Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

  “Give me the description of the car again,” Marshall said.

  “Medium-sized. Beige. Buick Le Sabre. First two numbers on the license plate are six and one. Couldn’t get the rest.”

  “And you’re sure that was Benjamin Carrier.”

  “Positive.”

  “I’ll notify the Highway Patrol. They’ll set up roadblocks. We’ve got the bastard.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Bronson said, but his gut told him it wouldn’t be that easy.

  twenty

  Bronson’s cell rang and he frowned. He knew he shouldn’t be driving and talking, but often life offered no choices. He glanced at the caller ID. Mike Hoover. “Hey.”

  “Bronson.”

  Oh, oh. His ol’ partner was in business mode. “What’s going on?”

  “About two hours ago, I called Paul and talked to him. He seemed fine, getting ready for our trip tomorrow, then I got orders from up above. They’re sending me with the file on Carrier to assist the Wyoming and South Dakota authorities.”

  “How did Paul take the news?”

  “That’s just it. I called to tell him and he’s out of pocket. Thinking the worst, I drove to his house. He’s not there.”

  “He could have gone out to eat.”

  “Yeah, I keep telling myself that, but I’ve got a bad feeling. He might have left without me. If so, I don’t know how to find him, much less help him.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks for lettin’ me know.” Bronson disconnected and silently cursed. On top of everything, now he might have to babysit. Great, just great.

  Just what he needed.

  As he pushed on, he found himself fighting to keep his eyes open and on the road. He couldn’t drive much longer. He passed a sign that read, Rest Area One Mile.

  Great. Just what he needed.

  More out of habit than necessity, Bronson scanned the area as he pulled into the parking lot. He spotted a motor home with its jacks down. Its owners probably planned to spend the night. Next to the camper, he saw an eighteen-wheeler, pulling a white trailer with the words ARK Exports. Across from them, a motorcycle, a Harley with sidesaddles, awaited its owner. Next to the bike, two cars and a truck were parked: a red Dodge, older model, and a black sedan, Chevy, fairly new and well kept. An empty space occupied the spot between the cars and a blue Dakota.

  He parked next to the Chevy and headed for the men’s room where he splashed water on his face. A big, burly guy with a bandana on his head and a leather jacket washed his hands and walked out. Probably the motorcycle dude.

  From a vending machine, Bronson bought a cup of coffee, small, the only size they offered. Maybe he’d buy another. He watched a frenzied mother juggle two small kids and one large dog. An elderly man passed him and nodded.

  Bronson nodded back and watched as the man joined his wife.

  He kissed her cheek. “Ready?”

  “You bet.” She smiled at him and her eyes lit up with love. “I’m so excited that we’re going to see our little girl.”

  The man whispered something. She giggled, and they walked away, holding hands.

  Bronson turned away from them. The elderly couple was on their way to see their daughter. A note of regret struck Bronson’s heart. He should be home, helping Little Carol sort out her problems. But instead, he was in the middle of nowhere chasing—no, being chased by—a killer.

  He could walk away now. The police had control. They—

  A woman’s shrill scream pierced the air. He ran in the direction of the sound.

  The elderly man he had been studying had his arm wrapped around his wife, attempting to comfort her. Big sobs shook her body.

  “Can I help?” Bronson asked.

  “Our . . . c-car,” she sobbed.

  Bronson glanced at his car and noticed a note had been stuck under the windshield. He saw the gap next to his car where the older couple’s car had been parked.

  “Someone stole our car.” The elderly man pointed to the empty space.

  Bronson flashed them his retired ID card. “I’ll call it in for you. What did it look like?”

  “It’s a Chevy.”

  Bronson recalled the car. “Black sedan, newer model, very well kept.”

  The elderly man’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “What year?”

  “Two-thousand eight.”

  “Do you know your license number?”

  “M-K-seven something or the other. That’s all I remember.”

  “State?”

  “Minnesota.”

