A Killer Past (22 page)

But no. Hadn’t David said they’d tracked Dubois to some place north of Rivershore and southwest of Allegan? That would put him right in this area.

But where?

She looked in her rear-view mirror. In the distance she could see the flashing lights of the deputy’s car dropping farther and farther back. At least he wasn’t coming after her. She slowed her Chevy and tried to think.

One thing about rural areas: people noticed things. People talked to each other. Strangers stood out. If Dubois was staying anywhere around here, someone would have noticed.

Most of the houses and farms she passed were set back from the road, and she wasn’t eager to pull into one this late at night. It would take too long to explain who she was looking for and why, and if Dubois was at one, the moment she drove up, he’d know, making her vulnerable.

A crossroad up ahead and a store on the corner gave her an alternative solution. An ‘open’ sign just below an ad for beer blinked on and off. One car sat in front of the store, another parked by the back. Mary stopped her Chevy near the door.

‘Greetings,’ the dark-skinned man behind the counter said the moment she stepped inside. ‘How may I be of service?’

‘I’m looking for someone,’ she said, noticing another man back by the coolers, just his head and shoulders visible above a shelving unit filled with chips and non-perishable grocery items. A baseball cap covered thick gray hair and wide red suspenders crisscrossed a blue-and-gray plaid flannel shirt.

‘What kinda someone?’ the guy with suspenders asked, coming around the end of the shelves carrying a twelve-pack of beer.

‘Someone who drives a black sedan,’ Mary said. ‘He may have driven by here just a while ago. He’d be new to the area. Arrived just a few weeks ago.’

Suspenders looked at the Indian clerk, then back at her. ‘Any particular reason you’re lookin’ for this guy?’

‘I think he may have my granddaughter with him.’ Let them think what they liked. She didn’t want to go into a long explanation.

Suspenders made a face. ‘One I’m thinkin’ of’s pretty old. Maybe sixty or so. Wouldn’t be your husband, would it?’

‘No, he’s not my husband.’ And Dubois wouldn’t be in his sixties, but some people looked older than they were. ‘This man’s kidnapped my granddaughter.’ And may have killed a police officer, she feared, but no need to add that. ‘You know where he lives?’

Again Suspenders looked at the clerk. ‘That city-slicker ever tell you where he was staying?’

‘Not me.’ The clerk emphatically shook his head and rang up Suspenders’ beer. ‘He scared the shit out of me.’ He looked at Mary, his eyes widening, and he put his fingers up to his mouth. ‘Oh, pardon, ma’am. I mean he frighten me.’

City-slicker. Scary. Mary was getting an image. ‘And this man drove a black car?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Black with four doors.’

‘I think it might have been a rental,’ Suspenders said. ‘Day him and I was both in here, he was complaining about the heater. Said it were the worst rental he’d ever driven.’

‘He was in here more than once?’ That would mean he was staying somewhere close by.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ the clerk said. ‘Many times. Usually he buys ice, but first time he stops here, he wants to know if we sell lanterns.’

‘Did you happen to notice which way he went when he left here after buying ice?’

‘I saw him go that way,’ Suspenders said, pointing out the window at the road heading west.

Mary felt she was getting closer. ‘Any houses that way recently been sold or rented?’

‘Not that I’ve heard of,’ Suspenders said and looked at the clerk. ‘What about you, Rashe? They didn’t sell the old Springer farm, did they? I saw a car there last week.’ He glanced at Mary. ‘Farm’s been abandoned for over a year. Car I saw was white, though, not black.’

‘Where exactly is this Springer farm?’

J
ACK’S HEAD THROBBED
and his shoulders ached. With his arms wrapped around the four-by-six behind his back and his wrists tied together, he could barely move. Roughly eight feet away, Mary Harrington’s granddaughter was in a similar position, seated on the cold cement of the barn floor, tied to what might have been a support beam for a stall that never was finished. On the other side of the barn, Agent David Burrows stood near his white Impala, swinging a pair of short wooden rods attached by a chain. As he rotated his wrist in a circle, the two rods appeared as one, the palm-wide chain no longer visible.

