The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery

by Jack Flanagan

  “Heike, Bernie, you guys get yourselves up here,” I said, scanning our surroundings for signs of unwanted wildlife. “Morgana will take you to Captain Tuthill.”

  “Who is Tuthill?” called back Bernie.

  “Just get up here—” there wasn’t time for explanations.

  “Morgana,” I called over my shoulder and repeated my request. “Would you be so kind as to escort . . .” I looked behind me, but I couldn’t see my wife or her horse through the bushes. “Morgana?” I called again.

  Still no reply.

  Pushing my way through the branches again, I came onto the field only to find that Morgana and her horse had left. “Where in the world has she gone to now?” I muttered. I looked all about, but she was nowhere to be seen. I did, however, see Tuthill a few yards away, assembling his men into march formation. He spotted me and hurriedly approached.

  I braced myself for the questions that I was sure would come.

  “Mr. MacKenzie,” greeted the captain, shaking my hand, “to your rescue twice in one day. That must be a record of some sort.”

  “Well, the day is still young.”

  “I hope that you were impressed with our execution?” asked Tuthill with pride.

  “Yes, I was very impressed—” though the word execution was a little off-putting at that moment. “Captain, I hope that I can trust you. I am sorry that I wasn’t completely straightforward with you the last time we met. But this whole situation is very, very delicate. I can’t—”

  “—Say no more about it,” countered Tuthill. “Deputy Peterson has explained it all to us, and we are all sworn to secrecy to a man, especially in light of your family’s very generous offer.”

  “The deputy explained it all, you say?”

  “Well, as much as he is allowed, I think.”

  I looked at Tuthill inquisitively. “What exactly did he say?”

  “Well, he didn’t give many details.”

  That was good for so many reasons, I thought. “But the deputy did say something, yes?”

  “Well, he said that this matter was about an international ring of poachers. And he needed our help. But he said he couldn’t tell us much more.”

  I must have been very weary because I still wasn’t getting it. “Poachers?”

  “The fellows in the helicopter,” continued Tuthill. “They were trying to capture the only living catamount in the state of Vermont.”

  “That is what Peterson told you?” I instinctively asked, having a passing thought about Peterson’s clairvoyant abilities

  “Yes,” replied Tuthill, who began to look a little doubtful in his responses. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, not at all. You and your men did well.” It seemed that some of Kyle’s creative obfuscation skills had rubbed off on the young deputy.

  “I am glad that my men could have been of help.”

  I was going to ask Tuthill about what he meant by our “family’s generous offer,” but I didn’t get the chance.

  “Richard!” Bernie’s voice suddenly beckoned out from the bushes as she and Heike came into the clearing. “The Deputy and your Italian friend—”

  “He is Swiss.”

  “Oh, he’s Swiss. Anyway, they want you to meet them down in mansion ruins.”

  “Right . . . Captain, I have one more request. Please, take charge of these fine ladies and keep them safe. And remember, Captain, everything that had happened here is very hush-hush. You understand.”

  I left the women in Tuthill’s charge and hoped for the best. With a few scratches across my hands from the brambles and some scrapes on the knees from my descent, I joined up with Peterson and Firmino at the tunnel’s metal door.

  “I have tried to phone the Sheriff,” said Peterson, “but he doesn’t answer.”

  “Then we mustn’t waste any more time. We must get to my Uncle’s house. My brother may be in over his head.”

  “Right. Should I get the patrol car?” asked the deputy.

  “The car? The quickest way is through the tunnel,” I countered out of selfishness —climbing up over chunks of concrete again wasn’t appealing at the moment. But the deputy had a good point. “Peterson, you go to your cruiser and get yourself up to the house as quickly as you can. Firmino and I will go through the tunnel and meet you there. With luck, we will trap Luger between us and find Kyle.”

  As eager as a puppy, the deputy dashed off, leaving Firmino and myself to advance into the tunnel. After we both pulled the metal door open as wide as it could, I turned to Firmino and said, “You first.”

  “Me? Why me? You are the mastermind.”

