“Good God, this is complicated,” complained Kyle.
And then it became even more so.
My brother’s cell phone began to beckon. After several fumbling retrieval attempts involving tight pockets, Kyle’s cell phone appeared. “Yipes,” he blurted, looking at his device, “It’s Morgana!”
The cell phone rang again and again.
“Answer it,” I said.
Kyle gave me a dirty look as he pushed the button to receive the call.
“Hello, Sheriff MacKenzie . . . Hi, Morgana . . . No . . . Richard is right here . . . Right, I’ll put him on.”
After a quick sigh of relief, Kyle gently tossed his phone to me, saying, “Your wife wants to talk to you. She sounds upset.”
With some wariness, I braced myself for a reprimand in the guise of a conversation. “Yes, Dear, what is it that you—”
“Don’t start, Richard, and listen. There is something very odd happening at your uncle’s place.”
“Hold on . . . Where are you?”
“Father Joe and I are at your uncle’s new neighbors, the Mapledales. After the luncheon, the Mapledales were kind enough to invite us to their home. Since you weren’t around, we took up their offer.”
“That was very good, but—”
“And since I would be next door to your uncle’s, I thought it would be an opportunity to walk over to his place and check it out. When Joe and I got close enough to see Uncle’s house from the road, we saw a dark green car in his driveway. I didn’t recognize the car and found it curious. Before we took another step, we heard—”
The sudden loud buzz from another cell phone in the room distracted my attention.
“Say that again, Love. You heard what?”
“We heard shots coming from the house.”
“Damn. Are there any state troopers around?”
“No. And then—”
“Stay with the Mapledales. Don’t go near Uncle’s place.”
Okay, but—”
“I mean it. You and Joe stay at the Mapledales. Kyle and I are coming over.”
“Absolutely, as you wish,” replied Morgana in that almost smug ‘I know something that you don’t know’ voice of hers. “Should I tell you about the helicopter that is in your uncle’s backyard now, or do you want to be surprised when you get here?”
“A helicopter?”
“A helicopter.”
“That means Luger is there,” I muttered, thinking of potential dangers.
“Who?”
“Luger is the guy who, just a few hours ago . . . had me kidnapped, so to speak, making me miss Uncle’s post-funeral luncheon.”
“Oh? What would you want us to do?” asked Morgana.
“Just stay at the Mapledales and keep an eye out towards Uncle’s place.”
“Right. But what should I tell the Mapledales?”
“Anything you want, but no one goes outside. And don’t answer the door to anyone until we arrive. Got that.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
I thought for a second about Mapledale retrieving his shotgun for an added measure of protection. But my better self vetoed the idea. The vision of “Hawkeye Doug Mapledale” running around with a loaded gun was unsettling. “No, just have everyone stay put in the house and observe. The posse is on its way.”
“We will be waiting . . . I love you, Richard. Be careful.”
“I will. I love you too. We’ll be there soon. Bye.”
When our call terminated, Morgana felt as close to me as if I could physically touch her. The illusion didn’t last.
“I know where Luger is,” announced Dr. Krauss.
“He is at my Uncle Raymond’s place,” I said knowingly.
“Yes.” Krauss’ voice began to quiver as she held her phone. “He texted, saying that he has my cousin and a friend of hers. I fear that Luger might do, do—”
“—Something foolish,” said I, verbalizing Krauss’ concern.
I turned to Kyle. “We have to high-tail it to Uncle Raymond’s.”
My brother pointed to Dr. Krauss and company, asking, “What do we do with these three while we are out?”
“Dr. Krauss, I mean Vera, you come with us. As for your friends, hum ?” I looked about the room and found the answer—the cast iron radiators. “Cuff them to the heaters. There is one in this room and another in the kitchen. They can sit down next to them and pray for the warm weather. Those things can get pretty toasty.”
We quickly secured Krauss’ escorts to the old radiators and left Chester to watch over them. “Here’s their guns,” instructed Kyle as he gave Chester the weapons. “We’ll retrieve these characters when we are finished at Uncle Raymond’s.” Then half-jokingly, I added, “If they give you any problem, shoot them.”
“Will do,” replied Chester, inspecting the pistols. “No one makes a fool out of me.”
I was a little taken aback by Chester’s response and his eagerness to accept the weapons. Casting a jilted lover’s eye at Krauss, he weighed the pistols in his hands. “Don’t worry. I was a crack shot in my college ROTC days.”
Kyle and I exchanged wary looks of concern.
“Sheriff . . . ” Chester continued loud enough for all of us to hear, “these rapscallions won’t be any problem if they know what’s good for them.”
What the two foreigners did or didn’t know was not my concern at that moment. Not wanting to waste time, we trusted in God and Chester’s better angels and made straight for Uncle Raymond’s.
#
CHAPTER 35
With the lights swirling and flashing on our patrol cruisers, sans siren—my idea—our three-car motorcade drove like bats out of hell through Vermont countryside. Every passing utility pole and tire-screeching turn set my mind wrestling with what might happen when we met up with Luger. Would he go away peacefully and empty-handed? I very much doubted it. My gut told me that trouble was lying in wait for us. A quick glanced at Vera Krauss sitting next to me in the back seat of Kyle’s car told me my apprehensions weren’t off the mark.
