I turned off the highway and pulled up the lane toward Flanagan’s house. When I got to the top of the hill I swung to my right, easing the Equinox off the driveway and into the grass. I pulled around behind the equipment shed into the space between the shed and the row of windbreak pines. I continued on and stopped after about 10 yards. I put the vehicle in park, turned off the ignition and climbed out. I donned the same brown cotton gloves I’d worn during my last visit, got the items I needed from the backseat and closed the door.
From his kennel at the far end of the shed, Dusty the Labrador began barking. I considered walking down to the kennel and trying to quiet him but decided not to take the time. I hoped he wasn’t one of those dogs that, once started barking, couldn’t stop. I’d have to take that chance.
I hurried across the driveway toward the back door of the house, carrying the six-pack cooler of long-neck Budweiser bottles, the ones I’d spiked earlier that afternoon with the alprazolam Rachel James had supplied. The beauty of beer bottles with twist-off caps is that the caps can also be twisted back on.
I set the cooler on the rubber mat outside the back door and turned to the garden shed. I unlatched the shed doors, opened them and grabbed the key from its nail above the hinge. I unlocked the back door of the house, pushed it open, then returned the key to its hiding place and latched the shed doors.
I wouldn’t need the key again, and when I left Flanagan’s place later that night, I’d be doing so in a hurry.
Charlie Flanagan finished his third boilermaker and stood up from the barstool he’d been occupying. “Calling it a night?” Walt the bartender asked.
“I think so. Gotta work tomorrow. Caught the weekend shift.”
“OK, I’ll cash you out.”
“Thanks.”
Flanagan had obligingly left a small light on above the kitchen sink.
The first action I took when I stepped through the mud room into the kitchen was to remove the Colt Python from where I’d been carrying it, tucked into the waistband of my jeans. I laid the gun on the kitchen table, then turned to the refrigerator.
I removed the first six bottles of Budweiser from the shelf in the fridge and replaced them with the six I’d brought with me. I put Flanagan’s six in the cooler, opened the louvered pantry door, and set the cooler on the floor in a back corner.
Then I crossed the kitchen to the short hallway that led back to Flanagan’s office. Navigating by penlight—it was too dark in this part of the house to see without one, and I didn’t want to risk turning on any other lights—I found his desk.
I hesitated for a moment, hoping the holstered Glock was still in the center drawer where I’d seen it a week ago. I pulled open the drawer.
The gun was there.
I pulled it out and returned to the kitchen.
Charlie Flanagan glanced at his watch as he left the Rushville Tap. 9:15. Too early, really, to go home on a Friday night. He considered heading over to the American Legion for a final nightcap, his comment to Walt about working on Saturday notwithstanding.
He started down the sidewalk toward his truck.
Now it was just a matter of waiting until Flanagan got home. I pulled the Glock from its holster and checked to make sure there was still a cartridge in the breech. Then I laid the gun on the table next to the Colt.
I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, figuring I might as well be comfortable while I waited. When I heard Flanagan pull up in his truck, I would step into the pantry with both guns and close the louvered door. Not the most original hiding place, but it should suffice.
KISS.
Charlie Flanagan climbed into his truck and started the ignition. He backed out of the parking space and thought again about stopping at the Legion for one last drink.
“Fuck it,” he said. He had beer at home that he could drink and it wouldn’t cost him anything.
He drove around the square and headed out to the highway.
I sat there at the kitchen table, waiting and listening to the silence. I realized that at some point Dusty the Labrador had stopped barking.
Chapter 45
Waiting for Charlie Flanagan to come home gave me plenty of time to think about what was going to happen.
I wasn’t having second thoughts or misgivings. Rather, I focused on Flanagan’s probable course of action when he returned and entered his house. I was counting on him having at least one beer before he turned in for the night. This was, in fact, the biggest gamble.
If he didn’t—if he came home already drunk, or semi-so—there was a strong possibility he’d head straight for bed. But the fact that he kept his refrigerator so well stocked with beer suggested he’d probably opt for a nightcap. Two or three cases full of empty bottles out in the mud room suggested likewise.
If he didn’t crack a beer when he got home, I was going to have to improvise. My best bet would probably be to wait until he was asleep and then put my plan, with some modification, into effect. But I hoped this wasn’t the way it played out.
As I’d told Rachel James, I needed Flanagan cooperative. Or at least, I needed to be able to briefly manipulate him.
Thinking of what I was going to make him do gave rise to an ironic realization. This whole business had begun with a bogus suicide, that of Mandi Collins.
If things went according to plan, it would end the same way.
Charlie Flanagan slowed to make the turn off the highway and into his lane. He gunned the pickup slightly to make it up the hill. He swung the truck into the empty bay at the near end of the open equipment shed. He turned off the ignition and climbed out.
From his kennel at the far end of the shed, Dusty the Labrador let out a sharp, attention-seeking bark.
“Quiet!” Flanagan said gruffly as he turned and headed toward the back door of the house.
I heard Flanagan’s truck as he gunned it up the hill. I heard Dusty’s bark and Flanagan’s command to be quiet.
