When we returned to the lodge I put Preacher back in her kennel run and fed her a light meal, not enough to induce car sickness on the drive home. Allie took my birds and headed off to the barn to clean them, telling me that along with those I’d shot yesterday, she would have these packaged and tagged for transportation when I left. She asked if I’d brought a cooler and said that if I hadn’t, they could provide one.
“There’s one on the backseat of my SUV,” I said. “I’ll go get it and bring it over.”
“No need,” she said. “Just leave it on the porch and I’ll get it when I’m done.”
I did as instructed then went inside and up to my room. I had just pulled off my vest and was getting ready to undress and hit the shower when someone knocked at my door. I opened it to see Amy standing in the hallway.
“Hi,” she said. “How was the hunt?”
“Excellent. Very good morning, in fact. Your sister is one heckuva guide.”
Amy laughed. “Thanks. I’ll be sure and tell her you said that. In the meantime, are you staying for lunch?”
I glanced at my watch. It was 11:15 and although I wanted to hit the road, I decided one more meal at Hidden Hollow might be worth the short delay.
“Twist my arm,” I said.
Preacher and I were on our way back to Des Moines by a few minutes past one. Mitch and the Parks brothers had returned while I was loading my gear into the SUV and we’d all clomped inside to sit down to Amy’s lunch of stuffed pork chops, creamed corn, green salad and fresh dinner rolls. I passed on the peach cobbler she offered for dessert, trying to show a little restraint but knowing I would probably be fighting to stay awake on the drive home anyway.
After lunch the Parkses went upstairs to pack up for their trip home. I settled my bill, thanked Amy, Mitch and Allie—she’d come in and joined us about midway through lunch—and handed each of them an envelope containing a generous tip. I complimented them on their operation and said that I was planning to run my story on Hidden Hollow in one of next year’s summer issues.
“That’s about the best placement I can offer in terms of getting you some exposure in time for guys looking to book their fall hunts,” I said.
“That’s terrific,” Mitch said. “We’ll be looking for it. I’ll also be contacting your publisher about placing an ad.”
“Good deal. That’s a win-win for all of us,” I said.
We shook hands all around and Amy said, “Thank you so much, and please do come see us again!”
“I might very well do that,” I said.
If everything played out the way I was planning, I’d be returning to Rushville again in just another few days. But—assuming my luck held—no one at Hidden Hollow, or in the town itself, for that matter, would know of my follow-up visit.
No one, that is, except Charlie Flanagan. And when I was finished he wouldn’t be in any condition to tell anybody about it.
If my luck held.
Chapter 41
Staying awake on the long drive back to Des Moines proved to be less challenging than I expected.
Despite the belt-busting lunch with which Amy had sent us off—I couldn’t help wondering how much weight I’d gained in the past two and a half days—I didn’t find myself struggling against the stupor that often follows a heavy meal. Instead, my mind was busily working on the details of the plan to resolve the Charlie Flanagan matter, and that exercise kept me alert.
I had the basic plan pretty well nailed down, but I kept running through it, weighing it against everything I’d learned and probing for possible oversights or slip-ups. I also replayed the conversations I’d had with Allie and with Walt the bartender and Pete Sawyer, trying to plug in all of the details so as to confirm, once and for all, that eliminating Flanagan was the correct course…the only course, really, if Carlyle Wilson was to be exonerated.
Finally, I tried to remind myself that I needed to keep a cool head. Yes, I was rankled by Flanagan’s unprovoked shoulder bump in the Rushville Tap, but I could dismiss that—well, almost—as nothing more than the action of a stupid thug. But seeing him kick his Lab on Saturday afternoon had infuriated me, and I couldn’t afford to let that anger cloud my thinking.
Lesley Gore launched into “Judy’s Turn to Cry” on the SUV’s CD player and I felt myself smiling. It might not be Charlie Flanagan’s turn to cry but it was definitely his turn for some comeuppance. If my plan held together, his bullying days were now numbered in the low single digits.
I made my usual stop at the Casey’s in New London, Iowa for gas and a bathroom break. After filling up I pulled the Equinox over to the parking area at the side of the building and let Preacher out to pee. While she was doing so, I logged onto the burner I’d been using with James Collins.
I sent him a quick text: Heading home. Will return to R’ville next week to conclude business.
Ordinarily I don’t provide progress reports to my clients but this was something of a unique situation, in that it went beyond the job for which James Collins had originally hired me. He had proven trustworthy so far, coming through with a lot of useful information at my request, and I figured he would appreciate an update. Keeping him apprised was, I felt, a professional courtesy.
After sending the text I logged off the burner and picked up my personal cell, the one I use with friends. I scrolled through my contact list and punched in the number for a woman named Rachel James.
She answered on the third ring. “Hey you,” she said, our standard greeting to each other.
“Hey you,” I replied. “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I was wondering if we could get together this evening for a few minutes. I need a favor.”
“Sure,” she said. “What time?”
“Whatever works for you. I’m driving back from Illinois right now but I should be home by six or a little after.”
“How about seven-thirty?”
“That’ll work.”
“Want me to come over to your place?”
