“The one you call Wayne Tunny? I’m certain he’s our next-door neighbor, Don Woodbine. Has he done something wrong?”
“We just need to contact him, Mrs. Dove. We have some questions to ask him. What does he do?”
“He owns the local hardware store.”
Lincoln rolled his eyes. “How long have you known Mr. Woodbine?” he asked, tapping the eraser end of a pencil on the desk.
“Twenty years at least. His wife Elaine was one of my best friends. She died of cancer two years ago.”
“And how long has he owned the hardware store?”
“Since he came here twenty years ago.”
“Does he run the store himself?”
“Oh yes. Except when he travels.”
“Travels?” Lincoln said, beginning to show interest. “Does he travel a lot?”
“He has some kind of consulting job with the government. That’s why he has his own plane.”
Lincoln stopped tapping the pencil. Her revelation jump-started his heart. “He owns a plane?”
“Oh yes. A beauty. Has his own hangar out on his farm a couple miles from town.”
“Can you describe the plane?”
“It’s white with blue trim with, you know… the wing is on the bottom.”
“How many engines, Mrs. Dove?”
“Two.”
“Is he at home now—or at his store?”
“Golly, I don’t know. He’s somewhat reclusive and I’m not sure whether he’s over there or not. You might call the hardware store and ask for Charley Moore. He works for Don. I have his phone number right here.”
“Now listen to me, I want you to do me a favor, Mrs. Dove. Do not call anybody. In fact, I want you to keep this information to yourself. And do not approach the Woodbine house.”
“Has he done something wrong?”
“We just need to talk to him.”
“All right, but I’m sure everybody in town’s recognized him by now.”
She was right. The lights were blinking on several of the phones. All the calls were from Bad Rapids. The agents answering the calls were all waving their hands, indicating that they might have a “hit.”
“Tell me more about Mr. Woodbine, Mrs. Dove.”
“Well, he grows roses. He built a beautiful greenhouse in the backyard. He’s been very reclusive since Elaine’s death.”
“Any children?”
“No.”
“Lives alone, does he?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How long has he had the second job? The one requiring him to travel.”
“Since he came here. He must do well, he bought Ferguson’s Hardware a couple of months after he arrived. I remember because poor Orville Ferguson died on my birthday, September twenty-third. And Don kept the Ferguson name on the store—it was kind of a tradition here. We always thought that was kind of him.”
“Were you friends?”
“Well, yes. Like I said, I was closer to Elaine. Don’s a very quiet man. He coached Little League for two years. The Presbyterian team.”
“And he travels a lot?”
“Oh, not that much. Four or five times a year maybe.”
“Which of the photographs do you recognize, Mrs. Dove?”
“All of them. There’s just no question. The man in those pictures is Don Woodbine.”
“Can you hold a minute?”
“Yes, sir.”
The agent cupped the mouthpiece.
“Anybody else talking to Bad Rapids, Michigan, about a Don Woodbine?”
Three other agents held up their hands and more lights were blinking on.
“May I have your number, Mrs. Dove?”
CHICAGO, SATURDAY 1:01 P.M., CST (4:41 P.M., EST)
Hardistan had just returned to his hotel when the room phone rang. It was Floyd McCurdy, who had taken charge of the phone bank now that the investigation in Ohio was winding down.
“We got us a hit,” McCurdy said. “Five calls and they’re still coming in. The profile fits this guy like spandex underwear.”
“Who is he?”
“Name’s Don Woodbine, Bad Rapids, Michigan. Estimated age is fifty. Owns a hardware store, but he also has a twin-engine plane and a consulting job with the government, which takes him on the road half a dozen times a year. Reclusive. Doesn’t like to have his picture taken. I’ve got two men on the way up there. If it’s him, I think we need a SWAT team in there.”
“No question. I don’t want anybody approaching the house or the plane. Advise the local police what we’re doing. I’ll call Greg Fleming right now. He’s one of the best and he’s here in Chicago.”