  “You are the professional with the gun. You should go first.”

  Firmino raised his hand, signaling me to wait. He then ran to the body of Luger’s henchman and returned with the dead man’s gun. “Take it,” he ordered. Before I could protest, I had an automatic pistol in my hand. “You are armed. You go first.”

  The weapon felt cold and a little sticky—blood.

  “Thanks,” I said, wiping my hands on my pants, “but I don’t know how to . . .”

  “Not difficult,” said Firmino, almost mockingly. “Do what you did when you shot at the puma. Point the gun, pull the trigger, and hope that you hit your target. Now go into the tunnel and lead the way. We must help your brother.”

  Time didn’t permit me to argue the point. I took a deep breath and entered the foreboding silence of the passageway. A few steps inside the tunnel lay the small rusty safe—on its backside, newly dented. Its door was ajar.

  I gave a hard pull on the small safe’s handle. The rusty hinges squeaked opened.

  “Empty. That is most unfortunate,” remarked Firmino.

  “Damn right it is. Let’s go.”

  The tunnel was dark. It took more time than I would have liked for my eyes to adjust, which was troubling. But what was even more troubling was our silhouettes made perfect targets with the light behind us.

  “You know this place?” whispered Firmino.

  “Just a little, now be quiet,” I whispered while wishing I had a flashlight.

  I remembered from my previous trek through the tunnel that it ran straight for the most part, except for a gentle bend to our left at about midway. If a trap or ambush were in the offing, it would happen there.

  With my gun leading the way, Firmino and I kept to the left side wall as we stealthily pressed forward. Fear had my senses go into overdrive. Every footfall on the concrete floor sounded like scraping sandpaper on an empty oil drum. The air moving against my cheek felt like an ocean breeze with an ever-present odor of a damp basement.

  At the midway point, I stopped our advance. “This is where the passage starts going to the left for a few feet. If someone is going to attack us—”

  With no warning, Firmino dashed a few feet in front of me. He laid flat on the ground next to the right side wall; his arms stretched out. His gun was at the ready. “I can see down the corridor into a room with a ladder in it.”

  “You can see that far?” I whispered back.

  “There’s light coming down from the top of the room.”

  “The hatch must be opened . . . The air current!”

  “What current?”

  “Never mind . . . Do you see anyone?”

  “No.”

  Without another word between us, we instantly took the same course of action and sprinted down the passage toward the room. Firmino entered the room first; I waited outside. I watched him do those precautionary procedures that one sees policemen do on TV. When I got his ‘coast is clear,’ I entered the room and went directly to the ladder.

  “MacKenzie,” said Firmino, putting his hand on my shoulder just as I stepped on the first rung. “Would you prefer that I go up first?”

  “Now you want to lead? Why not before?”

  “You knew the way, and you are slow. So, it was best that I was the rear guard.”

  “And now?”

  “I am fast. I have a better chanc
e to go up and not to get shot. While you, well, you are a man of some weight and some age, an easy target. And if you get shot, you could fall down on me. I could get hurt.”

  Not knowing if Firmino was insulting, joshing, or protecting me, there was logic to what he said. So, without argument, I moved away and told him to go up.

  And that he did, but the news at the end of his climb was worrisome.

  “No Luger and no Sheriff!” declared Firmino.

  “No?” I said. “Luger had to come this way. And my brother?”

  “He was here,” replied Firmino with a chuckle, “because there is an open bag of crisps and a half-eaten container of some kind of dried bean and chickpea dip. But the Sheriff is not here now.”

  “Take a look around; I’ll be right up.” My heart sank. Cursing to myself about my brother’s eating getting himself into trouble, I climbed up. Returning to the secret room in the panty, I found that both its secret door and the pantry door to the kitchen were left wide open. From where I was, I could see Firmino in the kitchen cautiously peering out the window.

  “Do you see my brother?” I asked gruffly in a stage whisper.

  Firmino said nothing but, instead, frantically waved for me to come to him.

  As I approached, he pointed out the window.“Look!”

