I just hoped Preacher would forgive me for letting another dog ride in her vehicle…and in the front seat, no less.
I placed the cooler on the floor behind the front seat occupied by Dusty. I pulled the Colt Python out of my waistband, unloaded it and returned it to the pistol case I’d carried it in from Des Moines. I walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in and took off my gloves.
I started the Equinox. The headlight beams caught something large standing maybe ten yards ahead of us, just behind Dusty’s now-empty dog kennel. Its eyes glowed amber-green in the headlights, and though it was somewhat obscured by the falling snow, I recognized the same dog I’d seen the previous Saturday afternoon—the huge tan and white dog whose barks had caused me to quit searching Flanagan’s house and make a hasty exit…and not a moment too soon, as it had turned out.
I wondered if it was this dog, rather than Dusty, I’d heard bark a few minutes ago. I stared hard at the dog for a few seconds and it seemed to lock eyes with me. Then it turned and vanished behind the windbreak of pine trees. As it did so, a curious word slipped into my mind. Benediction.
I shook my head. “Friend of yours?” I asked Dusty. He looked up at me and thumped the seat with his tail but gave no indication he’d been aware of the other dog’s presence.
I backed out from behind the equipment shed and eased onto the gravel driveway.
The snow was coming down harder now and I realized it was an unexpected blessing—it would surely obliterate any tracks my vehicle had made in the gravel of the driveway when I’d pulled in earlier, as well as covering any tracks in the grass behind the equipment shed.
Once again, I was reminded of my former co-worker’s pearl of wisdom: Every once in a while, you get dumbass lucky.
When we reached the end of the driveway I paused for a moment, looking both directions and hoping to see no flashing lights heading our way. I was reasonably certain the single gunshot from the Glock inside the closed house wouldn’t be heard by Flanagan’s neighbors a half-mile away, but I also knew that—my co-worker’s saying notwithstanding—I’d already stretched my luck about as far as I could reasonably expect it to hold. It was now well and truly time to get the hell out of Dodge—well, Rushville—once and for all.
I pulled out onto Highland Road and headed back toward Highway 24. The snow was coming down even harder now, which slowed our pace a bit, but it also forced me to concentrate totally on my driving. And that was a good thing—it kept my mind focused on the road rather than the image of Charlie Flanagan sprawled back in his kitchen chair with…
Sorry. I promised I’d spare you those details.
Chapter 48
I spent a good part of the five-hour, late-night drive back to Des Moines replaying and analyzing everything that had happened in the past few weeks.
Just as I often tend to rethink—OK, overthink—conversations I’ve just had, weighing both my words and those of the other person, I always engage in a review of my actions, from beginning to end, when I’ve completed an assignment. I especially look for slip-ups, things I could (and should) have done differently. While I’m not big on self-flagellation, I do try to note and learn from any mistakes I’ve made so as to avoid repeating them.
In this case, my single biggest mistake early on was assuming that Frank Reynolds’ death would be classified as an accident. The kill itself was clean and while I knew his body would eventually be found, I hadn’t factored in the possibility that the person who found Reynolds and reported the find to authorities would very soon be charged with his death.
I couldn’t have known that Carlyle Wilson would be hunting in the same area as Frank Reynolds that morning and I’d assumed Reynolds’ shooting would ultimately be ruled a hunting accident, that he’d been killed by a stray slug, and nothing more. In this I’d miscalculated, big time, and that miscalculation had very nearly seen an innocent man tried—and possibly convicted and imprisoned—for a crime he hadn’t committed.
Of course, I also couldn’t have foreseen Charlie Flanagan coming forward with a trumped-up confession allegedly made by Carlyle Wilson. I had no knowledge whatsoever of their history, no knowledge of Charlie Flanagan’s reputation as a local badass, nor any of the other details involving the two of them and Allie Marshall.
In the latter case, at least, I’d gotten supremely lucky. That Allie was Amy Halvorsen’s sister and I’d been able to fill in a bunch of the blanks—especially, whether Charlie Flanagan deserved the death I was planning to bring his way—during my stay at Hidden Hollow had been a rare stroke of good fortune. Good for me, that is; not so good for Flanagan.
I knew I couldn’t count on that kind of luck very often…maybe never again.
I also knew that Rule Number 2—no collateral damage—had come dangerously close to being violated this time. I was confident that with Charlie Flanagan now out of the way and his suicide note suggesting he had fabricated Carlyle Wilson’s confession, Wilson would soon be released and the charges against him dropped.
But I also knew there would be some questions hanging out there that would never be answered, at least not to everyone’s complete satisfaction. Charlie Flanagan’s immediate cause of death would be obvious, but those who knew him best might find it difficult to believe he’d committed suicide.
The ME would undoubtedly find traces of the alprazolam in his blood, and those same people might wonder about that, as well. I told myself they’d surmise he’d acquired and used the drug to numb himself before pulling the trigger. That was halfway plausible, anyway, and no one could prove otherwise.
The empty dog kennel would also raise the question of what had happened to his Labrador.
