Maybe I could do the same.
What if I showed up in Rushville, using my job—my regular job, that is—as cover? I could let myself be known around town and say I was there to do a little bird hunting for a story I was planning to write for my magazine. A night or two at the Rushville Tap—if I remembered correctly, that was the name of the bar where Charlie Flanagan claimed to have heard Carlyle Wilson’s confession—might get me the name of two or three local landowners who would let me hunt their property.
It was a long shot. I didn’t know offhand if there were any public hunting areas around Rushville but I did know that most of the land in Illinois—well over 95 percent—was privately owned. I also knew that landowners—farmers and everyone else—were increasingly reluctant to allow strangers to hunt on their property.
Part of that was due to liability concerns; part of it was due to the increasing trend to lease the hunting rights to those willing to pay a hefty fee. Walking up to an unfamiliar farmhouse door, knocking and receiving permission to hunt was pretty much a thing of the past unless you’d spent some time previously cultivating the landowner and/or agreed to pay for the privilege of hunting his land.
But if I could find a couple of people willing to let me hunt their land, or better yet, locate some public hunting ground in the area, that might give me enough of a cover story to spend a little time in Rushville and the surrounding area. Once again, I’d be hiding in plain sight, relying on my regular job to explain my being there and counting on my credentials as the editor of a national magazine to keep me above suspicion. This ploy had worked for me in the past.
The more I turned it over in my mind, the better I liked it. I’d have to be careful not to start feeling foolishly optimistic—I’d already made enough mistakes along those lines—but if I could discipline myself to proceed cautiously (like the bobcat stalking the squirrel) I could probably pull it off. I’d just have to be careful to not tip my hand, not act precipitously and not leave behind any traces of what I’d done.
That was a lot of “nots.” But at this point it seemed like the best way to accomplish what needed to be done—eliminate Charlie Flanagan as the key witness against Carlyle Wilson—in the most expeditious manner. And again, my job would provide the cover I needed—over the years I’ve told quite a few people that hunting is part of my job description. I’ve usually said this half-jokingly, but there’s actually quite a bit of truth to it.
“How about it?” I said over my shoulder to Preacher. “You up for a trip over to Illinois?”
She whined in response and I took that as a yes.
Chapter 13
To borrow a favorite expression of a former colleague: Once in a while you get plain old dumbass lucky.
After seeing the bobcat and deciding to make a run over to Illinois on the pretext of hunting in the Rushville area, I was feeling better about the way things were shaping up. I didn’t have any of the details nailed down yet but I had a basic plan, and that was progress. Once you feel the forward momentum start to build it is easier to keep rolling and the pieces generally begin to fall into place.
When we got home I fed Preacher her morning meal—I’m a firm believer in feeding my dog two smaller meals a day, rather than one large one, as a means of reducing the risk of gastric torsion—and then headed back to my office. I logged onto my personal computer and did a search for public hunting areas in Illinois.
There were a number of state-managed public hunting areas throughout Illinois, I discovered, but none were within easy driving distance of Rushville. That was a setback but not an insurmountable one. It just meant I’d have to dig a little deeper—or get lucky with some hunter-friendly landowners—to come up with a reason for being in the area. I did another search, this time typing “Illinois hunting preserves” in the search window.
That’s when I hit pay dirt.
Among those preserves that came up was one called Hidden Hollow in Schuyler County. I clicked on Hidden Hollow’s website—attractive and professionally done—and started reading. The preserve was owned and managed by a fellow named Mitch Halvorsen and his wife, Amy. Judging from the photos, they were an attractive couple, probably in their early to mid-thirties. Mitch appeared to be tall and lean with a neat brown beard; Amy had a nice smile and wore her blond hair in a short bob.
The preserve consisted of 1,200 acres of mixed croplands—most likely corn, soybeans and sorghum—cover strips and hardwood timber. A handsome log lodge—there were several photos, both interior and exterior—had accommodations for 12 clients. Deer and turkey hunting were offered in season, and there was also a released bird program for upland hunters like myself. Pheasants, chukar and bobwhite quail were the species available.
Best of all, the preserve’s mailing address was Rushville.
Bingo.
I checked my magazine’s production schedule thumbtacked to the bulletin board above my computer. We weren’t due to begin releasing the files of our spring issue to the printer for another two weeks. All of the edited copy and photos were in the pipeline—the associate editor would be making a few final tweaks to the copy and the art director would be working on layouts. Until they began emailing me the layouts for proofing, I had relatively little to do beyond answering daily correspondence, fielding occasional phone calls and maybe—if I really felt ambitious—a little editing on a few stories for the following issue.
In other words, schedule-wise, I was pretty much free to go.
I’d need to clear it with my boss, the publisher, of course. But Bill McKenzie was a hunter himself and usually pretty reasonable about OKing such requests, especially when everything was on schedule with the magazine and there was no danger of missing a deadline. And this was one area in which I was golden.
In putting together my magazine, I’ve always tried to follow Clint Eastwood’s philosophy of movie-making—namely, you bring your projects in ahead of schedule and under budget. Once you’ve established a track record for doing this, it will buy you a fair amount of wiggle room with the higher-ups. So I was reasonably confident that when I contacted Bill and told him I was planning to take a couple days off to drive over to Illinois for a bird hunt at a promising-looking preserve, he’d be on board with the idea.
