Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 04 - A Deadly Change of Power (13 page)

I gaped at the lifeless man on the ground.  “Oh my God.  That’s Pianalto,” I blurted.  “Is he dead?”

Rick unlocked the Blazer and jumped in the driver’s seat.  “No, he’s not dead.  But if we aren’t gone by the time he wakes up, or when his partner gets back with reinforcements, we might be.”

Craig and I raced to the Blazer.  We jumped in just as Rick jammed it into gear and shoved his foot down on the accelerator.

“What happened back there?” I asked as I buckled my seatbelt tight over my lap.  Craig busied himself doing the same thing.

“I’d fallen asleep on the couch,” Rick explained, checking the rear view mirror.  “I woke up and decided to put another log on the fire before I went to bed.  I went out to the woodpile and surprised that guy sneaking around.  There was another guy in a pickup parked at the street.”

“Probably Hollers,” Craig said.

“Maybe,” I said.  “Or, it could have been Cameron Boxer,” I suggested.

Rick eyed me through the rear-view mirror.  “Cameron Boxer?” he questioned.

“Yeah.  We found an article about him in that paper we have.  We think he’s the guy we’re after.  There’s a photo.  Maybe you’ll recognize him,” I said, hopeful.

He shrugged his shoulders.  “Don’t know.  Didn’t get a good look at him.  Anyhow, I cold-cocked the guy.  His partner took off, but you can bet your stuntman-union card he’ll be back.”

Rick adjusted the rear-view mirror.  There were lights from a vehicle behind us.  “You guys buckled in?” he asked.

We both double-checked.  In unison, we said, “Yes.”

Rick accelerated and took the next turn fast enough to send the Blazer spinning.  We did a complete three-sixty before proceeding down the main highway.  The lights followed us.

Rick glared at the rear-view mirror.  “It’s him,” Rick hissed.  “Hang on, guys.”

We headed north.  So did our tail.  Rick drove fast.  The guy behind us had trouble keeping up.  He apparently wasn’t a Hollywood stunt driver who’d grown up driving a snowplow.  He hadn’t caught up to us by the time we reached Blairsden, where the road we were on ended.  The stop sign was coming up fast.  Rick let his foot off the accelerator, but it was clear he didn’t plan to stop.  We slid around the corner, fishtailing the big Blazer.  The lights behind us kept coming.

Luckily, the storm had passed and the road had recently been plowed, but it wasn’t clear by any means.  The plow left at least an inch of packed snow on the pavement.  We kept our speed up as we headed back toward Portola.

Our tail was gaining confidence in his driving, and he seemed to be gaining on us.  We approached an area with houselights off to the left.  “What’s up there?” Rick asked.

I searched my memory.  The sign on the road said Delleker.  “There’s an old millpond up there.  That’s what that rise is,” I said.

Rick spun the wheel and aimed the Blazer up the hill toward the pond.  Our pursuer followed.  Rick positioned the Blazer on the uphill side of the pond and stepped on the brakes.  He studied the pond.  “Is it frozen?” he asked.

“Probably.  People skate on it in the winter,” I confirmed.

“Is it deep?”

I had a sinking feeling.  “Why?”

Rick didn’t answer.

A dirt road skirted the pond on three sides.  Rick turned the wheels downhill toward the pond.  I grabbed the seatback.

The lights from the other truck got closer.  Rick turned the wheel so we were moving across the face of the slope.  It was too steep.  The truck following us made the same move to try to catch us. 

“Hang on,” Rick said, turning the wheel.  Almost in slow motion, the Blazer rolled over on its side, then on its roof, then on its other side, then back on its wheels.  We’d rolled completely over and landed right side up on the road that skirted the pond.  The truck chasing us rolled, too, but it didn’t stop on the road.  It continued over the bank and landed upside-down on the ice.

Rick put the Blazer in low gear to get out of the deep snow and aimed it back toward the highway.  We drove for ten minutes without saying a word.  Craig glared at Rick the entire time.

Craig’s scowl didn’t go unnoticed by Rick.  Finally, he broke the silence.  “What?” Rick demanded.

“You promised you wouldn’t roll it.”

I put a hand on Craig’s shoulder.  He turned and smiled at me.  “But I gotta admit, it was kind of fun,” he said, grinning.

W
e huddled in a corner booth of an all-night diner on the edge of Reno.  I spread open the page from the newspaper that featured Cameron Boxer and slid it across the table in front of Rick.

Rick studied the article.  “Cameron Boxer?  You think this is our guy?”

I nodded.  “See that big hamburger, there?” I said, pointing at the photo.