Jack had seen the weapon used in martial arts demonstrations and in Bruce Lee movies, and he knew a well-placed strike could break a block of wood, shatter an arm, or crush a skull. Burrows seemed to be having trouble controlling the two rods. He missed a catch, and the rods and chain clattered onto the cement floor. Then he nearly hit himself with an attempted switch-up. Each time he made a mistake, he glared over at Jack, daring him to say anything. Jack knew better. The lump on his head and the ropes around his wrists put him in a vulnerable position, and this man was too dangerous to irritate.

But when Burrows put a dent in the Impala’s fender with a miscalculated strike, Mary’s granddaughter yelled at him, ‘Way to go, you bastard. You’re sure no James Bond. I doubt you’re even an agent, least not for any
real
government agency. Bet you made everything up, even that bit about my grandmother. You’re just a creepy old man, and if you don’t let us go, you’re gonna be in a lot of trouble.’

Still holding the two rods clasped together so they were barely visible, Burrows strolled over to stand in front of Shannon Harrington. ‘And just who is going to give me trouble, missy? You?’

‘No, my dad,’ she said, glaring up at Burrows. ‘I bet he has the police out looking for me now.’

‘Here’s your policeman.’

Jack grimaced when Burrows motioned toward him. Some policeman. He’d walked right into Burrows’ trap. Jack had no idea what Burrows hit him with, but he was already hogtied and lying across the back seat of the sedan by the time he came to.

Jack wasn’t sure how long he’d been out. All Burrows said when Jack groaned was, ‘Welcome to the party, Sergeant,’ and then he backed the black sedan out of the woods and drove a short distance to the farm they were now at.

For Jack, the most deflating aspect of the whole ordeal was how easily Burrows had managed to get him out of the car and into the barn. Mary’s granddaughter was wrong. Burrows might be in his late sixties, but he was still strong as an ox, and the hold he’d put on Jack’s arm was painful. Now here he was, tied up and helpless. Maybe it was time for him to retire.

If he lived through the night.

‘My dad will have the
whole
police force out. The FBI. Everyone,’ Shannon Harrington threatened.

Burrows laughed. ‘The only one I want to find you is your grandmother.’

‘Why?’ she asked, voicing Jack’s same question. ‘I thought she was your friend.’

‘We have no friends,’ Burrows said. ‘Your grandmother broke a promise and can no longer be trusted.’

‘What promise?’ Jack asked the same time the girl did.

Burrows looked over at him. ‘To keep a low profile. To never do anything that would draw attention to the agency.’ He walked over to stand by Jack. ‘You’re the reason I’m here, Sergeant Rossini. You and Pan. She had to go and get her picture in the paper, go and beat up those boys, and you had to start nosing around. You and your son.’ Burrows grunted. ‘Now I’m going to have to eliminate him, too. Too bad. You shouldn’t have asked him to look into Pandora’s past.’

The thought of John being killed sent a chill through Jack. ‘Leave my son out of this.’

‘It’ll probably be a car accident,’ Burrows said. ‘We often use that as a means of eliminating problems. He’ll be driving home and bam, something will happen. He’ll suddenly feel dizzy and drive
into the path of an oncoming car. Or maybe the brakes won’t work, and he’ll drive into a tree. Driving can be very dangerous.’

Burrows grinned, and Jack strained against the ropes binding his wrists, willing his arms to pull the fibers apart, just as all the superheroes managed in the movies. But the ropes didn’t loosen, didn’t slide off. The only outcome of his efforts was an increased pounding in his head.

‘Why me?’ Shannon asked, her voice small and plaintive. ‘Why am I here?’

Again Burrows turned toward her. ‘Because she’ll come for you. I just hope she’s still sharp enough to follow my clues.’

‘Did she really work with you?’ Shannon asked. ‘Did she really kill people?’

‘Oh yes, and she was good at it.’ Burrows’ expression softened and took on a look of longing. ‘She was beautiful back then. Absolutely stunning. And such a lovely voice. That lady could sweet-talk any man into taking her home with them, or off to a deserted isle. It didn’t matter if he was Russian, German, or French, Pandora Coye could converse in multiple languages, could make a man think he was the center of her world.’