And that’s exactly what happened. A five-minute phone call later, I was good to go. The only caveat Bill attached was that while I was there I was to make a pitch to the Halvorsens to consider advertising in the magazine. I told him I’d be happy to do so, knowing this would give further credibility to my whole reason for being in the area. The more legitimate business activity I could attach to my visit, the more solid my cover would be and the less likelihood there was of anyone connecting me with Charlie Flanagan’s death or disappearance.
It was starting to come together.
My next call was to the number posted on the Hidden Hollow website. Mitch Halvorsen’s wife answered the phone. “Hidden Hollow, this is Amy!” she said in a cheerful voice.
“Hi,” I said. “My name’s Robert Vance and I’m the editor of American Wingshot magazine. I’m going to be over in your area in the next week or two and I was hoping to book a hunt. Do you have any times available?”
“Were you thinking of something on a weekend or sometime during the week?”
“Either/or,” I said. “I realize this is awfully short notice but I just caught a break in my production schedule and I’ve heard some good things about your place and wanted to check it out. It’s possible we might want to do a feature on Hidden Hollow in the magazine.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Amy said. “We take your magazine and we’d love to have you come over for a hunt. Where are you coming from?”
“I work out of my home in Des Moines, Iowa,” I said. “I’m guessing it would take me about five hours to drive over.” Actually, there was no guessing involved as I knew almost exactly how long it would take, having been over in that area just a couple weeks earlier. But of course there was no reason to go
into any of that with Amy.
“Well, we’d love to have you,” she repeated. “We’re booked up for the weekend after next as that’s our second firearm deer season, but almost any other time would be available. Will it just be you who’s coming, or will there be others in your party?”
“Just me…well, I’d like to bring my dog also, if that’s permitted.” I knew this was a dicey area with some preserve operators, many of whom preferred you leave your own dog at home and use the ones in their kennels. And you couldn’t really blame them for feeling that way, as many clients’ dogs had little or no training—despite their owners’ claims to the contrary—and could wreak havoc on a preserve if they ran wild and were out of control.
But Amy gave me the answer I was hoping for. “Of course you can bring your dog,” she said. “We don’t allow dogs in the guest rooms of the lodge but we have very nice kennel facilities and if your dog is used to being kenneled, I’m sure he’ll be quite comfortable.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said. “My dog is actually a six-year-old female German wirehair and she’s used to being kenneled from time to time so I’m sure she’ll be fine. And just for the record, she is well trained…I’m sure you hear that all the time.”
Amy laughed. “Yes, we do, and it’s not always true, but if you’re the editor of American Wingshot I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.” I was liking Amy more by the moment. “What is your wirehair’s name?”
“Preacher,” I replied. “She’s named for a character in a Clint Eastwood movie.”
“Pale Rider!” Amy said. “That’s one of my husband’s favorites…well, mine too. We’ve probably watched the DVD a couple hundred times.”
“Well, with her whiskers, Preacher looks a lot like Clint in that movie,” I said, wondering if Amy had any unmarried sisters.
“I look forward to meeting her!” Amy said. “In fact, I look forward to meeting both of you…what dates are you thinking of, specifically?”
“What about next weekend?” I said. “Say, arriving on Friday, a week from today, and leaving on Sunday? I’d plan to hunt both Saturday and Sunday, maybe a half-day hunt each day, if something like that’s available.”
“Yes, I think we can make that work,” Amy said. “Now, were you thinking pheasants, quail or chukar? Or maybe a combination package?”
“Let’s go with a combo,” I said. “Maybe quail and chukar. I’ve already shot quite a few pheasants in Iowa this year so let’s try something a little different.” I laughed. “I’ll see if I can hit something that’s smaller and faster.”
Amy laughed in return. “We can do that,” she said. She quoted me the price for a daily 12-bird package and I told her that was fine. After receiving Bill’s blessing I was planning to expense this hunt anyway.
I gave her a credit card number to confirm my reservation for the following Friday and we concluded our conversation with Amy inviting me to have dinner at the lodge that evening if I got there in time. “Dinner is at 6:30 so you’ll want to get here a little earlier to check in and get Preacher taken care of,” she said.
I thanked her and hung up wondering if Amy was as cute in person as she’d sounded on the phone. I suspected she was; in the few pictures in which she’d appeared on the website she looked a lot like the actress Amy Carlson, who—before they killed off her character—played Donny Wahlberg’s wife on Blue Bloods. Was it just a coincidence that they shared the same first name?
I shook my head and reminded myself of the real reason I was heading over to Hidden Hollow. Amy Halvorsen’s attractiveness was the last thing I needed to be thinking about right now. I had some preparations to take care of, and I hoped that before next Friday I’d hear from James Collins…specifically, that he and his hacker buddies had turned up something useful about Charlie Flanagan and Carlyle Wilson.
I had to believe they would.
Chapter 14
My next call was to a pawnshop on the south side of Des Moines.