“Are you coming up?”
“I’ll hang fire until your man checks back in. Meanwhile I’ll alert Greg.”
“Talk to you ASAP.”
Hardistan hung up, then punched out Vail’s number on his secured cell phone. Vail answered immediately. He was en route to his cabin.
“Your man Latimore was right,” he told Vail. “We may have a hit on our assassin.”
“Which one is he?”
“Tunny. He calls himself Don Woodbine. He’s lived in Bad Rapids, Michigan, that’s about 150 miles from here, for twenty years. It looks very promising. I’m going to alert my best SWAT team and get up there as soon as I have confirmation that he’s our man.”
“Are you taking Latimore with you?”
“I wouldn’t break a promise, Martin.”
“Good. Keep me informed.”
Hardistan’s second call was to the SWAT squad of the regional FBI office.
“This is Billy Hardistan. Get me Greg Fleming, please… I don’t care what he’s doing, I want him and I want him now!”
CHAPTER 33
BAD RAPIDS, MICHIGAN 7:39 P.M.
Don Woodbine’s house was a modest one-story brick structure on a large corner lot. Two local police cars and an ambulance, their lights off, were parked a block away from the house. Several men and women and two children were huddled together on the sidewalk near four black FBI assault vans.
Dressed in body armor and a blue FBI jacket, Greg Fleming scurried up the darkened street and reported to Hardistan.
“We evacuated the families in the house across the street, the one next door to it, and the Dove house next door to Woodbine’s place.”
“Good.”
Hardistan turned to the small group.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Hardistan. I’m with the FBI. I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but this is a precaution we always take. You all know your neighbor, Mrs. Richards. She very kindly has invited you all to come into her house and get out of the cold. This shouldn’t take too long.”
“What did Don do?” one of the men in the group asked.
“He’s wanted for questioning in a felony,” Hardistan said simply.
“You need an army to ask questions?”
“We like to play it safe for everybody’s sake,” Hardistan said softly. He entered one of the vans as Harrison Latimore walked through the crowd with Libby Dove, the woman who lived next door to Woodbine. She was a heavyset woman in her late forties, wearing a black, fur-lined parka. Mrs. Dove followed Latimore to the van Hardistan had just entered. He slid back the door and she went inside. It looked like a combination arsenal and TV station.
“Mrs. Dove,” Latimore said, “this is William Hardistan, director of the FBI; Greg Fleming, director of the FBI SWAT division, and Roy Ware. Mr. Ware is a computer technician.” Ware was sitting at a table in front of two computer monitors, one of which was dedicated to the monitor of a heat scanner. Hardistan, Fleming, and Latimore watched while Libby Dove described Woodbine’s house and carport to Ware, who roughed out a sketch.
“That’s perfect,” she said finally.
Ware ran off ten sketches on a small copy machine.
“And there’s no question in your mind that this is Don Woodbine,” Hardistan said, showing her blow-ups of the photos.
She tapped one of the pictu
res. “It’s him,” she said. “That’s Don Woodbine. Everybody says so.”
“Thank you,” Hardistan said. “You’ve been a great help. Please join the others over there at Mrs. Richards’s house. We don’t want anyone on the street.”
The four black vans moved slowly in single file down the street, stopping when they reached the Dove house. The SWAT squad members emptied out of three of the vans and knelt in the darkness. Fleming was wearing a radio-controlled headset.
“Joker, this is Penguin. You copy?” Fleming whispered.
“Roger that, Penguin. Joker is in place.”
“Hold your positions.”
Fleming entered the lead van.
Ware was reading the heat scan of the house as the video camera slowly panned across it. He stopped it once, briefly, then moved on.
“There’s a light on in the living room,” he said.
The camera completed its scan of the house.
“If he’s in there, he’s dead,” Ware said.
“You in place, Greg?” Hardistan asked.
