Paying The Piper (9 page)

“You’ve got eighteen minutes to make the rendezvous,” Brannon said.

Scott stamped on the gas and the Toyota’s tires shrieked on the polished concrete floor. The Camry came equipped with a GPS navigator. The navigator’s mechanical voice called out directions, and he followed them.

He eyed his rearview mirror and scanned the road ahead for the legion of FBI vehicles Sheils’s teams had on tap. There was no one in sight. He wondered how far back they had distanced themselves from him.

“Scott,” Taggart said from the trunk, his voice muffled, “got bad news, buddy. The cloud cover is too thick for the plane to see us on the ground.”

That was one factor taken care of. Scott tried to sound disappointed, but Taggart was quick to soothe him. “Don’t worry about it, Scott. It’s a minor setback. We’ve still got the surveillance teams, the electronics, and me. The Piper isn’t going anywhere.”

“Great.”

Scott pressed ahead. The directions took him out of the college town, and trees soon outnumbered properties. Even if the clouds hadn’t been a problem for surveillance aircraft, the tree cover would have been.

He drove east across Eugene, crossing I-5 to get to Springfield. He passed through the town and into a rural area. This made sense. There’d be fewer witnesses, and it forced the FBI to hang back, but their trackers covered that slack. The Piper was
still far from shaking Sheils.

The navigator told him he’d arrived at his location, which proved to be a stretch of road crossing over a river with an aged Buick Century parked on the bridge. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the car. Was this it? Was this where he was supposed to act? Was he coming face-to-face with the Piper? His heart rate quickened and his blood pressure spiked.

He pulled up behind the Buick. The Toyota’s headlights lit up its driverless interior.

“What’s happening, Scott?” Taggart asked.

“I’ve reached the destination. There’s a car parked in front. It looks empty.”

Scott checked the dashboard clock. He’d arrived a minute early.

“Agent Sheils says don’t leave the car. Wait for the call.”

Scott peered into the gloom and wondered how close the Piper was to him. If he were close by, he would know that he’d arrived and call, but he didn’t. He was waiting until the prearranged time. That still didn’t mean he wasn’t hiding in the trees. Scott grabbed the cell from the passenger seat and thought about the Piper’s cell hidden in his pocket. He wondered which would ring first.

The moment the twenty-minute time limit expired, his own cell burst into life.

“What do you see before you?” the Piper asked.

Scott decided the Piper wasn’t close if he was asking this question. “An old Buick Century.”

“Well done. You made it. Take the Buick. The keys are in the ignition. But first, go to the river and dunk the bag of ransom money.”

“What?”

“Scott, the money is electronically tagged. Don’t deny it.”

“What about the money?”

“That’s the great thing about the US dollar. Waterproof inks. Now dunk the money. Sammy’s waiting.”

The river crossed under the road. Scott dragged
the duffel from the car and clambered down the bank. He slipped on the wet grass and fell on his face. He held on to the cell, but the ransom flew from his grasp. The duffel rolled end over end, crashing into the water. He gathered himself up and snatched the duffel before it disappeared from sight. He let the money remain submerged to ensure every one of Sheils’s tracking devices shorted out. After a minute, he yanked the duffel free, now weighing twice what it did dry. He hefted the bag over to the Buick and dumped the sopping mess on the backseat.

“Now what?” Scott asked.

“Drive your car into the river.”

Scott hesitated because of Taggart. “Is that necessary?”

“Does it matter? It’s not like there’s someone hiding in the car with you, right, Scott?”

Scott didn’t answer.

“I have my eyes, Scott. I’ll see if you let him out. Now drive the car into the water.”

Scott cursed and ran back to the Toyota. This was why he hadn’t wanted anyone riding with him. Sheils couldn’t blame him for this. Taggart was on his own.

“Scott, toss this phone too. You won’t be needing it.”

Scott hurled the phone into the river and got behind the wheel. He jerked the selector into reverse and backed up.

“I’m sorry, Taggart,” he called out.

Taggart said something, but it was lost under the screaming tires when Scott floored the gas. The Toyota leapt forward. Scott kept the door pushed open with his hand, popped the trunk release, and bailed out when the Camry crashed over the curb. He struck the ground hard, sending jolts of pain up his arms and legs.

