Amanda ran over to the pantry and looked inside. She spotted Mittens trying to crawl out of an old potato bag. Poor Mittens had her paws duct taped together. “Oh, the poor dear,” she said and scooped Mittens up into her arms. “It's okay, baby.” Mittens tried to whimper but her snout was duct taped shut. “Oh, you poor dear.”
Sarah backed away from the pantry and watched Amanda slowly and carefully remove the duct tape from Mittens. When Mittens’ mouth was freed she let out a loud whimper and snuggled up into Amanda's arms.
“Poor puppy. How could I forget you?” Sarah asked in a tired voice and rubbed Mittens’ head.
Amanda handed Mittens to Sarah, threw away the duct tape she had pulled off Mittens, and began making a fresh pot of coffee. Sarah pulled Mittens close and kissed her on the nose. “Love, what kind of clue are we supposed to be looking for?” she asked, feeling grateful Mittens was alive.
Sarah sat down at the kitchen table and set Mittens down in her lap. “I'm not sure. But obviously, there has to be some clue.”
“Unless that madman is making you chase your tail again?” Amanda asked.
“I'm sure Francis is deliberately creating distractions,” Sarah confessed. “But I honestly think he wants to play a game of mental chess with me. I honestly think there is a clue in murder one that will connect me to the next murder. I believe Francis wants to reveal to me why he chose his victims.”
“Mrs. Raillings was a distraction, then?”
“A pawn on the chessboard,” Sarah nodded her head. “He's distracting the police and the people of Snow Falls while forcing me to play his game. You were right about that.”
“Don't give me a brainiac award yet,” Amanda told Sarah. “I simply saw a pattern of distraction the guy was using to lead you along by your nose.”
Sarah grew quiet. She glanced down at Mittens and then began thinking about Nathan Miles. Nathan Miles had been a cold-hearted man who was addicted to gambling; he was a man who made countless bets on college basketball games. Nathan Miles had been a man who was hungry for money and didn't care who he hurt in order to secure the money he needed to fund his gambling habit. Whether luck or chance, he had landed in the path of an old woman who had plenty of dough. Or was it luck or chance? “Was it by design?” she whispered.
“What?” Amanda asked, stirring milk into her coffee.
“Margaret Happs hired Nathan Miles’ wife Sandra to work for her as her personal assistant,” Sarah told Amanda. “Sandra Miles had a degree in criminal justice. She went to work for a law firm after Margaret Happs fired her. But why did she go to work for Mrs. Happs in the first place? I asked myself that question many times.”
“Did you ask Sandra Miles why she went to work for Margaret?”
Sarah nodded her head. “Sandra claimed she needed the money. She claimed a friend told her Mrs. Happs was looking to hire a personal assistant. I looked into her claim and was able to verify it. But now, June Bug, I'm wondering if a whole bunch of lies were told in order to hide the truth.”
“Are you thinking that Sandra Miles and Margaret Happs wanted Nathan dead and worked up a scheme?” Amanda asked.
“Possibly,” Sarah agreed. “But if our theory is true, then how does Francis play into the picture?”
Amanda folded her arms and put on her thinking cap. Outside in the storm, Conrad slipped around the back of Sarah's coffee shop and began working his way down a dark, snowy alley.
Chapter Six
Conrad ducked down behind a pile of snow that hid a trash can and peered down the alley. The falling snow was making it difficult to see more than ten feet. “He's got to be around here somewhere,” Conrad said, holding his gun in his right hand. Conrad raised his head and began studying the dark rooflines. He was sure Francis was perched on one of the roofs farther down the alley. “The bakery...the hardware store…maybe the stationary shop?” he mused, lowering his eyes and focusing back on the snow-filled alley. “Better get moving.”
Conrad left his secure position and slowly began working his way down the alley. When he reached the back door to the bakery, he stopped. There, in the snow, stashed behind a trash can, was a black duffel bag. Conrad snatched up the duffel bag and then looked around. “Fresh tracks,” he said, spotting ski tracks in the snow. Conrad glanced down at the knee-deep snow he was trudging through and knew that there was no way he would be able to catch a person on skis. “By the time I get to the snowmobile these tracks will be covered over...it'll take too long to follow them on foot,” he said in a desperate voice, watching the heavy falling snow begin filling in the tracks while the winds struggled to erase them. “I can't stand here and do nothing,” he said and decided to trace the tracks on foot and got his legs moving as quickly as he could.