“Yeah?” Rick replied.

“A friend of Ronnie’s built it for some commercials produced back in the late sixties.  It was built in the machine shop where Ronnie’s dad had done some work on his invention the same day he was killed in the explosion.”

Rick continued reading the article, but didn’t say anything.

“It’s too much of a coincidence,” I continued.  “Cameron Boxer has a connection to Ronnie’s dad through that shop, and now he runs this so-called advertising agency in Graeagle.  All these oil and energy companies are paying him mega-bucks.  That guy you knocked out last night is one of the goons who tried to snatch Ronnie.  How much you wanna bet he works for Boxer?”

Rick slid the paper back across the table to me.  “Probably right.  I’ve never heard of this Cameron Boxer.  If he’s been in the business as long as this article says, maybe Gary’s heard of him.”

Craig glanced at his watch.  “What time’s that flight out of here?  I’ve had enough of the North Pole.”

Rick slid out of the booth.  “We should probably head for the airport.  We have to drop the rental off.”

Craig and I exchanged worried glances, which didn’t go unnoticed by Rick.

“No need to mention that the Blazer has been involved in a roll-over incident,” Rick said.  “There wasn’t any damage because the snow was so thick.  Just let me do the talking.  Okay?”

Craig and I nodded, glad to turn the entire matter over to Rick.

With barely six hours of sleep under his belt, I sent Craig off to work at the hospital.  He could not finagle anymore time off without offering our first-born or applying for a leave of absence.

I set the alarm to allow me one more hour of sleep before I had to head over to the Caper and Lawless office.  Gary agreed to take the morning off from his movie work to bring Ronnie, Jake, and Lance in for a meeting.

Gary studied the photo of Cameron Boxer.  “I don’t recognize the guy,” he said.  He handed the article to Ronnie.

She gaped at the picture.  “Oh my God.  That’s him,” she blurted.

“Who?” I asked.

“Charlie Johnson.  The sailor who tried to blow me up on his boat,” she continued.

“What?” Lance said, taking the paper from her so he could get a look at the fiend who tried to kill his sister.  He examined the picture, scratching his head.  “I remember this guy.  I thought the name sounded familiar, but it’s been a long time.”

Ronnie focused her eyes on Lance.  “You know him?”

Lance nodded.  “He was
a
lot younger when I met him.  He owned a couple of racing bikes and some pretty hot muscle cars.  He had some machine work done at Harold’s shop.  Boy, he’d just picked up a real nic
e red-and-white Triumph the day..
.”

We all waited for him to continue.  Lance fell silent.

“The day, what?” Ronnie pressed.

Lance’s face took on a troubled look.  “The day dad died.  I remember seeing it that day.  I asked Harold about it.  He told me Cameron Boxer had just bought it and wanted something modified on the exhaust system.”

We all stared at Lance.  “Do you remember who he worked for?  He must have been making some pretty good money to afford all those expensive toys,” Rick asked.

Lance stared at the ceiling, searching his memory.  “You know, come to think of it, he didn’t work.  He came out to California from Texas, where his father had made a fortune in the oil business.  They owned a bunch of wells.  Filthy rich.”

“It would seem Cameron Boxer, the good son that he is, has worked hard to make sure the family business thrives,” Gary said.

Jake had been quiet during most of the meeting.  Finally, he spoke up.  “So what happens now?  How do we get this Boxer guy and his goons locked up so they leave Ronnie alone?”

Good question, I thought to myself.  I’m sure Ronnie was wondering the same thing.

“Cameron Boxer has been in business a long time.  He must be good to not have gotten caught.  He’s got to be afraid of Ronnie, because she can identify him as the man who tried to kill her,” Gary explained.  “If he gets any hint at all that we’re on to him, he’s gonna be gone in a flash.  Your best bet now is to get Sam involved again.  He might even bring in the feds for help.”

We all nodded in agreement.  “I think you’re right,” I said.

Rick cleared his throat to get our attention.  “I hate to spoil everyone’s good mood, but the problem still isn’t solved, you do realize,” he announced.

I gave him a curious look, then suddenly grasped his meaning. 

“Even if Cameron Boxer and his band of murderers are taken out of the picture, there’s probably a dozen more waiting in line for the new business opportunity,” Rick continued.  “We can’t lose sight of the fact that Boxer’s success is due to the energy industry’s determination to stay in power.”

No matter how you looked at it, Ronnie’s future seemed hopeless.  We all turned our faces to Jake, the one man in the room who might have a chance to turn things around for her, if only he would.

