Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

  “I remember.” The image of Manuel’s youthful face popped up before him.

  “Huh, good. I talk to Pedro. He—”

  “Pedro? Tell me about Pedro.” Bronson took out his notebook and wrote the name down.

  “Pedro, my friend. He cleans like me. He hears something he not suppose hear.”

  “Like what?”

  “I not say. Pedro tell you.”

  “Is Pedro willing to talk to me?”

  “He say we meet in alley behind Great American Steak House. You see big—what you call it? Trash can?”

  “A dumpster?”

  “Yeah, dumpster. We be there.”

  “In an alley? Why does Pedro want to meet in an alley?”

  “He says you be trouble. In alley no one see we talk. Dumpster hide us. Door goes from steakhouse to alley. Pedro use door to leave. Pedro cousin, he owns place, so it be okay.”

  “How long will it take you to get there?”

  Bronson heard Manuel discuss it with someone else, presumably Pedro. “Maybe forty-five minutes. Maybe hour.”

  Bronson glanced at his watch and estimated how long it would take him to talk to the police. “I’ll meet you in a bit over an hour.”

  “Mr. Bronson?”

  “Yes?”

  “This be big. You want hear what Pedro knows. Fifty dollars not good. Too little.”

  “I understand.” Bronson opened his wallet. It contained four twenties and one ten.

  He sighed.

  * * * * *

  Marshall, a bear of a man, stood when he saw Bronson approach. “Bronson.” He offered his hand. “Sit.” He pointed to the chair by his desk.

  Bronson shook hands with him and sat down.

  Marshall also sat down. “I understand you’ve got yourself involved with a nasty criminal.”

  “Not by choice.”

  Marshall smiled. “I’m sure that’s never by choice.” He leaned back in his seat. “Tell me what you know.”

  Bronson told him about David and Irene Hummings’ deaths and how that led to Mitch Randig’s. He then related details about his first encounter with Carrier at Russ and Belen Oaxaca’s house. He concluded with the call he had just received.

  Marshall sat straighter. “When did you say this meeting takes place?”

  Bronson glanced at his watch. “In less than half an hour.”

  “But this is just between you and two teens, right?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “We’ll have a car in the area just in case something goes wrong.”

  Bronson stood and eyed the coffee urn. Too bad Marshall hadn’t offered him some. “Thanks, I appreciate that, but I don’t foresee any problems. Soon as the meeting is over, I’ll fill you in.”

  “I’ll send one of my detectives with you,” Marshall said.

  “As you wish, but it might spook the kids.”

  Marshall nodded. “You’re a veteran cop and Mike highly recommends you. Besides, like every other place, we’re short-handed. I’ll wait for your report, then we’ll take over from there.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Bronson walked out.

  * * * * *

  “Hey, where are we going?” Manuel asked as Pedro drove past the street that led to the Great American Steak House.

  “I—I’ve got to do something first. Won’t take long.” Pedro shrugged and flashed him a smile with trembling lips.

  Manuel wished he could reach out and comfort his friend, but Pedro was macho and macho men wouldn’t appreciate that. “We’ll be okay. Bronson is a good guy. All that’s going to happen is, we get lots of money. You’ll see.”

  Pedro looked away and drove faster. They didn’t speak until Pedro parked the car at McGory and Stein Pharmaceutical Research Center and Lab. As Pedro got out of the car, he looked at Manuel and said, “Get down.”

  Manuel looked around. “What are we doing here? Today’s Saturday. The place is closed.”

  “The back door to the lab is open.”

  “How do you know?”

  Pedro reached for the door handle and let himself out. “Come.”

  Manuel hesitated, listening to the butterflies in his stomach. Pedro knocked on the window and signaled to join him. Manuel swung the door open. “What . . . ?”

  “I’ll show you.” He turned and walked at such a fast pace that Manuel had to almost run to keep up. Before Manuel could ask him anything, Pedro opened the door to the lab and waited for Manuel to step in.