He looked at Jack and chuckled. ‘She could get them to tell her secrets. Pillow talk. It’s a man’s downfall.’

‘She slept with them?’ Shannon said. ‘With lots of men?’

Burrows shrugged, his attention going back to the girl. ‘I don’t know how many, but from what I heard, she was a whore before Carl brought her into the agency.’

‘You’re a liar,’ Shannon shouted, her voice taking on a hysterical edge. ‘A liar, and a … a terrible man, and …’ she started crying. ‘I wanna go home.’

Jack hated to admit it, but he felt the same way. He was tired, his head and body ached, the cement he was sitting on was cold, and he didn’t see a good ending to this situation. He wanted to close his eyes and fall asleep, to wake up in the morning in his own bed, to find this was all a bad dream.

But he knew that wasn’t going to happen.

His best hope was Jennifer Mendoza. She’d said she’d send backup.

But what good was backup if the officers didn’t know where he was? He certainly didn’t know where he was, other than in a musty-smelling barn that had cobwebs hanging from the rafters and looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. Lanterns sitting on the cement and hanging from several beams supplied some dim lighting, but Jack doubted much would be visible from the outside. Not with the big sliding barn-door closed, and years of dust covering the side door’s window as well as the two narrow translucent panels up near the roofline. Burrows had even brought his car inside the barn, so it wouldn’t be visible from the road.

Jack thought about that. The white Impala was parked over by the side door, but he’d been following a black Nissan.

‘You have two cars,’ he said, looking at Burrows.

‘Smart boy.’

‘You’ve been spying on her for some time,’ Jack said, remembering that Mary had complained about a black sedan driving up and down Maple on Halloween night. ‘You were in Rivershore even before I started checking up on her.’

‘As I said, she shouldn’t have gotten her picture in the paper. No telling when someone from her past might have recognized her. I’ve got enough problems with Congress. I don’t need her popping up, telling that subcommittee what we did in the past, or suggesting we might still be operating outside of the law.’

‘I saw you,’ Shannon said, sniffing back tears. ‘That night, while I was giving out candy, I saw you.’

‘I know.’

Burrows smiled, and Jack understood why the girl had been taken. The man wasn’t going to leave any witnesses. ‘So we’re here to lure her to you so you can kill her, then us. And after that? Once our bodies are found, you know others will start probing into her past. I’ve got a file about her in my computer. When …’

He didn’t get a chance to finish. Burrows shook his head. ‘That file no longer exists, Sergeant. I guess that Anonymous group is still up to its old tricks, breaking into law enforcement files and eliminating certain information. At least that’s what your buddies are going to think when they go into your computer. As for your bodies …’ He glanced over at a stack of bags. ‘I doubt they’ll be found. I’m
not sure who lived at this farm in the past, but he was kind enough to leave several bags of lime. And there’s a nice pit out back where he used to dump his horse and cow manure. I’ve already prepared a spot for the three of you. A little lime on top of your bodies will reduce the smell, and once the composted manure is back in place, who’s to know you ever were here?’

‘So what kind of clues did you leave for Mary?’ Jack hoped whatever those clues were they’d also bring Mendoza and other officers.

‘Little ones, so if you’re hoping the cavalry will come and save you, I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

‘He doesn’t need the cavalry, David. I’m here.’

‘Grandma,’ Shannon cried.

Both Jack and Burrows looked toward the Impala.

M
ARY
HOPED
HERS
wasn’t an empty boast. She’d found them, but now what? She’d picked up a pitchfork that was leaning against the side door of the barn, but what good would that be against David’s gun?

‘I thought he was your friend,’ Shannon said, her voice cracking. ‘I wouldn’t have gotten into his car if I’d known.’

‘Not your fault, honey.’ Mary understood how David had tricked the girl. The agency taught them to deceive, and they did it well.

David stepped away from Rossini, smiling as he slapped his left palm with a short stick. ‘Took you long enough to get here.’