I stood up. “Here we go,” I said softly. I pushed the chair I’d been sitting in back beneath the table and picked up the Colt and the Glock. I stepped into the pantry and closed the door behind me.
Charlie Flanagan fumbled his house key only slightly when he unlocked his back door. He stepped into the mud room and bent over to untie his boot laces. He toed off his boots, kicked them to the side and pulled off his jacket. He hung it on one of the pegs beside the door and stepped into the kitchen. He tossed his keys onto the kitchen table and turned toward the refrigerator.
I heard Flanagan unlock his back door and step into the mud room. After a few seconds I heard a couple of soft thuds and guessed that was him kicking off his boots. In another few seconds, through the slanted louvered slats of the pantry door I saw him step into the kitchen in his stocking feet and drop his keys on the kitchen table. I held my breath as he turned toward the refrigerator.
Flanagan reached for the handle on the refrigerator door, then hesitated. He dropped his hand, shook his head and turned away.
He crossed the kitchen and turned down the short hallway next to the staircase.
I let my breath out in a hiss. I managed to keep from uttering a quiet “Fuck!” but only just barely.
Then I heard a sound that, if not exactly music to my ears, was at least somewhat reassuring. Maybe even a cause for optimism…an indication that things still might work out as planned.
Living by himself, Flanagan apparently didn’t bother shutting the door when he used the bathroom.
Charlie Flanagan zipped up, flushed and returned to the kitchen. He headed straight to the refrigerator, opened the door and grabbed one of the bottles of Budweiser from the shelf. He twisted off the cap and tossed it into the wastebasket next to the sink.
He held the bottle to his lips and took a long pull. Then he turned and walked out to the living room. He settled himself on the sofa and picked up the TV remote. He clicked it on and started channel surfing.
From my position behind the louvered pantry door I could see
through the kitchen and out into the living room. When Flanagan sat down on the sofa—actually, it was more of a sprawl—I still had a fair visual on him. The living room was dark but he immediately turned on the TV and that provided enough light for me to see him pretty well.
I could hear different snatches of dialogue as he surfed through the channels. He finally settled on one and I recognized the voices of Mel Gibson and Danny Glover in one of the early Lethal Weapon movies.
Why was I not surprised.
Charlie Flanagan took another pull at his beer, finishing it. He set the bottle on the coffee table and thought about going out to the kitchen for another one. He was starting to feel sleepy but the movie was getting good and although it was an oldie and he’d seen it several times before, he didn’t want to miss the climactic martial arts fight between Mel and Gary Busey.
He decided one more beer would put a nice cap on the evening.
It looked like it required quite a bit of effort for Flanagan to haul himself up off the sofa. But he got himself upright without stumbling and as he came back out to the kitchen, I instinctively stepped back from the pantry door.
I hoped he hadn’t had a sudden attack of the munchies and was coming to the pantry to look for something to snack on. If that was the case, I could resolve things immediately with either of the two handguns when he opened the pantry door, but that would make it tough—probably impossible—to implement the rest of my plan.
I got lucky. Flanagan wasn’t hungry. He went straight to the refrigerator and pulled out another bottle of Bud. As before, he twisted off the cap and tossed it at the wastebasket.
This time he missed.
Charlie Flanagan waited until he’d settled himself on the sofa again before starting on his last beer for the night. He took a couple of drinks then set the bottle on the table. He could feel himself fighting to stay awake and he wasn’t sure he was going to make it to the end of the movie, no matter how much he wanted to hear Mel ask Gary, “Care for a shot at the title?”
His eyes closed and his chin dropped to his chest.
I eased open the pantry door and stood still for a moment, watching Charlie Flanagan. Rachel James had told me that the alprazolam would probably hit him hard and that alcohol would hasten and heighten the effect. It appeared she had nailed it.
I left the Glock on a shelf in the pantry and stepped into the living room carrying the Colt Python at my side.
“Hey, Charlie,” I said, and Flanagan opened his eyes.
Chapter 46
“What the fuck!”
Flanagan may have been nodding off under the dual effects of alcohol and alprazolam, but he still had a belligerent edge. I’d have to be careful.
“Turn the TV off,” I said.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the guy calling the shots.” I pointed the Colt at his chest. “Turn the TV off.”
Flanagan hesitated. Then, somewhat surprisingly, he picked up the remote and did as I’d told him.
I half expected him to throw the remote at me or try something else desperate. But instead, he dropped the remote on the coffee table next to his beer bottle. “Who are you?” he asked again, minus “the fuck” this time.
“We met a week ago,” I said. “You bumped into me on your way out of the Rushville Tap.”
I could see him trying to remember. He also looked like he was struggling to stay awake. Finally he said, “The magazine guy.”
“That’s right. The magazine guy.”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“I want you to stand up and walk out to the kitchen.”
“I’m not walking anywhere.”
“Then I’ll shoot you right where you sit.”
I saw him weighing the possibilities. I remembered what Rachel had said about the drug slowing his reflexes and I hoped she was right.
“I don’t know what the fuck this is all about,” he said, stalling. “You’re pissed off just because I bumped you in the bar?”