He felt the weight of our stares.  “Why are you all looking at me like that?  My hands are tied.”

Ronnie threw her hands in the air.  “Fine.  What are you doing here, then?  Why don’t you pack up your toys and go back to your keepers in Detroit?  I don’t need you here.  All you’ve managed to do is lead every one of Boxer’s guys to my doorstep.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were one of them.”

Injured, Jake’s pleading eyes fell on Ronnie’s face.  “Ronnie.  Don’t be this way.  You know I’d do anything to keep you safe from
—
”

“Save it, Monroe.  Just go away,” she snapped, coldly.

“Ronnie,” he begged.

“Go away,” she hissed.

I couldn’t help but feel bad for Jake, but Ronnie was right.  If he wasn’t willing to help her, then he needed to stay away from her to make it harder for the Cameron Boxers of the world to find her.

“Can I give you a ride to the airport?” I offered Jake.

He watched Ronnie’s face for any sign of a change of heart.  When he concluded that he was getting no stay of execution, he nodded to me.  “Thanks.  I could use a ride.”

I dropped Jake off in front of the United terminal at the airport.  “Sorry for the way things turned out,” I offered, with as much sympathy in my voice as I could manage.

“Not as sorry as I am,” he replied as he started to close the passenger door.

“Jake,” I said, stopping him from closing the door.  “It’s probably best if you don’t try to co
ntact Ronnie.  You know, until…
”

“Until?  Until what?” he snapped.

I didn’t know how to answer.  I shrugged my shoulders.

“Don’t worry.  I won’t bother her,” he said, then headed for the doors to the terminal.

I delivered Ronnie and Lance to the police station where Sam had arranged a meeting with two federal agents who would be working with him on the arrest of Cameron Boxer and his crew. 

After compiling a long list of charges made against Cameron Boxer, Sam looked at me.  “As much as I hate to ask this, can you arrange to come with us to Graeagle?”

I couldn’t believe my ears.  “You want me to come along?” I marveled.

“No, but you’re a witness and you can ID some of these characters.  I don’t want to take a chance of picking these guys up and hauling them a thousand miles just to find out they’re the wrong ones.  Besides, we’re gonna have to work with the local authorities up there.  The more credible witnesses I have to back up my request to extradite them into my custody, the better.”

I smiled.  “I’m not only a witness, but now I’m a
credible
witness?”

Sam scowled at me.  “Don’t get smart.  When can you be ready to go?”

R
onnie, Lance, and I sat in a quiet corner and watched the experienced police officers and federal agents flesh out their plan for the big sting operation.  We’d been instructed to meet the local Plumas County Sheriff at his home rather than at the police station, to avoid being spotted by Cameron Boxer or any of his employees.

“You know where all these people live?” Sam asked the local sheriff.

Sheriff Dino Santucci scoffed at the question.  “I know where every resident of this county lives,” he bragged.  “And if I happen to forget one or two, I can have the address in five minutes.”  

Sheriff Santucci’s big frame barely fit into the uniform stretched around his body.  Not that he was fat, because I don’t think there was an ounce of fat on him.  He was just big.  I wondered why the county didn’t provide him with a uniform of the proper size.

“And as far as you know, these three men, Boxer, Hollers, and Pianalto, haven’t left the area?” Sam asked.

“Saw them myself this morning, having breakfast over at Perkos.  They were having some kind of important meeting, looked like to me,” Sheriff Santucci said.  “I sent three of my men to stake out their houses after you called me.  I expect a report any minute.”

At that moment, the conversation was interrupted by a ringing telephone. 

“Excuse me,” Sheriff Santucci said, picking up the phone.  “Santucci,” he barked into the receiver.  “What’ve you got?  All of them?  Good.  Stay put.  We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Sam and the federal agents watched the sheriff’s face, hopeful for good news.

“We got ‘em.  They’re all over at Boxer’s place.  Doubles as his office, so that’s their official workplace,” Santucci said, pulling his big revolver out of its holster to check his bullets.

Sam and his men stood and proceeded to check their weapons.  I got to my feet, ready to go.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sam asked.

“I thought
—
”

“You three are staying right here.  The last thing I need is a bunch of civilians getting in the way of a potentially hazardous arrest.”

“But
—
”

“But nothing.  Right here.  Understand?”

I nodded and sat back down next to Ronnie.

One of Sheriff Santucci’s clerks stayed with us at his house while the army of authorities set out to capture the bad guys.  He produced a deck of playing cards and proceeded to shuffle them.

“Anyone for a game of fish?” he asked.