‘I’m an old lady, remember? Not as fast as I used to be.’

As he drew closer, she realized he held two wooden sticks, not one, the chain connecting them barely visible. ‘So you took it.’ She nodded toward the nunchuck he held. ‘Not Dubois or that gang.’

David smiled. ‘You know, I have absolutely no idea where Peter Dubois might be or if he’s even alive.’

‘So he never moved to Florida, never saw my picture in the paper.’

‘Not that I’m aware of, but using his name was a good idea, don’t you think? Kept you off guard.’

David released one of the sticks, holding the remaining one up near the chain end. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve used one of these. I figured, in case someone did find your bodies under that compost, blunt force trauma would be harder to trace than a bullet, especially if this was found next to your body.’

He began spinning the nunchuck so it flared out, appearing to be one long stick. ‘If it’s even important, time of death will be identical for the three of you. You first, of course.’

Mary watched as he neared, knowing she couldn’t make her move too soon. ‘So that’s why you kept them alive?’ she said, staying close to the Impala.

‘That and so I could tell them all about your glorious past.’

She glanced at her granddaughter. ‘What did you tell her?’

David made two diagonal strokes with the nunchuck, one from his upper right to his lower left, then a switch. Mary didn’t move. She knew he was too far away for the stick to hit her. He was taunting her, showing her his prowess with the nunchuck, and trying to goad her into revealing her defense.

‘I told her you were a whore, that her saintly grandmother slept with men then killed them. Are you going to deny that?’

She wanted to, but she couldn’t. ‘You’ve turned into a nasty person, David.’

‘You always said I enjoyed my work too much.’

‘You’re such a liar, who can believe anything you say?’ Rossini shouted from where he sat, tied to a post.

David turned toward the sergeant, halting the rotating motion of his hand. The end rod stopped spinning and dropped down, swinging back to hit his arm. He flinched, and Mary moved. Pitchfork held waist high, she bolted forward, driving the tines into his side.

His coat stopped the pointed ends from penetrating his flesh, but the force of her thrust caused him to drop the nunchuck and step back. A look of surprise crossed his face, then one of anger. He knocked the pitchfork away from his side and out of her hands, and reached inside his coat for his gun.

Mary didn’t wait for him to pull the gun from his shoulder
holster. Using the full force of her weight, she slammed into his side.

Together they fell to the cement floor, Mary on top. She immediately rolled off and to the side, rising up on her knees. Four and a half decades before they’d sparred on mats in ADEC’s workout room. They’d both been in their twenties then, supple and full of energy. Ultimately David always won, his strength dominating her skills, but she’d made him work for those wins.

Today she couldn’t let him win.

She reached for the fallen nunchuck. He pushed himself up to a seated position and again went for his gun. She swung the wooden weapon up using a backhand stroke just as he aimed his Glock at her. The gun blast and his scream overlapped. She heard the bullet hit the Impala, and saw the gun leave his hand. His wrist hung at an odd angle.

For a moment he stared at her, eyes wide with both pain and surprise, and then he looked over to where the gun lay on the cement, not far from Rossini.

‘Leave it,’ she ordered.

‘You broke my wrist,’ he growled, the fury in his words warning her he wasn’t through fighting.

Cradling his right arm to his chest, he scrambled to his feet. She tried to stand before he did, but in spite of his injury, the six-year difference in their ages gave him the advantage. He delivered a sidekick before she had her balance. The blow sent her sprawling.

She lost her grip on the nunchuck when her hand hit the cement, the wooden rods sliding out of her reach. The pitchfork lay closer, and she started for it, only to see David coming at her. She rolled onto her back and grabbed his leg as he kicked at her side. The toe of his shoe hit her ribs, taking her breath away and sending a jolt of pain through her body, but she didn’t let go. Forcing herself to ignore the pain, she did a sit-up, rising to the side just enough to press her weight against his leg.

Caught off balance, he fell backwards and onto his side, jarring his body and forcing out another cry of pain. In his eyes, she saw the fury of a wounded animal and knew she’d merely increased his desire to kill her.