“No,” I said. “This has nothing to do with that.” I waggled the Colt at him. “Get up.”
He lowered his head and looked to one side. Then he planted both fists on the cushions and pushed himself upright. As he stood fully erect, he had to catch himself to keep from listing to one side.
“Easy does it,” I said. I waggled the Colt again. “Step around the table and walk out to the kitchen.” As I said this, I took a couple steps to the side to give him room to pass.
He shuffled forward. “I still don’t know what this is all about,” he said. He walked past me and as he did so I leaned back and snagged his beer bottle with my free hand. I followed him out into the kitchen.
“Sit down,” I said. He pulled out the chair I’d been sitting in earlier and sat.
I set the beer bottle down in front of him and quickly stepped back. “Have a drink,” I said.
“I don’t want any more,” he said, and the last part came out slurred, something like “wa-aay-more.”
“Suit yourself,” I said.
His head was drooping but he snapped it up and suddenly asked, “Why you wearing gloves?”
“My hands were cold,” I said. His head drooped again. He was definitely nodding off and I needed to move quickly.
“Charlie!” I said, and he lifted his head, blinking. “Pick up that pen,” I said, pointing to a ballpoint on the table next to a small notepad.
“What?”
“Pick up that pen. I want you to write something.”
“Fuck you. Not gonna write anything.” Nodding off but still belligerent.
“Then I guess we’re done here,” I said, cocking the Colt and pointing at his face. “No point in wasting any more time.”
My bluff worked. He picked up the pen with his right hand and said, “OK, OK.” He was struggling to form the words. “Wha’ am I s’posed to write?”
“Just two words,” I said. “I want you to write ‘I’m sorry.’”
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s right.”
Flanagan pulled the notepad toward him and wrote the words. He dropped the pen and said, “What am I sorry for?”
“For lying about Carlyle Wilson confessing to you,” I said.
“Wasn’t lying,” Flanagan said. His chin dropped again. The drug was overpowering him. In another minute he’d be falling out of the chair.
I stepped quickly to the pantry and grabbed the Glock. I placed it on the table in front of Flanagan. His eyes were closed and his breathing was just short of a snore.
“Charlie!” I said again, but this time he didn’t open his eyes.
I lifted his right hand from the table and he didn’t resist. Even through my gloves I could feel the coldness.
I hesitated. I’d told Rachel James I needed Flanagan tractable, but this was way beyond tractable. This was helpless.
I wavered.
I’d spent the last couple weeks convincing myself that Flanagan deserved the fate I was about to deliver. I’d gathered, to the best of my ability, the evidence to support that decision. An innocent man’s life hung in the balance. This was no time to balk. And yet…
A dog barked outside.
I flashed again on the scene I’d witnessed last Saturday afternoon, when Flanagan had kicked his Lab on the town square. A dog whose only sin was attempting to remain close to his master, and for that attempt Flanagan had sworn viciously and kicked his legs out from under him.
I reached down and carefully fitted Flanagan’s right hand around the grip of the Glock.
Chapter 47
Here’s what I’d like to tell you.
I’d like to tell you that at the last second, in a burst of adrenaline and an attack of conscience, Charlie Flanagan lifted the gun of his own accord and used it to commit the suicide I’d gone to such lengths to stage.
I’d like to tell you that.
But I’d be lying.
I won’t lie to you about what happened, but I will spare you the gr
isly details.
Before leaving Charlie Flanagan’s kitchen, I pulled the four remaining alprazolam-spiked bottles of Budweiser out of his refrigerator and replaced them with four of the bottles I’d removed earlier. I added the four spiked bottles to the two unspiked bottles still in the cooler.
Carrying the cooler, I exited through the back door and pulled it shut behind me, making sure it was locked. I crossed the driveway to the dog kennel next to the equipment shed. The big yellow Lab was standing at the gate, whining softly and wagging his tail.
I unlatched the gate, which wasn’t locked. I’d brought along a pair of bolt-cutters but they were still in the Equinox and I was happy to see I wouldn’t need to take time to retrieve them.
“C’mon, Dusty,” I said. “We’re going for a little ride.” With my free hand I caught my fingers in his collar and headed around the equipment shed to where I’d parked the Equinox. He paced alongside me willingly.
Snow was beginning to fall as I opened the passenger side door and told the Lab to climb in. For a dog who’d apparently spent most of his life in a kennel or riding in the open bed of a pickup truck, he was surprisingly cooperative. Then again, Labs haven’t held their position as the most popular dog breed in the country for nearly three decades by being incorrigible knuckleheads.
He settled himself on the old towels I’d spread on the passenger seat, sighing as he curled his 70-pound bulk into a fairly compact ball. I’d considered bringing a crate and confining him in the cargo space under the hatch—where Preacher usually rode on her thick dog pillow—but decided against it. I had no idea if Dusty had ever been crated and if he hadn’t, the close confinement might have caused him to panic, biting at the crate and whining with anxiety. I didn’t want to have to deal with that, or listen to it, for the five-hour drive to Des Moines.
The Killer in the Woods Page 22