  “Wait here.” Bronson flipped his cell open and called it in. As he did, he worked his way through the small group of people who had gathered to watch the commotion. Touching only the corners of the note, he retrieved it from the windshield and read it.

  Harry,

  Oh, Harry, Harry, haven’t you learned? I’ll always be one step ahead of you. Round Two is over and I’ve won that one too. So far, the Mighty Harry has batted zero. Good going. Now I see why you had to retire. See you in South Dakota for Round Three.

  Benjamin Carrier

  Bronson returned the note to the windshield. The state troopers would want to see that. As he walked back toward the elderly couple, he repeated the words on the note. Carrier had won Round Two. How the hell had he won Round Two, and what exactly did Round Two consist of?

  Round Two. Round Two . . . the roadblock. He looked around. Several cars had pulled in since he had taken inventory, but the beige Buick with a dented back bumper and a shattered back window drew his attention.

  Carrier had changed cars. The police wouldn’t be looking for him in a black Chevy. Bronson flipped his cell open and called Captain Marshall. “Carrier is no longer drivin’ a beige Buick Le Sabre,” he said once he’d been connected.

  “Explain.”

  Bronson could hear the frustration in Marshall’s voice. “He hijacked a car at the rest area.” Bronson described the Chevy.

  “That son of a bitch,” Marshall hissed. “I’ll notify the state patrol. Hopefully, we’re not too late.”

  Bronson saw the troopers arrive and head toward the elderly couple. They talked for a few moments before the man pointed at Bronson. “State troopers are here,” Bronson told Marshall over the phone. “And I forgot to mention, Carrier left a note on my windshield.”

  “Don’t let the troopers get it. I’m on the way. Tell me about the note.”

  Bronson did and disconnected. He watched a trooper approach.

  “Good evening. Are you the one who called this in?”

  Bronson nodded as he retrieved his ID. He wondered how long this would delay him.

  Forty-five minutes later, Marshall arrived, and Bronson watched in amusement as the state troopers and the captain exchanged words over custody of the note. As far as Bronson was concerned, it belonged to him. But he didn’t want it.

  He was about to walk away when he spotted another trooper working his way toward them. His flushed face told Bronson he had something to say. Bronson decided to stick around to hear the news.

  “We found it!” The trooper yelled loud enough for everyone to hear him. “We found the Chevy, off road, partially hidden behind some trees. It’s been abandoned up ahead from here, walking distance. Nothing seems disturbed. It’s in good condition.”

  “How about Carrier?” Marshall asked. “Did you get him too?”

  The trooper looked at him. “No, I’m afraid not. I found the car, but no sign of Carrier. Who are you?”

  Marshall introduced himself and Bronson walked away. Apparently, Carrier was on foot, but that didn’t make sense. Maybe he had hitchhiked, but that wasn’t Carrier’s style. Some piece to the puzzle needed to be solved.

  Bronson stepped back and studied the rest area. He recalled seeing the cars, the truck, the motor home, the eighteen-wheeler, and the motorcycle. He remembered the old couple, the bike rider, the young couple with kids and a dog. As he brought each of these details to mind, he walked the
rest area, concentrating on its perimeter. The eighteen-wheeler had driven away and so had the biker. Bikes make noise, and Bronson hadn’t remembered the revving of the engine. Maybe he hadn’t been paying attention.

  He doubled his efforts and expanded his search. It didn’t take him long to find the biker’s body. His throat had been slit and he’d been stripped of his leather jacket, chaps, and head scarf.

  “Shiiiit,” Bronson said.

  twenty-one

  At 8:55, Bronson reached the Custer exit sign. He knew the Purple Pie Place closed at eleven o’clock, which meant he didn’t have to worry about Linda waiting outside. Still, he wanted to reach her as soon as possible. He checked his cell for phone availability. As soon as his cell showed he had service, he called Linda.

  The phone rang once . . .

  . . . pick up, Linda.

  Twice . . .

  Pick up.

  Three times . . .

  Be there.

  Four times . . . five. Finally, “The party you’re trying to reach is unavailable.”