Francis was only three blocks blocks ahead of Conrad when a black box began buzzing in his pocket. He stopped pushing the ski poles in his hands through the snow and looked over his shoulder. Someone had tripped the silent alarm he had set up behind the bakery; someone had walked through the invisible laser beams running from the back door of the bakery to the back alley wall. “So, I have a visitor,” he growled and shot west in order to enter the alley from behind, using the same route Conrad had taken.
Unaware that he had tripped an alarm, Conrad continued to follow the ski tracks. The tracks led into a quiet neighborhood filled with small, cozy cabins and brick homes. Conrad followed the tracks past one home after another. When the tracks stopped at the end of Maple Street and turned north Conrad paused to catch his breath for a few seconds and then worked his way up Dove Avenue, carefully following the ski tracks. When the tracks stopped and aimed west, running down Snow Bird Lane, Conrad put his hands down on his knees and bowed his head. “What are you doing?” he asked breathing white streams of smoke out of his frozen mouth. “Where are you going?” Conrad raised his head, drew in a cold breath, and got moving down Snow Bird Lane without realizing that Francis was leading him in a wide circle to set up a rear attack.
Francis skied back to Maple Street, carefully following Conrad's snow tracks. “Run, run,” he hissed, skiing past a bright and warm log cabin. “Oh, how foolish people are to believe they are safe behind locked doors,” he hissed again, feeling rage consume his heart. Someone had located his hidden position and that someone wasn't Sarah Garland. The tracks in the snow belonged to a man—a man he would catch and severely punish. “Whoever you are,” Francis promised, “tonight is your last night alive.”
Francis worked his way over to Snow Bird Lane through the storm. He began to feel tired and annoyed. The storm was working against Francis rather than working for him—at least that's how Francis began to think. The winds now appeared cruel, unfriendly and threatening; earlier the winds appeared refreshing and powerful, a companion in crime. The heavily falling snow became burdensome and difficult to maneuver through, even though Francis was equipped with skis. “You're tired,” Francis warned himself, pushing his body down Snow Bird Lane. “It's been a long day. You need to rest.” The rage burning in Francis's chest refused to let him rest. Francis pushed forward.
When Francis came to the end of Snow Bird Lane he spotted a shadowy figure struggling through the snow, battling his way back toward town. “Ah, there you are,” he said and slowly removed his gun from the right pocket of his coat. “Time to die.”
Conrad didn't see Francis approaching from behind. His eyes were focused on the ski tracks in the snow. “He's made a loop?” Conrad said in a confused voice. He stopped walking, lifted his head, and looked toward town. The town was dark and creepy. Weak street lamps cast dim light into the storm; the storm seemed to gobble up the man-made light up as if the light was a snack. “You turned around?” Conrad asked. “Why did you—” Before Conrad could finish his sentence a bullet tore through his left shoulder. Conrad was thrown forward. He crashed down into the snow, wounded and dazed. But instead of lying weak and helpless, he rolled his body under a parked jeep, came out on the other side, and used all his might to
kneel up into a defensive fighting position and raised his head over the hood of the jeep. He was immediately met by gunfire. Conrad ducked his head down and waited for the gunfire to stop. “Give it up, Francis!” he yelled, knowing the wind would carry his voice away.
Francis stopped firing and gritted his teeth. He was an expert marksman as long as he was firing a rifle. When it came to handguns, he lacked skill. He had simply managed to wound his prey instead of killing him. But before he could create a contingency plan, he saw Conrad's shadowy figure burst up from behind the car hood and begin firing at him. A single bullet tore into his right hand. Francis let out a loud scream of pain, dropped his gun, and tried to ski away. Panic filled his chest. “No,” he hissed, “this can't be happening!”
Conrad spotted Francis trying to escape. He darted out from behind the jeep and began to give chase. Francis peered over his shoulder and spotted Conrad fighting his way through the snow. With his right hand wounded he couldn't hold onto the right ski pole. He threw the ski poles down, unlatched his feet using his uninjured hand, and began running through the snow. The snow was deep and difficult to run through.
“Stop or I'll shoot you where you stand!” Conrad yelled.
