everything can be helped. That’s why I hired you. Explain yourself.”
“Something went wrong with the camper. Linda called her cousin, Harry Bronson, to fix it. He’s in the process of doing that.”
“When do they expect the camper to be ready?”
“They’re talking about maybe tomorrow.” He paused. “There’s more.” He waited for a response. None came. He wondered why he should have expected one. This man reminded him of a mighty chief who crossed his arms and listened, but never commented. Maybe he should start calling him Chief. Doc Ponce smiled at that, and then realized Chief was still waiting. Doc Ponce quickly added, “Seems Bronson is also heading for the Twin Cities. To save money, he suggested staying with Linda in her camper.”
“That won’t do.”
“I figured as much.’
“Then take care of it.”
The line went dead.
* * * * *
Doc Ponce didn’t like too many people, but he especially disliked Benjamin Carrier. Today, unfortunately, he’d have to deal with him. He didn’t have a choice. He flipped open his cell and punched in the numbers.
“Yes?”
“There’s a man by the name of Harry Bronson. He might show up at Linda’s camper in Minneapolis. The Chief doesn’t want him there.”
“The Chief?”
Doc Ponce gave a nervous smile. “Yeah. That’s my name for—”