“That would probably be best,” I said. Rachel is married and her husband Al is also a friend, but the business we’d be transacting—Rachel knew this was business when I said I needed a favor—was best handled between just the two of us.
“OK, I’ll see you then,” she said.
“See you then,” I said, and ended the call.
I was confident Rachel James could supply me with the missing ingredient I still needed to complete my plan for handling Charlie Flanagan.
James Collins read the text sent to him by the man he called Tom. He smiled and deleted the text, then scrolled through his list of contacts. He found the number he wanted and punched it in.
His call was answered on the first ring.
“No worries,” he said to the other person. “You can chill. Everything is still on track.”
PART 3: IN FOR A PENNY
“Never, never be afraid to do what's right, especially if the well-being of a person or animal is at stake. Society's punishments are small compared to the wounds we inflict on our soul when we look the other way.”
-Martin Luther King, Jr.
Chapter 42
“I need him pliable, not poleaxed,” I said.
“Cooperative, not comatose?”
“Right. Tractable, not trashed.”
“Malleable, not moribund.”
I laughed. “OK, you win,” I said. I’d never been able to beat Rachel James in our alliteration games. “But yeah, that’s what I need.”
We were sitting at my kitchen table. She was drinking a Miller 64—I keep some in my fridge for her—and I was drinking a Winter Lager. Of necessity, I’d given her a quick rundown on Charlie Flanagan, including the bit about him kicking his dog on the town square.
She smiled and said, “Got it. For what you want, I think alprazolam will work.”
“That is…?”
“Generic Xanax. Fairly easy to come by. It should mellow him out and make him docile, which is what you want. The trick, of course, is
figuring the right dosage. How big did you say he was?”
“About six-two, probably 220 or 225 pounds. And remember, I didn’t find any prescription drugs at his place. Only the usual painkillers, Advil and Tylenol.”
“That’s probably to your advantage. If he’s not used to taking anything stronger, the alprazolam should hit him harder.”
“That’s what I figured.”
Rachel smiled again. It’s hard not to be reminded of Sofia Vergara when Rachel smiles. Or, for that matter, even when she’s not smiling. Her mouth isn’t quite as wide as the actress’s, and her boobs aren’t quite as big…but almost. She lacks Ms. Vergara’s Latin accent—Rachel was born in Kansas, not Colombia—but she has the same long, wavy brown hair and the same tawny eyes.
And, as I’ve already mentioned, she’s married. She and her husband Al are both good friends of mine, and they have been for quite a few years. We live in the same neighborhood, just a few blocks apart, and they are the only people besides myself with keys to my house. Yes, I trust them that much.
Rachel is my source for pharmaceuticals. I’m not going to divulge her day job, but I will tell you that it has nothing to do with what I was purchasing from her. And just as I would never think of asking A.C. where he gets the handguns I occasionally buy from him, neither will I ever ask Rachel where she acquires the drugs I occasionally require for my work.
“I’m thinking about 50 milligrams—say, two 25-mil tablets—in each bottle of beer will probably be enough,” she said. “Especially if he’s already had several beers. The alcohol will strengthen the effects of the drug. It should make him groggy and slow his reflexes. But again, this is guesswork. I can’t guarantee anything.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” I said. “And yes, I’m pretty sure he’ll already have had several drinks…boilermakers, in fact.” I was remembering what I’d seen and what Walt the bartender had told me. Also what Allie Marshall had said about Flanagan being at the Rushville Tap every evening.
“Well, that should be enough to do it, then,” Rachel said. “How many bottles of beer are you planning to spike?”
“Probably four,” I said, trying to remember how many rows of Budweiser I’d seen in Flanagan’s refrigerator. “I need to make sure I have all the front bottles covered so he’ll grab one of the right ones.”
“Do six,” Rachel advised. “You don’t want to chance him grabbing one of the undoctored ones.”
“You’re right; I don’t.”
Rachel told me she’d have what I needed by Wednesday afternoon, and that she would stop by and drop it off on her way home from work. I thanked her and asked for one more favor.
“I’m going to be leaving town again on Friday afternoon at around three o’clock,” I said. “Do you think you could swing by that evening and feed Preacher at about five-thirty or six, then come back and let her out again at ten? I know that’s asking a lot, but…”
“No problem,” Rachel said. “But what about Saturday morning?”
“If everything goes as planned, I should be back by Saturday morning.” I hesitated, then added, “It’ll be kind of an all-night road trip, over to Illinois and back. I’ll buy you lunch one day next week at Tumea’s for taking care of Preacher.”
She smiled. “Safe travels,” was all she said.
The next several days passed quickly. I spent much of the time on magazine-related work. I downloaded all the photos I’d shot at Hidden Hollow onto my computer and transcribed the rough notes I’d made about my hunt. I didn’t write the story—there was plenty of time for that, since it wouldn’t run until sometime the following year. Plus, I had other more immediate editing work requiring my attention for the spring puppy issue.
I tried to focus on that work and not let myself dwell on my return trip to Rushville. Now that I had the plan set in my mind I didn’t want to start second-guessing myself…that could lead to hesitation or uncertainties, which could be fatal.