Again, I told myself that people might speculate that prior to killing himself he’d given the dog away to a hunting buddy (although in such a small community, any buddy of Flanagan’s would probably be known to just about everyone) or even that the dog had run away on its own, perhaps escaping through an unlatched kennel gate. At any rate, the dog was gone and its whereabouts would remain unknown.
And finally, these latest developments—Charlie Flanagan’s supposed suicide and Carlyle Wilson’s subsequent release—would reopen the question of who had really killed Frank Reynolds. I was once again gambling, just as I had at the outset, that it would ultimately be ruled an accident. I felt slightly more certain of this the second time around, as there were no other likely suspects, and there never would be.
Bottom line, while I felt like I could now file this in the “All’s well that ends well” category, some fast and semi-dangerous footwork had been required to make it happen. I’d been forced to cut things a lot closer than I like.
I wondered if I was getting too old for this stuff.
Gray dawn was just breaking when I pulled into my driveway. Considering the kind of life he’d had up to this point, Dusty had been a surprisingly good passenger, staying curled up on the old towels on the passenger seat and sleeping most of the way. He’d roused a time or two but I’d ruffled his ears again and spoken to him quietly and he’d quickly settled back down.
I let him out of the SUV and into the back yard. I heard Preacher’s bark from inside the house. I quickly unlocked the door and she rushed out. Spotting the big yellow dog in her back yard—he was at that moment lifting his leg against the maple tree, and after a five-hour trip, who could blame him—she hurried over, hackles raised.
Dusty finished and dropped his leg. He stood still, ears pricked and tail waving slowly. Preacher approached stiffly and they sniffed noses. “Take it easy,” I cautioned both of them, but I could see they were already relaxing. Fights between a male and female are rare in the canine world—humans should take note—and Preacher was soon dropping into what’s known among dog people as a “play bow”—a sort of semi-crouch with the forelegs extended and the rear end raised. It is, as you’d guess from the name, an invitation to play.
Apparently my bristle-faced housemate found this big handsome Lab to her liking.
I left the dogs in the backyard and went inside to start a pot of coffee. The last 14 hours, 10 of which had been spent on the road, were beginning to take their toll. I needed a shower and some sleep.
But I had a few other matters to attend to first. I was going to have to give Dusty a bath and I groaned at the thought. Living in an outdoor kennel, he’d acquired a heavy doggy odor—I’d been smelling it for the past five hours and the Equinox now needed a thorough airing. But just as you don’t give someone a gift with the price tag still attached, I didn’t want to present the dog to his new owner without cleaning him up first.
I also had a couple of phone calls to make, but those would have to wait until a more reasonable hour.
Chapter 49
I called James Collins first.
It was a couple minutes past ten when I dialed his number from the burner I’d been using to correspond with him and, surprisingly, he answered on the second ring. Apparently he was not a late sleeper.
“Hey, Tom,” he said.
“Done,” I replied.
“Done?”
“Yes. The confession should now be moot.” I knew he’d connect the dots.
“That’s great. Well…I mean, I’m glad it’s been resolved.”
“I am too. I’d appreciate it if you’d continue to monitor things for a few more days, though, just to confirm that Wilson has been released.”
“I can do that. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
“One more thing. Is there any…uh…additional charge? I mean, you had a lot of extra travel and expense and so on.”
I had to hand it to him; he was one conscientious client. By now most people would be wanting to wash their hands of the whole matter and put it behind them, to say nothing of not wanting to incur any more cost.
“No,” I replied. “You’ve covered your part of it with the additional background info you supplied. The rest of the cost…well, I’ll just eat it.” As I said this, I again realized that James Collins still had no idea who I really was—he still only knew me as a guy he called Tom—or what I actually did for a living. I couldn’t tell him I was going to expense my travel because I’d be writing a feature for my magazine on the preserve where I’d hunted, and that in return, the preserve was buying some ad space with us, a win-win.
“You’re sure about that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, all right then. But hey, something else I wanted to mention, kinda related to what you just said about supplying additional information. You may not be interested, but it occurred to me that I might, uh, be able to help you again sometime.” He laughed a little nervously. “I mean, in case you ever need something or somebody…researched, or whatever. I really do appreciate what you’ve done here in bringing some closure to the whole matter with my sister, and maybe I could return the favor.”
Hmmm. It was an interesting proposition. My first knee-jerk inclination was to turn him down and adhere to the “no further contact” clause of our unwritten contract. But again, he had a good point. There was no question that he and his friends could accomplish more with their laptops than I could ever hope to when it came to, as he’d called it, research. I might be able to use his help again sometime.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
My second call, this time made from the old landline phone in my office, was to Mike Stevenson, and he too answered on the second ring.
“What the hell do you want?” he said with mock irritation. He’d recognized my number on his caller ID and this was, in fact, our standard greeting to each other. I was happy to hear it because it suggested he was in better spirits than he had been the last time we’d talked.
I laughed. “As a matter of fact, I was just calling to see if you had a little free time this afternoon. I’d like to swing by for a few minutes after lunch if you’re going to be home.”
“Sure, come on by. What’s this all about?”
“Oh, just something I want to run by you,” I said. “Are Janice and the kids going to be there?”
“As far as I know,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“A little surprise,” I said. “I’ll see you about 1:30.”