Francis ran up to a parked green truck and dived behind it and began crawling forward. He spotted a wooden fence half-buried in the snowdrifts surrounding a brick house, crawled low to the fence, and then, without wasting a second, shot to his feet and threw his body over the fence.
Conrad was only a few feet behind. When he reached the fence and tried to jump over it, his wounded shoulder cried out in pain and his right arm refused to cooperate. With no other option available, Conrad ran up to the gate. The gate was locked. “No!” he yelled and took off around the property, hoping to make it to the backyard before Francis managed to escape.
As Conrad ran around to the backyard, Francis eased back over the front fence and began slogging through the snow back toward town in a desperate attempt to reach his rifle. He threw his head over his shoulder and searched for Conrad. Conrad was nowhere in sight. Only the sight of snow-covered trees, yards, homes and vehicles greeted him. “You're going to suffer,” he promised as his legs struggled through the snow, one difficult step at a time.
Conrad ran to the back of the fence and searched for Francis. He scanned the snow around the sides and back of the house and tried to spot boot tracks. “Not a single boot print,” he said, breathing hard. “He's doubled back on me!” Conrad took off like a jackrabbit and ran back to the front road, adrenaline spiking and making him forget about his injured shoulder. He spotted Francis’ shadowy form running toward town. “You're mine!” Conrad yelled into the wind.
Francis didn't hear Conrad. He continued to run toward the alley where his duffel bag was hidden, holding his wounded right hand with his left hand. Never before in his life had he ever been wounded in a fight. He had always played the aggressor, overpowering his victims through surprise and brilliance. Now he was being forced to flee—like a helpless coward. The feeling was crippling, sour and very, very discouraging. “You'll die!” he hissed, finally making his way into the alley, unaware that Conrad was on his tail.
Conrad saw Francis run into the back alley. He pressed his right hand over the wound in his left shoulder and picked up his speed. When he reached the back alley, he saw Francis trying to clamber up a rope, trying to reach the roof of the bakery. Conrad raced forward, grabbed Francis by his waist, and slung him down onto the snow. Francis landed on his back and looked up at the barrel of Conrad’s gun. “It's over, Clark!” Conrad yelled, aiming his gun at Francis's chest. “One move and you're a dead man!”
Francis couldn't believe that he had been captured. “Who are you!” he demanded.
“Detective Conrad Spencer!”
“I'll remember your name,” Francis warned Conrad. “You better kill me now or I'm going to kill you later. But first, I'm going to finish my business with Detective Garland!”
Conrad began to squeeze the trigger on his gun. Who would weep for the death of a diseased rat like Francis Clark? He would be performing a great service. Besides, the pain throbbing in Conrad's shoulder reminded him that he was fighting in self-defense. “Fine with me,” he said and prepared to fire. But before he could, a barrage of bullets exploded down the alley. Conrad jumped to the side and crawled behind a trash can. Francis rolled away and crawled on his belly out of the alley, climbed to his feet, and escaped into a back parking lot that he knew would lead him back into the woods. He left Conrad trapped behind the trash can holding his hand over his shoulder.
“Don't move!” Conrad heard Andrew scream. “I know you're behind the trash can. Come out with your hands up!”
“It's me, Andrew! You're shooting at the wrong guy!” Conrad yelled and kicked the ground with his right foot.
Andrew ran up to the trash can, looked down, spotted Conrad, and lowered his gun. “I saw...I saw a man holding a gun...I thought you were the killer...” he said in a miserable voice.
“The killer just got away,” Conrad told Andrew in a defeated voice. He looked up the alley. Francis was nowhere in sight. The monster had slithered back into the night. “Come on, at least we can follow his tracks. Maybe we can catch him.”
Andrew saw Conrad favoring his left shoulder. “What's wrong?” he asked.
“Francis shot me in my shoulder,” Conrad explained and lifted his right hand into the air. “Help me stand up, okay?”
Andrew helped Conrad to his feet, brushing the snow off of him. “Conrad...all I saw was a man holding a gun on another man. The snow is still so thick, I assumed the man with the gun was the killer...I'm sorry...I...” Andrew stopped talking.