There was also the danger of overthinking things and trying to embellish the plan unnecessarily. Once again, I kept reminding myself of the rule of KISS.
On Tuesday I called Daryl Nelson and suggested that, weather permitting, we should shoot for the promised pheasant dinner sometime the following week. She agreed and I hung up the phone, smiling.
And, just as she’d promised, Rachel James stopped by my house on Wednesday afternoon to drop off the alprazolam. She laughed as she handed me the small ziplock bag containing 12 white pills.
“Here you go,” she said. “The priapic prick’s prescription.”
I couldn’t help laughing myself. “Stop that,” I said.
I didn’t attempt a comeback.
Chapter 43
I left Des Moines at 3:15 on Friday afternoon. Allowing for one stop for gas at New London—the Casey’s there was getting quite a bit of my business lately—I figured to be in Rushville by 8:30 that evening. The weather was clear, cold but sunny, and I didn’t anticipate any delays. Of course, it would be dark by the time I got to Rushville, and that was to my advantage.
With the exception of Rachel James, I hadn’t told anyone I was making this trip. I was gambling that no one from work would try contacting me on Friday afternoon—they usually didn’t—and even if someone did, the likelihood of them having an insurmountable problem was pretty slim. In other words, I could feel reasonably safe about waiting until Monday to respond to any messages.
I was planning to get to Rushville, do what needed to be done, and return to Des Moines before anyone except Rachel knew I was gone.
I spent most of the drive time running through my plan, looking for any possible slip-ups, omissions or places where something could go wrong. I was fairly confident I had all the bases covered but there was always the potential unknown that could derail things in a major way.
Most troubling was the fact that so much of what I had planned depended on chance combined with some precise timing. I was counting on what Allie Marshall had told me about Flanagan spending every evening at the Rushville Tap.
If he didn’t do so tonight, my plan was blown.
As I had done one week earlier, I came into Rushville on Highway 67, passing the high school where Flanagan and Carlyle Wilson had played football. I turned left onto Highway 24 and headed toward the town square.
I stopped two blocks short of the square and turned onto a dark side street. I pulled over and parked in front of a row of houses. Several other vehicles were parked on the street so I figured mine wouldn’t attract attraction. I was counting on the darkness to keep anyone from noticing my Iowa license plates.
I climbed out of the Equinox and locked the doors. I was wearing a black winter jacket and a dark gray bill cap. I wanted a quick look at the square—I was hoping to spot Flanagan’s white F150—but I was going to take that look on foot. I couldn’t take a chance on someone seeing, and possibly remembering, my vehicle with its Iowa plates.
It was Friday evening so I could expect some strolling shoppers and people coming and going from the bars and restaurants, but I thought it unlikely I’d run into anyone who might recognize me—say, someone from Hidden Hollow. I was also counting on blending in among the shoppers.
I reached the square and headed toward the Rushville Tap, a block distant. The wreaths on the streetlights and the lighted pavilion in the park reminded me again of a Norman Rockwell scene. As I’d anticipated, a fair number of people were on the sidewalks and I took care to match my pace to theirs, neither hurrying nor dawdling. A few folks nodded at me in passing and I did the same, but no one I saw showed any sign of actually recognizing me. All to the good.
I spotted Flanagan’s pickup when I was still a half block from the Rushville Tap.
It was angle parked just a few spaces down from the bar, looming large and white among the smaller vehicles parked on either side. I continued strolling toward the bar, taking care not to break stride and pause as I passed the truck. But a quick sideways glance at the license plate—GDX 189—
confirmed it was Flanagan’s.
Game on.
Chapter 44
Now I needed to get back to my vehicle as quickly as possible but I couldn’t afford to attract attention by moving at anything faster than a normal pace.
After checking Flanagan’s license plate I continued walking to the next corner, which left me at the far side of the square, diagonally opposite the corner where I’d entered. Rather than completing the entire circuit, it would be quicker to cut back through the center of the park, passing the pavilion.
Several other people were walking through the park, so this seemed like a safe move, unlikely to look suspicious.
I crossed the pavement and entered the park. A couple of elementary school-age kids, bundled up against the cold with puffy jackets and stocking caps, were chasing each other around the lighted pavilion, yelling and laughing. I glanced at them and smiled as I passed, just a benevolent old geezer out for his evening constitutional. At least, that’s the vibe I hoped I was projecting.
I crossed the park to the opposite corner and continued on away from the square. Once I’d put a half block behind me, I quickened my pace. Now I was just someone hurrying to get home out of the cold.
Except, of course, I wasn’t heading for home.
Charlie Flanagan drained his beer and set the mug down next to the empty shot glass on the bar. Walt the bartender glanced his way and asked, “Another one, Charlie?”
Flanagan hesitated. Then he shrugged and said, “Sure, why not?”
It took me 10 minutes to drive to Flanagan’s house on Highland Road.
I had no idea, of course, how long Flanagan had been in the Rushville Tap, or more importantly, how much longer he’d stay. Those were just a couple of the variables over which I had no control. But I’d cleared the first hurdle. For the moment, at least, I knew where he was.
The Killer in the Woods Page 21