“Ready to rock and roll. I’ve got fourteen men here, four in front, four in back, two snipers for backup in front and back. We’ve got ten at the hangar.”
“Excellent,” Hardistan replied.
“We’ll hit them both at the same time.”
“Who’s in charge there?”
“Oliver.”
“Okay, you know the drill. I don’t care what the heat scan says, treat the place like he’s there. Remember, this guy’s a professional killer. A high-level professional shooter.”
“We know, Billy,” Fleming said with a smile. “We go through this every time.”
“I just want to make sure, Greg. I want this man alive if possible, but this is an open range. Don’t take any chances. I don’t want any dead heroes here tonight. Go in fast and dust the place. If you get him, bring him outside, secure the premises, and the lab’ll move in. And be careful.”
Greg Fleming shook his head and laughed. “Got it all, Billy,” he said, and left the van.
“I’d like to go in with the team,” Latimore said.
“You stay here with me. These people are trained to do this kind of thing.”
“I qualified in SWAT training—”
“Latimore, this is not a Wild West show,” Hardistan interrupted. “Put that vest on and be quiet. We go in when they clear the premises.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Joker, this is Penguin, move in,” Fleming said.
“Copy that.”
The team swiftly zigzagged across the lawn. One sniper stood behind a tree in Woodbine’s front yard. The other was crouched behind the hood of a car parked across the street. They scanned the scene through night scopes. Blinds were pulled over the window. Through the slats they could make out a single light in the living room. The squad reached their positions and crouched against the house.
“Joker,” Fleming whispered, “we’re at the house.”
“In place here, Penguin. We can see through a crack in the door. There’s a truck in there, no plane.”
“Count to ten and go in.”
“Copy that.”
Fleming counted to ten. “Go!” he said.
Two men took down the front door with a battering ram. In the back, one of the agents smashed out a windowpane and unlocked the door. They rushed the interior of the house, gun lights fingering the darkness as they expertly cleared the rooms, closets, cabinets, anyplace a human body could squeeze into. Nothing.
Fleming switched on some lights. The place was uncommonly neat and clean. It was also cold, the thermostat having been turned down to sixty.
In the rear of the house an agent tried the door to the carport. It was locked.
At the hangar, the heavy chain and lock were sheared with a pair of pneumatic cutters. Oliver shoved one of the doors open and his men dispersed, moving quickly through the large barnlike interior. The lights probed every corner of the enormous room.
Oliver checked the truck. The door was locked.
“Tony,” he said to one of his men, “go get the jimmy. I got a locked vehicle here.”
“Right,” Tony answered, and left on the double.
“Penguin, this is Joker, do you copy?”
“Penguin copies.”
“The hangar’s empty. We got a locked truck in here. Okay to jimmy the door?”
At the house, Fleming was walking back to the carport door. “Do it,” he said.
“Roger that.”
Fleming walked past the agent and tried the doorknob. He looked around the doorjamb and checked in the kitchen for a key rack but found none.
“Kick it open,” he ordered.
The agent stepped back and slammed his foot into the door just under the knob. The lock shattered and the door swung open. The trip fuse to the plastic explosives set off the blast.
The house literally disintegrated, showering bricks, mortar, wood, and glass across the neighborhood. Car windows three blocks away shattered.
Inside the house Fleming and eight of his team saw only a blinding white flash before they were blown through the walls, into the ceiling, and out into the yard. They all died instantly, their bodies ripped apart by the force of the deadly plastic bomb, then scorched by the gasoline which sent a mushroom ball of fire swirling into the night sky. The explosion was heard ten miles away, and the fireball lit up three square blocks as it seemed to ignite its way upward.
Hardistan and Latimore were slammed back against one of the vans and battered with debris. They fell beside each other, stunned, bleeding from scratches and cuts, their bodies bruised from the force of the blast.
Hardistan raised himself on an elbow and stared at the fire with open-mouthed disbelief. He struggled to his feet and saw what was left of Fleming’s smoking corpse lying in the front yard.