“Pawnshop,” the proprietor answered, and I recognized his voice.
“A.C.,” I said. “It’s Rob Vance. Need to stop by this afternoon if you have a few minutes.”
“Two o’clock,” he said, and I answered, “Fine. See you then.” I wasn’t surprised to hear the click of him disconnecting almost before I finished speaking. A.C. is a man of few words, none of them frivolous.
He’s also my source for untraceable handguns.
I’ve known A.C. for about ten years. The initials by which I addressed him were actually the first two of four which stood for his nickname, As Cold as They Come. The name on his pawnbroker’s license was Gerald Matthews but I’d never heard anyone call him Gerald or Jerry. I had occasionally heard him addressed as Cold, which struck me as a nice little play on words, in that A.C. is also the abbreviation for air conditioning.
Either name was an appropriate fit, matching both his personality and the merchandise in which he sometimes dealt. No, I’m not talking about air conditioners.
I still hadn’t figured out exactly how I was going to handle things with Charlie Flanagan but I had a feeling I’d have to get fairly close to him at some point, and that meant I was probably going to need a handgun. Whether I used it to kill him or simply to intimidate him—say, as a means to overpower him in the first step toward making him disappear—or ended up not using it at all was an unknown I wouldn’t be able to resolve until I got over to Rushville and had a better handle on the situation.
But it was better to have a handgun and not need it than to be without one more than 200 miles from home, and wishing I’d brought one along. I was confident A.C. could provide what I needed…he’d done so quite a few times in the past. I was probably one of his best repeat customers, in fact, because—remember Rule Number 3?—I never kept a handgun after a job was finished.
If A.C. ever wondered about any of that—why I kept coming back or what had happened to the guns he’d sold me previously—he never asked. Nor would he. Ours was a relationship based on an unspoken but completely understood no-questions-asked agreement.
Such agreements are often what makes the world go ‘round…at least the world of killers-for-hire like myself.
I had a few hours between now and my appointment with A.C. and I wasn’t in the mood to tackle anything magazine-related, so I placed another call. I’d been lucky so far this morning—my plan for taking care of Charlie Flanagan was beginning to come together—so I decided to see if my luck would hold in another area.
“Daryl Nelson,” said the pleasant, slightly husky female voice who answered.
“Hi, Daryl,” I said. “It’s Rob Vance. Just wanted to touch base and see if we’re still on for dinner this evening.” We’d had an email exchange earlier in the week—shortly before I found out that Carlisle Wilson had been charged with the manslaughter of Frank Reynolds, in fact—and had agreed to meet for dinner tonight.
“We are,” she said. “What time were you thinking, and where?”
“How about Skip’s on Fleur?” I said. “Maybe seven o’clock?”
“That sounds good,” she replied. “I’ll just meet you there. See you then.”
“See you then,” I echoed.
Daryl Nelson was a reporter and op-ed writer for the Des Moines Register and her office was in the newspaper’s downtown headquarters. A few months earlier I’d read one of her op-ed pieces and had been impressed by her writing. She was witty and articulate and—I couldn’t deny this—I’d also been impressed by her thumbnail photo at the top of the column. She was a brunette with the dark eyes and strong jawline of actress Marcia Gay Harden. I guessed her age at somewhere in her early 50s, which put her—at least to my thinking—within suitable dating range.
I was intrigued enough to email her at her office (her address was shown at the end of her column) and compliment her on her work. I mentioned that I too was a writer and an editor and as such, I always appreciated good writing. She’d responded the following day, thanking me fo
r my comments, and that led to an ongoing exchange, albeit one that was decidedly sporadic.
We’d had lunch together a couple times but I sensed a bit of stand-offishness on her part, so I hadn’t pushed things. This would be our first dinner date, and I was hoping to advance the relationship at least another step or two.
Hey, just because I kill people doesn’t mean I can’t have the occasional crush on someone.
I got to the pawnshop a few minutes before two. I walked through the door and tried to avoid clanging the little cowbell at the top, but as always, I was unsuccessful. A.C. was sitting behind the counter reading a gun magazine and he glanced up as I entered.
“A.C.,” I said, and he nodded. As I mentioned, he was a man of few words. I glanced around to make sure there was no one else browsing the used stereo equipment, boom boxes, outdated computers, guitars and amplifiers and other miscellaneous merchandise. I didn’t see anyone and I wondered if that was because it was a slow afternoon or if A.C. had made sure there wouldn’t be anyone there when I stopped by. Maybe both.
I walked to the counter. The center section supporting the cash register was wooden with a glass display case on either side. The case to my left, the side closest to the door, was filled with wristwatches and pieces of vintage jewelry. The case to my right held maybe a dozen handguns, both semiautos and revolvers.
The gun I’d come to buy, I knew, was not on display in this case.
A.C. closed his magazine and stood up from the tall stool on which he’d been sitting. He was a little shorter than I am, maybe five-ten, and as lean as a whippet. I figured his age at either side of forty. He was wearing stonewashed black jeans, a black Hornady t-shirt and a large diver-style wristwatch on a black nylon band. Curiously—or maybe not—he had no tats.
The Killer in the Woods Page 8