  Bronson snapped the phone shut. Shiiit. Why hadn’t she answered? Relax, he told himself. Maybe she didn’t have service. He punched in Carol’s number.

  “Dad, hi.”

  “Sweetie, are you and mom okay?”

  “Of course, why wouldn’t we be? But I’m glad you called. I have something to tell you. A man stopped by to see you. He—”

  “A man?” Carrier? No, he wouldn’t do that. Who, then? Paul? He would have identified himself. “What man? What did he look like? What did he want?”

  No answer.

  “Carol, sweetheart?” A lump the size of a lemon formed in his chest, blocking his airway. “Carol?” He looked at the cell. The call had ended.

  A bad connection. Had to have been. Bronson tried calling again, but the phone read No Service.

  He floored the accelerator and prayed he’d reach them in time.

  * * * * *

  For the past ten minutes, Eric had stared at his parents’ picture. It had been snapped long ago when they were a family. Dad, now dead. Murdered. And Mom . . . Mom, that bitch.

  Eric’s mouth filled with an acid taste. He set the picture down. He could no longer stand and do nothing. The truth had to come out, and he was the only one who could set the events rolling. The immediate problem involved the two silly bodyguards Bronson had hired to protect him and Brad. Somehow, he’d have to shake them.

  Best way was to split them. Eric picked up the phone and dialed the babysitter’s number.

  Five minutes later, he came down the stairs carrying Brad and his backpack.

  Jay and Pete looked up from the TV program they were watching.

  “I’m taking Brad to the sitter’s. I’m feeling restless. I’m heading to the movies.”

  Jay and Pete exchanged looks. “It’s your turn to watch the kid. I’ll go with Eric,” Jay said.

  “How come you get to see a movie and I get stuck with the kid?”

  Jay shrugged. “Call it fate. It’s my turn to do the fun stuff.”

  Pete sighed. “Might as well. I didn’t want to go see a movie anyway.”

  “Glad you got that settled,” Eric said as he retrieved the car keys, “because I’m leaving now.”

  Jay and Pete grabbed their jackets and followed Eric out. Eric drove to the sitter’s a block away and dropped Brad. Pete stayed behind.

  One down, one to go, Eric thought. “I have no idea what’s playing. I’m going to the first movie available.”

  “No problem,” Jay answered. “A movie is a movie.”

  The animated movie had just begun when Eric and Jay arrived. Eric purchased the tickets and headed inside. Once they were seated, Eric leaned over and whispered, “A movie isn’t a movie without popcorn and a drink. What do you want? My treat.”

  “Thanks. A soft drink would do. Any kind.”

  “You got it. I’m going to make a pit stop first.”

  Jay nodded and turned his attention to the movie.

  Using long strides, Eric headed out the door, reached the car, got in, and drove off.

  So far, so good.

  Being late at night, he imagined that the pharmaceutical tycoons McGory and Stein would be at home. He’d visit one, then the other, if necessary. He hoped the confrontation would go well.

  He doubted that.

  twenty-two

  Bronson glared at the cell, willing it to have service. Frustration gnawed at him like a giant insect. He stepped on the accelerator and watched the needle climb past eighty.

  He picked up the cell. Finally, full service. He called Carol. She answered on the first ring. Relief flowed through his veins. “You and Little Carol, you’re okay?”

  “We’re both fine. Why? What’s wrong?”

  Bronson sat up straighter in the car. “Wrong? Sweetheart—”

  “Harry Bronson, don’t you sweetheart me.”

  Dang that woman. Even over the phone she knew. “I’m headin’ home now. But I’ve got one stop to make.”

  “You’re avoiding the question.”

  “I was about to tell you where the stop would be.”

  “Harry Bronson, you know exactly what I mean.” A small pause followed. When she spoke again, her tone had softened. “Should I be concerned?”

  The world slipped away from Bronson. She had spent countless sleepless nights worrying, wondering. She didn’t deserve this. “No, never.”