  “How did you know the door was open?” Manuel asked. “We’re gonna get in big trouble.” Then he saw the man sitting at a desk. “Doc Ponce.”

  Manuel’s heart skipped a beat when he noticed the gun Doc Ponce pointed at him.

  * * * * *

  Pedro and his cousin often frequented the alley behind the Great American Steak House. Most of the time, pot provided the reason for their rendezvous, bringing a sense of familiarity and the rush of a thrill. But today, this same alley filled Pedro with dread. Then, to top it all, he hated the gringo who stood in front of him. His monstrous build intimidated Pedro.

  Carrier took a step forward, forcing Pedro to take two back. “I assume Manuel is with Doc Ponce.”

  Pedro nodded. He couldn’t understand why Doc Ponce dealt with this man.

  “Good,” Carrier said. “You’ll be paid well.”

  “Manuel, he be okay, yes?” How could he have been so stupid? If anything happened to Manuel, it’d be his fault.

  “What happens to him depends on the next few minutes. Now, you be a good little boy and stand over there where Bronson can see you as he drives by. I’ll be behind the dumpster.”

  Pedro inched forward to get a clear view of the street. He wished Bronson would hurry up. He wanted this thing to be over. A few minutes later he got his wish. He spotted the SUV. Its driver—presumably Bronson—matched the description Manuel had given him. Pedro watched as Bronson slowly drove past them, his attention clearly focused on the alley. “Bronson here,” Pedro said.

  “Good,” Carrier answered. “Come here.”

  Pedro hesitated.

  “Get your ass over here or I call Doc Ponce and tell him to kill Manuel. Is that what you want?”

  Fear gripped Pedro and he found it impossible to speak. He shook his head and shuffled toward Carrier.

  “Let me tell you how it’s going to be. Bronson sees me, he won’t hesitate to shoot. You stand between us, he won’t shoot. Understand?”

  Pedro felt his legs turn to Jell-O. Sheer panic forced him to remain standing.

  Seconds later, Carrier grabbed him hard from behind.

  * * * * *

  Bronson spotted a kid—not Manuel—standing in the alley, looking frightened and confused. Then the kid walked away from his view. Unless the dumpster hid Manuel, he hadn’t come.

  Interesting.

  Bronson focused on the area before he drove away, parked, and stepped out.

  sixteen

  Paul cradled the picture album to his chest. That’s all he had left, the pictures and the memories. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, he heard Angie’s gentle laughter—her angelic voice, so unique. A melody that had been silenced forever.

  The bastard still roamed the streets. Life wasn’t always fair, but he was about to even the score.

  Carrier wouldn’t be looking for him. Paul had the element of surprise. Carrier would be busy stalking Bronson, and Paul would attack from behind—the same way Carrier had attacked Angie. The same way he attacked his victims. Too yellow to confront them face-to-face.

  The only foreseeable glitch in his plan involved Mike Hoover, who would try to stop him. “He’ll kill you,” Mike would argue.

  So what if he did? As long as Paul killed Carrier first. Paul shook his head. Mike would never understand simple logic like that.

  He shut his suitcase. Fear and anxiety nibbled at him, but he had no choice. He’d told Mike they would leave tomorrow at noon, but Paul had no plans to wait for him. He was ready to go, eager to
confront Carrier before Mike had the chance to stop him.

  * * * * *

  Out of all the possibilities that the establishment next to the Great American Steak House could have been, it turned out to be Just for the Sexy You. Great. Just absolutely great.

  Bronson cleared his throat, raised his head, stepped into the store, and tried not to look—but what the heck was that and how did it fit?

  “May I help you?”

  Bronson pivoted to face a curvy store clerk, possibly in her late teens. “I need to talk to the owner or manager.”

  “I’m the manager. How can I help you?”

  Lordy, what was the world coming to? “I’m Detective Bronson and we have a deal going on in your alley. You need to keep your employees out of there. I saw three doors leading out into the alley: yours, the steak house, and one more. Please contact them and tell them to stay inside.” He started to head toward the back, but stopped. “One more thing. If I’m not back in five minutes or so, call the police and ask for Captain Marshall.”