The Toyota smacked into the water. The impact stopped the car’s forward motion. Water engulfed the car’s cabin, dragging it down. The fast-moving current grabbed the sinking car and dragged it along.

Scott didn’t wait to see if Taggart had escaped from inside
the trunk. He needed to delude himself. Taggart was okay. He was already swimming to the surface, safe and well. Scott got behind the wheel of the Buick and powered away.

The cell phone in his pocket rang.

“Where to now?” he asked the Piper.

“Drive to Oakridge. You’ve got thirty minutes. Follow the directions I left,” the Piper said, then hung up.

A map lay on the passenger seat next to him. He flicked on the dome light to check his directions, never once taking his foot off the gas. Oakridge took him into the Willamette National Forest. His destination seemed simple enough, as long as the FBI didn’t intercept him.

Could they, though? Taggart was gone. The trackers were disabled. The plane couldn’t fly. No one had a make on this Buick or the cell. What tricks did Sheils have left? He’d have to fall back on the old-fashioned methods, roadblocks and cops on every street corner. Sheils couldn’t mobilize in time. Scott would slip through his net. He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and settled into his drive.

As he racked up the miles, his thoughts drifted from his driving to Jane. She had to be worried sick. He wished she were here. He considered calling her and eyed the cell phone.

He didn’t see the moving van until it was too late. It ran the stop sign and broadsided the Buick. The impact sounded like a bomb going off inside the car. The Buick’s passenger side deflated, and glass showered the car’s cabin. Scott’s head slammed into the door pillar, and his vision clouded over, leaving him dazed. Reflexively, he held on to the steering wheel as if he had some control over the car. Both vehicles slithered to an untidy halt on the roadway.

Panic ripped through Scott’s haze. The Buick was toast. He couldn’t deliver the ransom. The Piper would kill Sammy. The idiot truck driver had killed his son. He scrambled among the broken glass for the cell phone. He had
to call the Piper and explain.

The truck driver jumped down from the cab and shouted at Scott to get out. His tone suggested the accident was Scott’s fault.

Scott’s fingers fell on the cell and he grabbed it. He shouldered the door open and clambered out. Blood from a head wound ran into his eyes. He palmed it away.

“I need a ride.”

“No, you don’t,” the trucker said.

The trucker was wearing a ski mask. Everything clicked. This was no accident.

“Scott, get the money,” the Piper said.

Scott staggered over to the rear door, wrenched it open, and rescued the still-sodden duffel.

The Piper carried a plastic gas can with a rag trailing from the end. He lit the rag and tossed the can on the Buick’s backseat. Fire spread through the car.

“Where’s Sammy?”

“Wrong question.”

The Piper drove a fist into Scott’s gut. The air in his lungs evaporated, and his legs buckled. He leaned against the Piper for support.

A sharp pain flared in his neck for an instant. He looked up to see the Piper jerk a hypodermic free. The drug took immediate effect, darkness engulfing him before he struck the ground.

S
heils walked up to
the burning wreck of a Buick sedan sitting in the middle of the road, halfway between Jasper and Pleasant Hill. The stink of melting radials ensured he didn’t get too close to the conflagration. Smoke curled from the tips of the flames into the night. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him. The ransom drop was going up in smoke. Yet again, the Piper had grabbed an operation and turned it on its head, and Sheils was forced to pick up the pieces. State and local cops were setting up roadblocks without any idea of who or what they were looking for. The word
shambles
sprang to mind.

Brannon had arrived before him and was in a heated discussion with the fire chief. The fire chief wanted to put out the fire. Brannon wanted the fire to burn itself out so as not to disturb any physical evidence. Sheils inserted himself into the argument, and the fire chief backed down. Not that the argument was necessary. The fire was almost out, having eaten through the car’s interior. Most of the paintwork was scorched off, but what was left was dark blue. It looked as if they’d found Scott Fleetwood’s second car.

“Fleetwood?” Sheils asked.

Brannon shook his head. “Could be in the trunk.”

Possible, but unlikely, Sheils decided.

“Look at this.” Brannon showed Sheils skid marks
coming from the Buick’s right. “It looks like a truck T-boned him. A big one.”