  I did, and my heart sank.

  Carrying what looked like a brown doctor’s bag, Luger stood halfway down the driveway facing toward the street. He appeared to be in conversation with Peterson. Standing next to Luger was his henchman, who had a gun aimed at the deputy. On the other hand, Peterson was down on one knee, aiming his carbine at the foreigners. Kyle, meanwhile, was bustling himself down the driveway to catch up to all of them.

  “I have no idea what the Sheriff is up to, but the deputy and Luger are talking. But I don’t understand what they are saying,” said Firmino.

  “Luger is probably telling Peterson to put away his gun and to let them pass,” I said as I glanced at the gun in my own hand.

  “Will he do it?”

  “I don’t want to wait to find out. Come on.”

  The two of us ran through the house and out the front door. Firmino dashed down the steps and took cover behind one of the lions. I remained on the front porch—foolishly in the open—and I hollered, “Hey, Luger, stay where you are!”

  “Yes,” reiterated Kyle, who had finally caught up to Luger. “Stop. Don’t move.” My brother took several needed breaths. “You heard what Richard said. Stop, stay where you are.”

  Ignoring Kyle, Luger laughed. “Mr. MacKenzie, you again?” He turned around to face me, and so did my brother. “Do you really think you can stop us? Your brother the Sheriff couldn’t.”

  Luger took a step toward my brother, put down his bag, and pulled my brother’s gun out from beneath his coat. “I would like to return your sidearm to you, Sheriff, before we leave.” But before Luger handed over the gun, he emptied it, letting the bullets fall to the ground in quick succession. “Never point this thing at someone, Sheriff, if you are not prepared to use it. You might get hurt.” Luger then buttoned his coat and picked up his bag. “Sheriff, please, tell that young man aiming his gun at us to put it away. My assistant and I have a plane to catch. And I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “I think you will have to miss your flight,” I said defiantly. Again, I was only blabbing whatever came into my head. I was stalling for time to think of what to do next. Oddly enough, Kyle had something up his sleeve, or should I say in his pants.

  “No, you are mistaken. I will catch my flight. As I was explaining to this fat man dressed up as a boy scout, I have diplomatic immunity and have more influence than—”

  “You are not going anywhere,” I yelled. “You are guilty of kidnapping, assault, bribery, ah, stealing my brother’s gun—”

  “A very forgivable mistake,” interrupted Kyle, with an apologetic smile. “I should never have taken out my weapon. I mistook you and your friend here for burglars when I came out of the bathroom—it must have been the dip . . . Sometimes we can be so wrong about people. You know, this matter is really one big misunderstanding. So, why don’t we all go to my office and straighten this matter out? I’ll even supply the coffee and tea. In fact, I have some Dragon’s Breath tea that you may like.”

  “I think not,” growled Luger, producing a gun of his own from beneath his jacket. “Now, get out of our way.”

  My brother’s attempted negotiation with Luger must have had everyone present question his mental capacity—everyone except me. I doubted it for years. But his dragon breath comment clued me in on his plan. I silently prayed that he would not do what I thought he was going to do. But prayer has its limits.

  I, on the other hand, had no plan to stop what was in the offing. The last thing I wanted was a modern-day version of the Gun Fight at the O.K. Corral. I could envision riddled bodies all over, with one of those bodies being mine. Yet, we had to disarm and capture our unwanted guests and do it soon.

  Kyle also must have known that, and it was the reason he did the bravest, but probably the stupidest thing in his life. It was an act of heroism worthy of being noted in the annals of law enforcement. But, because of its methodology, it will never come to be.

  “Gentlemen please,” began Kyle, “I must ask you once more . . . oh, ah, oooh!”

  Luger, aiming his gun at my brother, took a step away from him. “What is it now, Sheriff?”

  “I can’t breathe,” gasped Kyle clenching at his chest. “I’m having a heart attack.”

  As my brother was going through his antics, I slowly walked down the steps. When I passed Firmino, I whispered for him to get ready—though I didn’t tell him what for.