After a dozen hands of every card game the four of us could recall from our teenage years, Sheriff Santucci’s telephone rang.  The clerk grabbed it and listened carefully to the voice at the other end.  “Ten-four!” he blurted into the phone, then hung up.

“They got ‘em,” he announced.  “I gotta take you all down to the station so you can ID the perps.”

I smiled at the clerk’s enthusiasm over what must be the most excitement to hit this community since the high school math teacher’s daughter chained herself to a buoy in the middle of Lake Davis to prevent the poisoning the pike fish.

I wasn’t prepared for what I saw when we arrived at the small police station.  An EMT was trying to get Sheriff Santucci to sit down long enough to apply a bandage to his bleeding arm.  Santucci kept swatting him away like an annoying insect.  “I’m okay, Elvis.  Just a flesh wound,” he insisted.

“It’s a gunshot wound, Sheriff.  I gotta clean it,” the EMT insisted.

“In a minute.  Now go see about those other fellas over there,” Santucci said, pointing to three men huddled around a small desk, applying pressure to various wounds inflicted on their bodies.

Sam waved Ronnie, Lance, and I over to the desk he was perched on.  A medic was cleaning a gash in his forehead.  He winced at the stinging of the antiseptic on his open flesh.

“Are you okay?” I asked, staring at the cut, which was still producing enough blood to require a mopping up every few seconds.

“Ouch!” Sam exclaimed, trying to shrink from the cotton swab doused with something that smelled like it could kill every form of bacteria ever discovered.

“What happened?” I asked, glancing around the room at a half-dozen bleeding men in uniforms.

Sam pushed the medic’s hand away from his head and took over the task of applying pressure to his wound.  “They resisted arrest.”

“I guess so,” I said.  “Was anybody seriously hurt?”

Sam shook his head.  “Just a few cuts and scratches.  Maybe a few stitches.  We were lucky.”

“Where are Boxer and his men?” Ronnie asked, nervously.

“They’re locked in a holding cell.  When we’re done here, I’m gonna have you take a look at them.  Make sure we got the right guys.  Then we’re on our way home,” Sam explained.

News of the arrest spread like wildfire in the small community.  By the time we returned to San Diego, every major network was reporting the arrest of the group of men implicated in the murders and attempted murders of several inventors across the country over a time period of nearly thirty-five years.

By the end of the second day of his incarceration, Cameron Boxer had not uttered a single word about the charges against him.  Hollers and Pianalto were equally as tight-lipped.  I imagined they were more afraid of the ramifications of exposing the entities that supported their business than the penalties imposed on them by the law.

Ronnie had been whisked off into a witness protection program until all the major players could be rounded up and an attempt made to hold them accountable for their crimes.

Craig and I made an effort to return to some normal semblance of life.  We were in
the back
yard, playing with the puppy, which had managed to double in size since he came to live with us.

“Uncle Doug says if we don’t name this puppy by the end of the week, he’s going to do it for us,” I said to Craig.

“Uh oh.  I bet we won’t like the name he comes up with.”

“Probably not.  He suggested Dogzilla,” I said, chuckling. 

The cordless phone rang on the patio table.  I jumped up to answer it.  “Hello?”

“Devonie?  This is Jake,” he said.

“Hi Jake.  How are you?”

“Fine.  Have you seen Ronnie?” he asked.

“No, Jake.  I don’t even know where she is.  You know you can’t have any contact with her,” I reminded him.  I was surprised he even made the attempt.

“I know, but now that Boxer is locked up
—
”

“Right.  Boxer’s locked up.  The hornet’s nest has been hit with a stick.  You think that makes Ronnie’s situation better?”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.  Finally, he spoke.  “Devonie.  If by chance you see or talk to her, just tell her I asked about her and hope she’s doing okay.”

“I will,” I assured him.

“And tell her I love her,” he quickly added.

“Okay, Jake.”

Craig ran into the master bathroom and grabbed my arm while I brushed my teeth.  “You’ve gotta see this,” he said, as he pulled me down the hall to the living room, where the nightly news blared from the television.

I wiped the toothpaste from my chin and sat on the edge of the sofa.  I watched the replaying of the horrible events as they played out earlier in the day.  As Boxer, Hollers, and Pianalto were being escorted into the courthouse, a military-looking helicopter appeared from out of nowhere.  A sniper in the chopper opened fire on the men, striking them all down on the front steps of the courthouse.  In ten seconds, it was all over and the helicopter disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.  The reports had been verified.  It was official.  Cameron Dean Boxer, Archibald Quincy Hollers, and Antonio Vincent Pianalto were pronounced dead at the scene.