  The manager’s eyes widened in alarm. “Do you have that number?”

  “Yes. Nine-one-one.” He stepped into the area labeled Employees Only. “There’s no way to see into the alley from here?” He’d guessed not, but had to verify it.

  She shook her head and pointed to the door leading to the alley. “That’s a one-way door.”

  “Meanin’?”

  “Once you step out, it locks behind you. If you plan to come back in, you’ll have to jam something in it.”

  Great, just absolutely great. “Thanks for tellin’ me.” He took out his Chief Special.

  The manager gasped.

  Bronson motioned with his head that she should move away from the door. “Go call the surrounding businesses.”

  She nodded and dashed out.

  Bronson waited for a few minutes, giving her time to finish making the calls. He took a deep breath and braced himself. Lord, here goes nothin’. Please be with me.

  He held the gun at the ready position, point up, ready to swing in any direction. He pushed the door open.

  * * * * *

  Mike’s fingers drummed on the desk. He wouldn’t put it past Paul to try to sneak out without him. He could call him at home. If Paul answered, he could relax.

  On the other hand, if he didn’t answer, that wouldn’t necessarily mean he’d left town. Oh, what the hell. He picked up the phone.

  Paul answered on the second ring. “Checking on me, or is there something you want?”

  His abruptness took Mike by surprise. “I’m not really checking on you, I’m just wondering if you’re okay.”

  A small pause followed. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Another pause, then, “Sorry about that. This thing with Carrier has really got me crazy. I do appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  Silence. Mike rubbed his forehead. He must have pissed Paul off. “Listen, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, tomorrow.”

  * * * * *

  After Paul snapped the cell shut, he felt a twinge of guilt. He shook himself, trying to disperse the feeling. What he was doing certainly wasn’t nice, but he felt he had no choice. Hoover insisted that Paul had no idea of police procedure and would get himself killed. Maybe so, but Paul had known enough to transfer all his incoming house calls to his cell. How’s that for knowing proper procedure?

  A hollow, vast feeling consumed him as he boarded the plane.

  seventeen

  Bronson opened the door to the alley. Like all alleys, it reeked of dried urine and rotting garbage. Bronson twitched his nose.

  He stepped further into the alley and saw Pedro on the ground, a pool of blood forming beside him. A note had been pinned to his shirt. Bronson swore. He flipped his cell open as he rushed toward Pedro.

  “He . . . h-help . . . me.” Pedro’s eyes, huge as saucers, housed fear and pain.

  Bronson spoke to the dispatcher. “Stabs to the kidney. Victim bleeding profusely. Marshall should be in the vicinity. Please notify him.” He snapped the phone shut and applied pressure to the wound. “Help is on the way. Carrier do this?”

  Pedro stared at him.

  “Tall, tanned, stocky built, coarse black hair, athletic body.”

  Pedro nodded. “I . . . h-h-hurt.”

  “I know. The paramedics are on their way. I promise. You had something to tell me?”

  Pedro grimaced and bit his tongue.

  “I promise you, I’ll make Carrier pay for this, but you’ve got to tell me what you know.”

  Pedro opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  Where were those paramedics? The kid needed treatment now. “I know it hurts, but you don’t want Carrier gettin’ away with this. Tell me.”

  “F-f-for-mu-l-laaa . . . s-s-s-ell.” Pedro’s voice trailed off.

  Shit! He wasn’t going to make it.

  “D-d-duck . . .” Pedro closed his eyes and took his last breath.

  Bronson sat down hard on the ground. “Dammit!” In the distance he heard the wailing of sirens.

  Without touching it, Bronson read the note attached to Pedro’s shirt:

  Harry,

  You don’t mind if I call you Harry, do you? I know everyone refers to you as Bronson, but I like Harry much better. It’s so much more intimate. So tell me, Harry, are you enjoying the game as much as I am? Here’s the way it goes. Everywhere you go, I’ll be one step ahead. I’ll always be there, waiting, watching, and when I’m tired of you, I’ll squish you like a roach.