Sheils recognized the tactic. The kidnapper has the ransom courier jump through hoop after hoop. The courier becomes comfortable with the procedure. Then the kidnapper turns everything on its head with a smash-and-grab. The courier is left immobilized while the kidnapper makes off with the ransom. That tactic had served many kidnappers well. The Piper had added a new wrinkle. Usually the kidnapper took the ransom and left the courier.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Brannon said. “Why take Fleetwood and the money?”

“To make him squirm.”

“Do you think he’s offered to swap places with his kid?”

“It’s possible. Tell the fire chief to put this out. I don’t think we’re going to learn anything here.”

They stood back to let the firefighters do their job. Sheils’s driver came over with a radio unit in his hand.

“They’ve picked up a signal.”

Sheils listened to the tech back at the resident agency explain that they’d picked up a faint stationary signal from one of the money band trackers only three miles from the wreck. Finally, a break.

Sheils instructed the deputies to secure the car after the fire department had put out the fire. He and Brannon raced over to the location of the signal. On the way, he requested that the Lane County sheriffs set up a perimeter around the signal to prevent anyone from getting in or out of the area.

Sheils set up a staging area two hundred yards from the signal’s coordinates. It came from a parking lot belonging to an abandoned burger joint, long out of business. As soon as he saw the building, he got a sinking feeling.

“Maintain positions. I’m going in,” Sheils told Brannon.

He approached with a flashlight in one hand
and his 9mm drawn. He wasn’t afraid. He knew what he’d find, but he could feel his pulse racing at his temple. Even in the darkness, he spotted the immobile shape lying in the parking lot. He recognized it immediately and jogged over to it. He raised his weapon as a precaution and slowed his pace when he got close. He shone the flashlight on it.

It lit up the duffel, minus two million dollars.

“All clear,” he said into his radio.

The task force closed in. Sheils ordered an agent to book the duffel into evidence and have it examined. He doubted they’d get any usable forensics from it, but they had to try.

“He might have the money, but he can’t spend it,” Brannon said. “I’ve released the serial numbers. Banks, stores—they’re all expecting them.”

Brannon’s cell rang a couple of seconds before Sheils’s did.

Sheils unclipped the phone. As he lifted it to his ear, he watched Brannon’s expression change. It froze, then cracked as if someone had dropped a heavy weight on it.

“Agent Sheils,” Sheils said.

“Long time no hear, Agent Sheils,” the Piper’s disguised voice said.

“How did you get this number?” Sheils’s question came out tight and clipped.

“Mrs. Fleetwood gave it to me,” the Piper replied. “She’s a very scared lady. She wanted details, but I spared her. Some things should be kept from the innocents.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“I’m sure you have someone frantically telling you to expect a call. I thought I’d beat them to the punch.”

Brannon hung up and hushed the agents around them. He motioned to a local agent to put a trace on Sheils’s phone.

“Where’s Scott Fleetwood?”

“He’s with me.”

“Is he unharmed?”

“For now, yes.”

“Sammy Fleetwood?”

“He’s good too.”

“Are they together?”

“Agent Sheils, stop wasting my time. Go home.
When I’ve decided what to do with Scott, I’ll call you.”

Before Sheils could get his next question out, the Piper ended the call, severing any link to Sammy and Scott.

S
cott awoke
on his back in the middle of a field. It was still night. He sat up and a note tumbled from his chest. He opened the twice-folded sheet of paper. Written in black Sharpie and smudged by dew was a simple message.

FIND HIM

On the other side of the paper was a MapQuest printout of the area with a circle around Mike Redfern’s address. He pocketed the map and trudged across the field. When he reached the road, a sign welcomed him to Lebanon.

It took half an hour to find Redfern’s tiny ranch house on a dead-end street. Mildew streaked the ancient wood siding. The place looked so damp that it needed wringing out. Unkempt brambles and vegetation provided an unwelcome barrier. A worn gravel path marked out a driveway.

I’m here,
he thought.
Now what?
He supposed he should have developed some sort of plan to apprehend Redfern, but he was a reporter, not a cop. He was also worn out and emotionally drained, which wasn’t helping.

At first glance, Redfern didn’t look to be at home. Scott tried the doorbell, but the lack of movement from inside the house confirmed his suspicion. He peered through the living
room window and saw no one.

He considered breaking into the house. He’d lie in wait for Redfern, armed with something sharp from the kitchen. Suddenly, he felt the heat of an unwanted stare burning into his back. He turned to find an elderly man standing on the sidewalk.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the old man said.