She gritted her teeth and moved, ignoring the pain as bruised or
broken ribs protested her action. Scooting along the cement toward the pitchfork, she put as much distance between them as she could before he was on his feet. She managed to get to her knees and grab the pitchfork before he took a step closer. One glance at the pitchfork and he stopped, smiled, and took a step back.

She wasn’t quite sure how to interpret his retreat until he took another step back, then another, and another, each bringing him closer to where his Glock lay on the cement. He didn’t look at the gun but kept his gaze on her.

She could see Rossini behind David. Although the sergeant’s arms were tied behind his back and around a board that went from the rafters to the floor, he was stretching out his body, trying to reach the gun with his foot. She didn’t want David to notice, so she groaned and set the pitchfork back down. She brought one hand to her side, about where he’d kicked her, and let the fingers of her other hand touch the cement. She hoped Rossini would notice how she was sweeping her fingertips toward her and would get the message.

She also hoped David wouldn’t notice.

‘Ah, did I hurt you?’ David taunted and grinned.

‘Like you care.’ She gave a slight nod and tensed her muscles, ready to move.

Rossini moved his right leg, sweeping it along the cement floor, the toe of his shoe pointing at the Glock. David heard the movement and looked behind him, immediately understanding what Rossini was attempting to do.

The tip of Rossini’s shoe caught the Glock near the grip and propelled the gun away from David’s feet. If they’d been on a smooth surface – a polished hardwood floor or ceramic tile – the gun might have slid into Mary’s hands, but the rough surface of the cement slowed its forward motion.

Mary lunged forward, and David swooped down. She grabbed the grip with her right hand and pulled the Glock closer. David slapped his uninjured hand over hers, the weight of his body stopping her from moving the gun any farther.

An involuntary cry of pain accompanied the thud when his shoulder, then hip, hit the cement. She had a feeling the groan she
heard as she tried to scoot back and away came from her. The pain in her side brought tears to her eyes, but she didn’t let go of her hold on the gun.

‘Give it to me!’ David snarled, his face only inches from hers.

‘No,’ she yelled, though she wondered how long she could counter his strength.

‘Give it!’ He squeezed his fingers around hers, pressing her hand into the frame of the gun.

She could feel him lifting both her hand and the gun, and she knew once he had enough room, he would twist her wrist until she had to release her hold. After that, it would be over. He would have the gun, and she would be dead, along with Shannon and Rossini.

‘No!’ she yelled again, and countered his lift by raising her hand even higher and rolling to her side.

The twist of her body turned her hand slightly to the side, and she clasped her fingers around the gun’s grip, her index finger reaching the trigger. The deafening bang when the gun went off was matched by the recoil, slamming her back against the cement. She saw David coming down on her, saw the look of anger in his eyes, then the surprise.

‘Damn,’ he growled, falling on top of her.

Trapped beneath him, the gun and her hand now squeezed between them, Mary waited for his next move. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm uneven, and for a moment she thought he was breathing hard. Then he coughed and tried to push himself off, and she realized he wasn’t going for the gun.

‘David?’ she said cautiously, using her free hand against his shoulder to push him to the side.

‘Damn you,’ he gritted through clenched teeth.

‘Mary, are you all right?’ Rossini called from behind David’s feet.

‘Grandma?’

‘David?’ she repeated, inching away from his body.

She could see the blood now, pooling beneath his side. He simply looked at her.

‘Mary, cut me loose before the police arrive,’ Rossini yelled.

In the distance she could hear sirens.

It took her a moment to understand. Finally, she slowly rose to her feet, still holding the gun. ‘I called 911 before I came in here.’

‘Cut me loose and give me the gun,’ Rossini ordered. ‘You don’t want to be holding that gun when they arrive.’

She looked over at Rossini, and then back down at David. He was still alive, but barely, his breathing shallow.

‘Grandma, is he dead?’ Shannon asked, her voice shaky.

‘No, not yet.’ She looked back at Rossini, then left David’s side and went to the sergeant.

‘Hurry,’ he ordered. ‘Check my right pant pocket. I think I still have my jackknife in there.’