Conrad reached out and put his right hand on Andrew's shoulder. “You made a quick decision and followed through. Your decision was wrong, but trust me, as cops, we make wrong decisions all the time. When I was a rookie back in New York, I arrested a seventy-nine-year-old preacher for jaywalking. Turns out the poor guy was half blind.” Conrad braced his left shoulder with his right hand. “We need to move. The more we stand here and talk, the farther away Francis is getting from us.”
Andrew felt horrible about his mistake. He holstered his gun and shoved his gloved hands down into the pockets of the thick brown police coat he was wearing. “You go on ahead...I'll get back to the station. I'm no use to you.”
“Hey, you left your family behind to help me,” Conrad told Andrew, “that took guts. Now stop with the pity party, Chief, and let's get moving. We have a serial killer to track down.”
“A serial killer that's loose again because of me.”
Conrad squeezed his left shoulder and winced. “Tomorrow we're going to make mistakes but we can't stay in bed all day,” he told Andrew. “You're a good Chief of Police and friend. Now stop beating yourself up and let's get moving.”
Andrew looked into Conrad's eyes and then nodded his head. “Maybe I can correct my mistake,” he said and hurried down the alley with Conrad. Conrad managed to reach the end of the alley and then his legs collapsed out from under him. “Conrad!”
Conrad grabbed his head. “I'm...okay...just a little dizzy...”
“I'm getting you back to the station.”
“No...we have to track Francis down...the storm will erase his tracks...” Conrad tried to object.
“Can you make it back to the station alone? I can go after the killer if you can.”
“I think...I can...” Conrad tried to say, but then his world went black. The last thing he remembered before fading into dreamland was Andrew placing him over his shoulder and calling him Friend.
As Andrew carried Conrad back to the station through the snow, Francis continued to work his way through the dark, snowy woods. “Now it's time to make this town suffer!” he growled and aimed his body toward a rental cabin he had reserved weeks ago. The rental cabin was full of all kinds of goodies that Francis intended to use.
Andrew called Sarah and broke the news to her. “Conrad is
okay, Sarah,” he promised. “He took a bad shot to his left shoulder. Dr. Ross is with him now.”
Sarah bowed her head. “And Francis?” she asked.
“Conrad came to long enough to claim he shot the man in his hand. It's possible,” Andrew said and then shamefully added: “Sarah, Conrad had the killer at gunpoint…but because of me...the killer got away.” Andrew explained how he had entered the alley and spotted a man holding someone at gunpoint. “I thought...the man with the gun was the killer. The visibility was so bad and I believed Conrad was nowhere near the station...I let my inability to believe Conrad could handle someone like Francis Clark weaken my ability to think clearly...so I emptied a full clip...at Conrad. I'm grateful a single bullet didn't touch him...poor guy.”
“Andrew, listen to me, you're under a lot of stress. You entered the alley and saw what you saw and reacted. You can't punish yourself for mistaking Conrad for Francis,” Sarah told Andrew. “As cops, we react without thinking when the situation calls for that kind of action. What's done is done. We have to focus on capturing Francis and not on our mistakes.”
“If Francis kills anyone, I'll never forgive myself.”
Sarah closed her eyes. “I understand.”
Andrew spotted Dr. Ross appear in the small, warm waiting room he stood in. “Dr. Ross is here, hold on just a moment,” Andrew told Sarah. Sarah waited and then Andrew came back on the line. “He said he took the bullet out of Conrad's shoulder...Conrad lost a good amount of blood but he'll be okay...but he needs lots of rest.”
Sarah whispered a prayer of thanks. “Thank Dr. Ross for me.”
“Dr. Ross said that twice in one day he's taken a bullet out of someone...a dead man and a living man...and that he hopes his work is finished,” Andrew told Sarah. He put the phone to the side while he thanked Dr. Ross for his care and concern. Dr. Ross waved a tired hand in the air and walked away. “Sarah,” Andrew said in a worried voice as soon as Dr. Ross was out of hearing distance, “I sent two of my guys over to Mrs. Raillings’ cabin. They spotted the kitchen covered with what appears to explosives. Poor Mrs. Raillings is duct taped to a chair. I'm not sure what to do. Snow Falls doesn't have a bomb squad.” Andrew kicked himself. “If I hadn’t shot at the wrong man then we would have Francis Clark in custody right now. Conrad is a hero for going out into the storm and tracking down that ugly monster.”
Snowy Misery (Alaska Cozy Mystery Book 7) Page 9