“Oh my God,” he muttered, and then repeated it, this time almost a shriek. Latimore got to his knees beside him.
“The hangar!” he cried out.
Too late. Another explosion rumbled through the night and the sky erupted in a second fireball.
CHAPTER 34
BAD RAPIDS, 9:35 P.M., CST
Hardiston trod past the wreckage of the Woodbine house like a man in a walking nightmare. The house and hangar barn had been leveled by explosion, ravaged by fire. Eleven of his men were dead; three more, including Latimore, had been flown in medevac choppers to a hospital in Chicago. FBI Director Harry Simmons had been given the task of informing the families of the victims and explaining the event to the press. Hardistan did not care what he told the media. Two investigating teams and a forensics team were on site. There was nothing further he could do in Bad Rapids.
He was heading in an FBI chopper to Vail’s cabin to tell him in person about the tragedy when McCurdy called him.
“The plane’s at O’Hare,” McCurdy said. “A traffic controller going off duty spotted it.”
“You’re sure it’s his?”
“The registration’s a phony. It’s his plane all right.”
“What the hell would he go into Chicago for if… Jesus, Floyd, he’s going after Vail!”
“Maybe he’s—”
“Forget maybe, we can’t take a chance. Treat this as an emergency rescue. I’ll call the bodyguards and advise them to get Martin and Jane out of there. I want you to dispatch two choppers out to the cabin, just in case. You go with them, direct the operation there, and send two more teams by vehicle to the site. Stay airborne and check the woods. Contact the state patrol and the local police out there and tell them to get to the cabin. Are you still with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to O’Hare. Get eight men and a sniper out there and set up tight surveillance on the plane. But don’t move on him unless there’s a danger of losing him. Get all the civilians off that tarmac and replace them with our people, but don’t cause a big stir, make it look like a normal shift change. And for God’s sake don’t go near the plan
e, it could be booby-trapped. I should be there in twenty minutes.”
Hardistan hung up and called the secure line to Avery Baxter, the senior agent on Vail’s bodyguard team.
There was no answer.
Earlier in the day, after the two FBI bodyguards had checked out the grounds and house, Vail and Jane had gone down to the lake and done some trap shooting. As usual, Jane had made him look like an amateur, while Magoo sat back near the cabin. The dog hated the sound of gunfire, and at one point howled soulfully because he was left alone.
“Thank God you’re not a hunter,” Jane said as they walked back across the expanse of lawn, their shotguns unloaded while the dog trotted down to join them.
“I never even knew what a skeet was until I met you,” he said.
“You mean a clay pigeon?”
“Whatever,” he said with a laugh, and put his arm around her. Off in the woods he could see Avery Baxter, the senior agent, checking the grounds out. Cliff Mandel, the other seasoned agent, and Baxter had become their constant companions and protectors.
This was their first weekend away together since Martin had accepted the Sanctuary case, and it made Jane nervous seeing two armed men strolling the grounds. She also sensed a nervousness about Martin, which was uncommon. He had relaxed, as he always did the minute they arrived at their beloved getaway. Still, it was obvious to her that the case weighed heavily on his mind. A comforting fire hissed and crackled in the kitchen fireplace, and she made hot chocolate to take the chill off.
“Should we invite the boys in for dinner?” she asked.
“Not tonight,” he said. “I thought we could have a nice candlelight supper. You know, just the two of us. Maybe you can fix plates for them before we eat.”
“Okay…”
They sat in front of the big picture window and watched the sun set on the other side of the lake. Then he took four T-bones out of the refrigerator and started the grill while she mixed up a salad and put potatoes in the oven.
Later, after Baxter and Mandel had eaten, Jane and Martin sat down together at the dining room table. Martin had lit a dozen candles, and the room had a soft, warm glow to it, made even cozier by the bottle of Taittinger’s champagne he opened. And yet Vail still seemed distracted, at times jumpy.
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