The poor woman sat silently with her head leaning on the window. She appeared to be lost in a world of unpleasant thoughts and speculations. Her lips quivered to an unheard rhythm. Her eyes were wet, red, and they seemed unaware of my observing them.
My own mind’s theater played its own disturbing scenarios about kidnappings, shootings, and death. I prayed that Firmino’s departing words, “I hope we can get to your uncle’s place before it’s too late,” was not a premonition for disaster.
For a momentary distraction, I looked out through my window to the sky. My eyes fixated on an eagle circling overhead. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that the large bird seemed to be following us. I wondered what he saw from his lofty position and what he thought about things below. Did he sense urgency from the three cars racing along the country road below? Did the silent flashing lights from the two patrollers make any impression on him, or was he just oblivious to them? I found the matter curious. Was this bird of prey on a “hunt” that just so happened to coincide with our movements, or were there more profound, more subtle motivations at work?
I don’t support the idea of coincidence when living creatures and people are involved. Based on my scant knowledge of animal behavior, I amused myself with the hypothesis—If bears, wolves, and raccoons have learned that they can eat by raiding garbage cans and refuse bins, couldn’t birds do something similar? Couldn’t have the eagle overhead been conditioned for an easy meal of roadkill whenever it spotted a speeding car on these back roads? My proposition even made more sense knowing how my brother drives.
“Richard!” suddenly exclaimed Kyle, stopping the car in front of our uncle’s home. “Can you see? There is a helicopter on the backfield, and a car is parked on Uncle’s driveway.”
I saw, and I knew them both first hand.
“Richard,” asked Krauss, “do you think that Heike and her friend are okay?”
I turned to Krauss. �
��Your guess would be better than mine, Vera. Luger is your friend. He and I just met today.”
My glib response stung. Krauss turned her head away from me and muttered angrily, “Heike! Dummes, dummes Mädchen!”
I knew enough German by that time to understand what she meant.
I fumbled for the right words, but I came up short. “Kyle and I will see that she is safe.” I immediately knew it was a foolish thing to say. How could I make a promise that I hadn’t the ability to keep? I looked at the rearview mirror and saw Firmino getting out of his car. I turned to peer through the back window and found the patrol car that was following Firmino was gone.
“Kyle,” I asked, “where’s Peterson?”
“I sent him to the Mapledale’s. He’ll join us soon.” Kyle let go a sigh of relief as he released the buckle of his seat belt. “We don’t want my sister-in-law to fret unnecessarily, do we?”
“Good idea,” I said—I had almost forgotten that Morgana and the rest of her company would be on pins and needles until our arrival.
“Now what?” Asked Kyle.
“Let’s block the driveway with the car,” I said.
“But your friends will know that we are here,” replied Kyle. “We will lose the element of surprise.”
I agreed with him, but I didn’t think that mattered at the moment. Luger and his buddies were going to know that we were at Uncle’s place, one way or another. My instincts told me that an open display of our capability could prevent a miscalculation on Luger’s part. I didn’t want anyone hurt because some jerk with a gun got surprised.
Kyle slowly drove the car across the front of the driveway and parked. “That should prevent at least any cars from leaving,” remarked my brother. “God help us all.”
I silently concurred.
Kyle and I got out of the car, telling Krauss to stay put inside. She willingly complied. As Firmino joined us, he asked, “Well, Sheriff, now what?”
Kyle was not prepared to be asked such an obvious question demonstrated by his sudden coughing, the stroking of his chin, and his murmuring some “hums, ahs,” and “let’s sees” in no particular order. Eventually—as I could have predicted—he came to his old stand-by response.
“Rich, what do you think we should do?”
I was at a loss. I hadn’t come up with any fail-safe strategy for the circumstances facing us. I stalled for time. I rambled about the layout of Uncle Raymond’s house and grounds hoping that a miracle would strike, giving me an idea on how to proceed.
“Now, should we call for back-up?” asked Kyle.
Still, playing for time, I said, “Who would you call? State troopers?”
“They certainly could outgun everyone in the house,” proudly answered Kyle. “Who knows? Maybe they could make Luger and his buddies surrender without a shot being fired.”
“They would also bring the press,” argued Firmino. “And with an important figure, such as Luger, that means the international press.”
My doubts about containing and/or resolving this entire affair were intensifying.
“Well, if I get killed,” replied Kyle, “I sincerely hope that the international press writes about it, giving an account of how the sheriff performing his police duties was cut down in his prime.”
“So, Sheriff,” asked Firmino, “even with the state police present, you still believe there is a chance for ah . . . how you say, a shoot-out?”
“Ayup. That’s pretty much it.”
“Then I would suggest,” continued Firmino, “that we don’t call for assistance unless it is absolutely necessary.”
But before our discussion went any further on the matter, Kyle’s phone buzzed. It was Peterson. Their conversation was brief and one-sided—in Peterson’s favor.