  “Oh, Harry.”

  She knew. Bronson rubbed his forehead.

  “When you get home, Harry Bronson, we’ll talk.”

  Oh, oh.

  * * * * *

  Two blocks away from the Purple Pie Place, Carrier brought the motorcycle to a stop and dismounted. He was glad to be rid of that thing, couldn’t wait until he hijacked a car instead—maybe Bronson’s. That would teach him.

  Carrier sighed. He wished he could do that. It would serve Bronson right, but that would be a stupid move, and he would never do anything to jeopardize his assignment.

  He walked away from the bike, stopped, and turned. Earlier he had checked out the saddlebag’s contents and found the gun. He immediately knew the biker had been a weak jerk. Anyone who relied on guns qualified as a poor excuse for a human being.

  Not that guns didn’t have advantages. Often, situations called for the exclusive use of them. Such as today. Yes, he could see how the gun would be beneficial. He returned to the bike, opened the saddlebag, got the gun and a handful of extra ammunition, and stuffed the ammo in his pants pocket. He tucked the gun in his waistband.

  He glanced at his watch. Bronson would have sent Linda to some safe place. He’d probably suggested going to the cops, but she’d never do that. She’d go to some public place where tourists gathered. Good thing Custer was a small town. He’d track her down in no time, grab her, and find an ideal hiding place. He’d be waiting by the time Bronson got there.

  Carrier’s footsteps echoed his urgency as he rushed toward destiny. He reached toward his waistband and felt the cool metal.

  He smiled and wet his lips in anticipation.

  * * * * *

  Bronson snapped the cell shut. Linda still wasn’t answering. The knot in his stomach tightened. He spotted the sign for the Purple Pie Place. He slowed down and pulled into the semi-dark parking lot. Only two cars—a black jeep and a beige Toyota—remained parked in the Employees Only area. In the visitors’ parking lot, he spotted Linda’s Mercedes and a dark blue Chevy Cobalt.

  He looked toward the building’s windows. He detected movement. Linda would be there, working on her needlepoint and perhaps a bit anxious for Bronson to show up.

  He drove toward the back of the building, backed up, and parked next to Linda’s car. He turned on the headlights. The parking lot lit up like Las Vegas at night. He watched for any movement, concentrating on the area beyond the light. Soft gray shadows followed by deeper, darker areas greeted him. He killed the lights and waited.

  The only sound he detec
ted was his breathing.

  He reached for the door handle and stopped. Assuming Linda was inside, why wasn’t she answering her cell?

  He focused his vision on the area immediately outside the car. Darkness surrounded him.

  Could it be a bad cell connection? How many times had he been inside a building and never received the call until he stepped out?

  Bronson focused on the darker shadows. No movement, not even the swaying of leaves in the cool breeze. The tall pines that Carol so loved blocked the view of the area outside the parking lot. He swung the door open but remained inside.

  No shadows sprang toward the car.

  He pulled his gun and held it at the ready position. He stepped out, crouched, and aimed—at nothing. He could hear his heart beat in his ears.

  He waited—still aiming—for four, five seconds.

  Nothing.

  Six, seven seconds.

  No movement.

  Bronson closed the car door. The slam became a resounding bang in the night.

  Still, he waited. Watched.

  With almost robotic movements, he put the gun down, stood up, and glanced inside Linda’s car. He saw an empty soda can and nothing else. She had to be inside.

  A shot rang out.

  Immediately followed by another.

  twenty-three

  Jay dreaded calling Pete to tell him Eric had gotten away. He should have been more attentive, but hindsight thrived where foresight didn’t. Jay had no options left. He opened his cell and punched in Pete’s number. When Pete answered, Jay told him what happened.

  “What do you mean, you lost him?” Pete’s tone clearly stated that he thought Jay was a moron.

  Jay frowned. What kind of an idiot question was that? “Exactly what I said. Eric told me he was hitting the can and then stopping at the concession stand. When he didn’t come back, I went looking for him but he was nowhere around.”