  Round One, I won.

  It may interest you to know I have Manuel. The police grab me, I don’t make the call, Manuel dies. Worst-case scenario, I’m sent to prison. From behind bars, I’ll make sure his bitch and baby die. Their deaths will haunt you for the rest of your life.

  Who do you think will win Round Two?

  Benjamin Carrier

  Bronson cringed. This wasn’t a game even if Carrier thought so. A breeze blew, causing the note to flip and rip. Automatically, Bronson pushed it back down and secured it with the safety pin that was already there. He looked up and saw Marshall and the paramedics.

  Marshall had a frown on his face.

  * * * * *

  Bronson looked at his watch for the seventh time. He understood the importance of verifying all the details, but dang it, didn’t the Two Forks police understand the urgency of the situation? He had to get back to The Roost Resort. With each passing moment, the danger Linda faced wrapped its tentacles tighter and tighter. “Screw it,” he muttered under his breath. He flipped open his cell and punched some numbers.

  The officer sitting across from him flashed him a disapproving frown.

  “Excuse me.” Bronson stood up and walked around until he found the best reception.

  Four rings later, Linda picked up. “It’s Bronson,” he said. “I have reason to believe that a very dangerous man is headin’ your way, so I want you out of there. Go to the nearest police station and meet me there.”

  “The police? No!” Linda’s voice filled with anxiety. “Bronson, you didn’t contact the police, did you? You promised.”

  “There was a murder. I had no choice.”

  Linda gasped. “A murder? Who?”

  “A young kid, a janitor at the research lab where your husband worked.”

  “A janitor? I don’t understand. Why him?”

  “I’ll fill you in at the police station.”

  A slight pause followed. “The Two Forks police can work on that murder. I don’t care, but the police here must not get involved.”

  Bronson rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Linda, that’s a dangerous killer we’re dealin’ with. You’ve got to—”

  “You heard me. No police. I’ll sit and wait for him to grab me before I go to the police.”

  “All right. Go to a public place somewhere filled with people.”

  “I’ll meet you at the Purple Pie Place. You know where that is?”


  Bronson knew it. He and Carol had recently enjoyed ice cream sodas there. “In town on the main highway?”

  “That one. How soon can you get there?”

  “I’m still several hours away. That’s why I’d feel better if you went to the police.”

  “It’s the Pie Place or nothing. I’ll bring my needlepoint to keep me busy.”

  Damn her stubbornness. Unfortunately, he was in no position to argue. “You’re sure you’ll be safe?”

  “Very sure. The place is always crowded.”

  “Okay, just get out now and don’t forget to take the trackin’ device off the car.” Bronson disconnected as a feeling of dread overcame him.

  * * * * *

  A bit over an hour later, Bronson walked out of the police building. The image of Pedro’s eyes begging him for help haunted him. He pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. Pedro’s last words had been “Formula . . . sell . . . duck.”

  Formula . . . sell . . . duck.

  The words raced through his mind again and again. The first two were easy to decipher. If Mitch planned to sell his formula to a rival pharmaceutical lab, or if he knew someone who planned to do so, that could easily lead to his so-called accident. If the company knew of his plans, they would want to stop him—enough to kill him? If the formula were sold, how much would McGory and Stein stand to lose? Bronson needed answers to those questions. Maybe that last word—duck—would serve as the key to complete the puzzle.

  Bronson reached his car and got in. He recalled the pond in front of the research center. Did it have any statues of ducks? He didn’t recall seeing any, but he hadn’t been looking. Maybe Mitch’s partner would know.

  He opened his notebook and found Henry Clark’s address. He had no idea where that was, but since this was a small town, he’d have no trouble finding someone who could give him directions. Right after talking to Clark, he’d head back to The Roost Resort. He knew Carrier never bothered his victims’ families, perhaps the only honorable trait he possessed. Still, Bronson wanted to reassure himself of his family’s safety. Afterward, he’d focus on Linda. By now she should have left the campground and be safely waiting for him.