“Well, gentlemen,” Kyle said, tucking away his phone into his pocket, “it’s like this. Calling for assistance is now a moot point. Peterson informs me that he and ‘his band of brothers’ are advancing here at the double-quick—whatever that means.”
“Who is coming?” asked Firmino?
“I don’t know,” replied Kyle. “He just said his ‘band of brothers.’ But he has no siblings, and he doesn’t play in a band. I lost the signal, or Peterson hung up before I could ask him to explain. But within a few minutes, we’ll be having guests.”
“Damn!” I exclaimed, realizing what Peterson meant. “If we want to finish this thing on the QT, we better move fast. The grounds will soon be crawling with troops.”
“Troopers!” responded Kyle indignantly. “Peterson would never call the state police without asking me. He knows better than that.”
“Not state troopers, Kyle. Troops . . . Union troops!”
“Union soldiers? Like in the Civil War?” questioned Kyle.
“The men in blue,” blurted Firmino. “The soldiers who got us out the mud, they are coming?”
“I think so,” I said, fearing the PR and legal quagmire that might ensue.
Kyle scanned the horizon for signs of the approaching army.
“We have to nip this in the bud,” I declared, “before our little affair becomes public.” I kicked the road gravel. I then looked at my uncle’s house.
“Your plan is?” asked Kyle.
“We are going to march right up to the front door of the house . . .”
“And?” said Firmino.
“ . . . and we throw those obnoxious people out of Uncle Raymond’s house.”
Kyle and Firmino gave me a look as if I had just suggested that we all should dance in our underwear.
“Really,” said Kyle. “That is your plan.”
But before I could answer, the sound of drums and bugles echoed in the distance.
“Yes, that is my plan, and we don’t have time to quibble. The sound that you hear is Peterson’s army heading this way. But if the two of you have a better idea, tell me.”
They hadn’t, or if they did, they didn’t say.
“That’s settled then.” I faced the house and started briskly walking toward it. “Gentlemen,” I said with my back to my companions, “I suggest that you have your weapons at the ready and follow me.”
The three of us marched down the gravel driveway and up the lion-guarded steps. Firmino and I reached the front door first and waited a bit for Kyle to take up the rear. We found the door unlocked, which was convenient—I hadn’t brought Uncle’s house keys with me. Then with a deep breath, I, along with Kyle and Firmino, entered the house.
“Kyle,” I asked in a whisper, “what happened to the house alarm?”
“You complained, so I had it switched off.”
“Thanks,” I snapped, looking into the inner reaches of the house. “Shall we proceed?”
Kyle took it upon himself to officially announced our presence.
“Hello?” Kyle called almost apologetically. “Is anyone home? Sheriff MacKenzie here. Hello?”
There was no reply, which didn’t surprise me.
“Well, you’ve put the fear of God in them, Kyle,” I quipped. “They are afraid to come out.”
“Shut up,” growled Kyle as he peered into the living room. “I think I hear voices in the kitchen.”
In the demanded silence, Firmino and I also heard voices. With cautionary stealth, the three of us went into the kitchen.
“Nobody is here,” remarked Kyle.
“But,” replied Firmino, “the voices are.”
Again, in a brief moment of silence, we all heard sporadic conversations. What we couldn’t decipher was—who was talking, what was being said. And where, precisely, were the voices coming from.
“The voices,” Firmino said in a hushed voice, “seem to have a muffled, hollow quality . . . almost a soft echo.”
A quick scan of my surroundings revealed that the pantry door was partially open. Mindful of our situation, I tip-toed in the direction of the closet. Using its door to conceal my presence, I stole a look-see into the room and discovered the secret shelf-door at the far end of the room was
also ajar.
“The talking is coming from the tunnel passage,” concluded Kyle. “Is one of the voices from your friend Luger?”
We listened again, but this time the voices were more distinct. Within seconds, Firmino and I nodded in agreement—Luger.
“Well, Rich, what’s our plan now?” my brother asked straight out, unsurprisingly.
Without thinking it through thoroughly, I marched myself to the secret door and pulled it wide open. Relieved to see that no one was in the small antechamber behind the pantry, I slowly walked toward the portal in the floor.
“Luger,” I yelled—being careful not to show my head to anyone who may have been directly below—“you and your friends stop whatever it is that you are doing and get the hell out of the house. The Sheriff and deputy are here, and more police are on the way.”
“We will be happy to leave when we get our property out of the safe,” replied Luger from somewhere below.
“What are you talking about, the old safe in the tunnel? It’s empty,” I yelled back.
“Ah, MacKenzie, if only things were as simple as you would like them to be. The safe is at present closed and locked.”
“No, it’s not. I saw it a couple of days ago. It was wide open.”
“Well, things have changed since then. It seems that some mutual acquaintances of ours have made a visit to this very curious and interesting house and inconveniently locked things inside the safe. . . and I need to get them out.”
“What mutual acquaintances?”
There was some muffled chattering coming from beneath my feet, but I couldn’t make it out who was speaking or what they were talking about. But I was astute enough to cipher out that whatever was being said wasn’t in English.
The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery Page 31