I hung up before he could ask more questions. I left the office and headed out to the kitchen, passing through the living room where Preacher and Dusty were sprawled at opposite ends of the sofa.
The big yellow Lab now smelled like dog shampoo instead of a dirty kennel. Convincing him to step into my bathtub with its sliding glass shower doors had taken some doing, but he’d eventually acquiesced. Luckily my shower head is one of those detachable numbers with a long flexible hose, which made bathing him a little easier.
I’d also replaced the dirty orange nylon collar he’d been wearing with a new one I’d picked up a couple days earlier. It too was nylon but in a RealTree camouflage pattern, as befitted a waterfowl dog.
I paused next to the sofa. Both dogs raised their heads to look at me. I spoke to the Lab.
“You and I are gonna take another ride this afternoon,” I said. “You’re entering something like the witness protection program, but I think you’re going to like it. One thing I know for certain is that no one will ever kick you again.”
My plan was to tell Mike that the Lab was an abuse case that had come to me through a rescue organization that had contacted my magazine. Sure, that last part was a lie, and I don’t make a habit of doing that with my friends, but I obviously couldn’t tell Mike the real way in which I’d acquired the dog. The less he knew of the Lab’s origins, the better for all involved.
“One more thing,” I said, as I reached down to ruffle one of the dog’s russet ears. “You now have a new identity. From now on, your name is Rusty, not Dusty.” In response to hearing his name, the Lab thumped the sofa cushions with his tail.
I figured the name switch would be an easy transition.
Chapter 50
The pheasant dinner was a smashing success.
We were enjoying one of those mild spells that occasionally occur in Iowa in mid-December, when the temps rise into the 50s, the sun shines and the snow melts. Inspired by the warm-up, I’d pulled the Weber kettle grill out of the garage and onto the deck and grilled the bird over indirect heat (charcoal, not gas; I’m a purist, and why are you not surprised) and basted with the same marinade in which I’d soaked it overnight.
I won’t tell you the ingredients of the marinade—it’s a formula I’ve perfected over quite a few years—but I will tell you that dinner guests have offered me money to do so.
Other than the marinade, I believe in keeping things fairly simple when I serve game. Foil-wrapped baked potatoes (also done on the grill) and lightly steamed fresh broccoli rounded out my part of the menu. Daryl Nelson had brought a tossed salad of her own making and two chilled bottles of Kendall Jackson chardonnay. While I’m usually not much of a wine drinker, I can’t deny the KJ was the perfect accompaniment to the pheasant.
Which Daryl loved. She said exactly the right things, commenting on how moist the meat was, how it didn’t have a strong gamy flavor, and so on. And fortunately, she didn’t crack a tooth or a filling on an errant piece of shot that I’d missed when cleaning the bird.
That had happened with another dinner date several years earlier. The woman in question was dubious about trying pheasant to begin with and cracking a filling—actually an expensive crown—had brought a very abrupt end to our evening and an equally abrupt end to our budding romance.
But now dinner was over; the table had been cleared and the dishwasher loaded. We were sitting at opposite ends of the sofa with Daryl’s legs stretched out and her feet in my lap; I was giving her an after-dinner foot rub while we watched the DVD of one of my favorite holiday movies, Grumpy Old Men, with Jack Lemmon, Walter Matthau and Ann-Margret. OK, so it’s not exactly It’s a Wonderful Life (which I happen to despise) but it’s a darned funny movie and its climactic scene occurs at Christmasti
me, so that qualifies it as a holiday film in my book.
Preacher was sprawled on the throw rug in front of the sofa—and yes, we’d shared a few bites of the pheasant with her. We’d just watched the scene in which Ann-Margret convinces Jack Lemmon it’s time for bed. I decided to spring my surprise. I paused the DVD and said, “I want to ask you something.”
“OK,” Daryl replied, smiling but looking a bit mystified.
“I kinda rolled the dice and took a chance on something. I managed to score two tickets to the Billy Joel concert at the Target Center in Minneapolis on the night of the 18th. That’s next Saturday…I was wondering if you’d like to drive up with me for the concert. We could have dinner, see the concert, spend the night, have brunch on Sunday and then head back home.”
I didn’t tell her how I’d really acquired the tickets, that James Collins had sent them to my P.O. box with a note thanking me for “tying up the loose ends” in Rushville and confirming that Carlyle Wilson had been released and the charges against him dropped. But what I said about rolling the dice was true enough, in that so much of my plan for resolving the Charlie Flanagan matter had depended on luck.
God only knew how Collins got the tickets on such short notice or what he must have paid for them. But hey, I don’t look gift horses in the mouth, and haven’t I been saying he was a stand-up guy?
Daryl laughed. “That’s quite an itinerary!” she said. “But it sounds like fun.” She grinned impishly. “Are they good seats?”
“Yes, very good seats. Twelve rows back, slightly off center.”
“Wow. OK. But where will we stay?”
“Probably one of the hotels in downtown Minneapolis near the Target Center. I haven’t made the reservation yet because I…uh, wasn’t sure if you’d accept or…um, what you’d prefer.”
The Killer in the Woods Page 23