  “Where are you going?” demanded Luger, whose attention was divided between my ailing, wobbling, moaning brother and me.

  “My brother is having a heart attack! I am going to help him.”

  “Not with a gun. Put that down first, then come over here, slowly.”

  I laid the gun on the driveway and cautiously approached Luger and Kyle.

  “How about you, Deputy?” asked Luger. “You probably know CPR. Are you going to let your boss die, or are you going to waste precious time in trying to stop my associate and me from conducting our business?”

  “Don’t listen to him, Deputy,” yelled Firmino.

  I could see that poor Peterson was torn about what to do.

  “Stay where you are,” I said to calm him.

  “I think,” countered Luger as he stepped behind my brother to keep an eye on both him and me. “I think, Deputy, you should take the Sheriff to a hospital.”

  What followed next happened very quickly. I was just a few feet away from Kyle when I saw him covertly take a lighter from his top breast pocket as he clenched his chest.

  Out of a fear of losing my brother not to heart failure but to foolhardiness, I instinctively cried, “No!”

  But I was too late.

  In an instant, Kyle suddenly bent as if to touch his toes while shrieking, “My heart!” His maneuver ripped open the back seam of his pants for the second time that day. With a deftness that I never knew he had, my brother moved his hand between his legs, flicked his lighter . . . and unleashed the dragon’s breath.

  To put it genteel terms, my brother broke wind with such force and volume that combustion was instantaneous when it hit the flame. A fireball flashed from Kyle’s backside almost into Luger’s face. The stupefied foreigner gasped in horror, dropped his bag to cover his face with his hand. Half blinded and confused, he faced away from Kyle’s conflagration.

  Hoping to give Firmino an opportunity to disarm Luger, and knowing of my brother’s lack of agility to get out of the way, I bulldozed myself into Kyle, sending him backward. He unexpectedly crashed into a very disoriented and slightly singed Luger. Unable to resist the force of Kyle’s impact, Luger lost his footing and fell flat on his back. As for Kyle, he unwittingly landed on Luger and, in so doing, pinned the creep to the ground.<
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  Then I heard a shot that was immediately followed by a cry of pain.

  I immediately lunged for Luger’s gun. As I wrenched the weapon from his grip, I lost track of Luger’s henchmen. Little did I know that he was standing a few yards away, ready to put a bullet in my head and that Firmino was on the ground—out of commission.

  “Get away from Mr. Luger,” ordered the foreigner.

  I faced a devil of a choice—a blood bath resulting from a shoot-out or letting Luger go. None of them had any appeal. But it was a choice that I didn’t have to make. Somehow Morgana had managed to race Shaftsbury onto the scene before being noticed by Luger’s henchman, or myself, or anyone else for that matter.

  “I don’t think so,” my wife declared upon her galloping steed. She quickly passed the henchman, slamming the side of his head with the flat of her sword. The blow sent the fellow reeling to the ground—battered, semiconscious, but alive.

  “Thank you, Love,” I said, sitting on the ground and looking up at Morgana mounted proudly on her horse coming toward me.

  “Yes, thank you,” added Kyle as he disengaged himself from Luger.

  “What would you two do without me?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be talking to you now,” I said. “That is for sure.”

  She nodded in agreement. “You got that right.”

  And there was something else which we all agreed on. We had a big problem.

  “The rabbits,” sighed Kyle, watching Peterson attend to Baldewin, “have jumped out of the box. And we have to put them back in, or there will be hell to pay. The paperwork alone will keep me busy for decades, not to mention the laws we all must have broken . . . and possible jail time we could get.”

  “Yep,” I reluctantly concurred. “We’re in deep, deep . . . really deep trouble.”

  #

  CHAPTER 37

  With the cessation of hostilities, we secured the purloined Stoner Papers. As I suspected, they were stashed in Luger’s leather bag along with a copy of the red guide book. I have no doubt that that the book was taken from my uncle’s freezer. As to Baldewin’s injury, he was lucky. It was minor; nothing that a large bandage and avoiding banging his shoulder into things couldn’t take care of.