“That’s okay.” Scott jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Do you know when Ray comes home? I’m supposed to be hooking up with him, but I think I missed him.”

“You’re not a close friend, are you?”

Scott held in his shock. “What makes you say that?”

“If you were close, you’d know he spends his evenings at Ed’s Bar. Alone.”

Scott nodded with sad understanding while he pieced together a cover story. “I was afraid of that. His family sent me. I’m a counselor. They’re afraid his drinking is a problem again.” He kept his distance. He didn’t want the old man getting a good look at his face. “I’ll see if I can catch him there, then. Thanks for your help.”

The old man stood his ground, then asked, “Do you need directions?”

“In my line of business, you know where all the bars are.”

The old man lingered on the sidewalk. To not move meant drawing attention. Scott couldn’t put it off any longer and walked toward him.

Just as he got within good identification distance, Scott glanced skyward. “Looks like a rainy night.”

The old man looked up to examine the sky and Scott breezed past. It was a cheap trick, but it worked.

Scott found a pay phone at a corner gas station and looked up Ed’s address in the phone book. When he arrived, the place looked how he’d imagined—barfly territory, neon signs for Budweiser and Miller glowing in the window. The interior wasn’t much better. It relied on a few forty-watt bulbs and
two wall-mounted TVs for lighting. But the place was packed, and conversation drowned out the TVs.

Redfern wasn’t at the bar, so Scott searched the booths, recalling how Redfern had looked when Sheils arrested him. Scott pictured that man, not the man eroded by prison. He would have missed him if he hadn’t recognized the guilt in Redfern’s face. It was the same guilt that plagued Scott.

Redfern looked nearer to fifty than forty, and he was twenty pounds lighter than Scott remembered. Age lines sliced his face more deeply than they should have. A ragged scar ran under his chin, disappearing behind his ear.

When Redfern looked up at Scott from his beer, he didn’t appear to recognize him. That made things easier for Scott, and he slid onto the bench seat opposite him.

“I don’t like company,” Redfern said.

Redfern had been a mild-mannered claims adjuster for an insurance company before his arrest. Now harshness edged his words. Scott had expected Redfern to be someone he could overcome easily, not a prison-hardened ex-con. He felt his confidence wane.

“Do you remember me, Mike?”

“Yeah. I figured someone would come looking, eventually. Look, get something from the bar. We’re drawing attention.”

Scott bought two beers and put one in front of Redfern.

“How do you sleep?” Redfern asked.

Scott didn’t have time for this, but decided to play along. Redfern wouldn’t simply go with him to the Piper just because Scott said so, but he might if he got drunk enough.

“Fine. I sleep fine.”

“That’s a whole lot better than me. You see this?” Redfern jerked his chin up and pointed to the scar. “Happened two weeks after I went to prison. An old door hinge sharpened into a razor. Anything can become a weapon if you have the imagination.”

“Imagination is what put you there. Why’d you do it? You had to know you’d get caught.”

Scott’s remarks dulled Redfern’s sharp edges. “You probably think I’m pathetic. Don’t deny it. That’s how I see myself, looking back. Your dreams are all you have when you don’t have anything. They help you get up in the morning,
go to the day job, pay your taxes, and generally put up with crap, because those dreams could come true.”

“And your dream was to be the Piper?”

“No. Not really. I wanted to be powerful. The Piper was powerful. His name meant something.”

“But you knew things about the Piper that no one else did.”

“Don’t you think I researched him? To pretend to be him, I had to understand him. I carried out my own investigation. I saw the connections and made some good assumptions.”

Redfern blew Scott away. This guy, this nobody, with no police training, had pieced things together from secondhand accounts. He didn’t know whether to be in awe or disgusted.

“Did you keep any of your findings?”

Redfern didn’t answer for a minute. “The FBI thought they got it all, but I kept copies.”

“Could I see them?”

Redfern shrugged. “Everything’s back at the house.”

“Show me.”

Scott followed Redfern out to an aged Ford Escort. The guy was over the limit, but Scott wasn’t about to argue with him. Redfern drove them back to his small home. The house was cold and smelled musty.

“I’ve got the stuff in my study,” Redfern said and disappeared into one of the bedrooms.

Scott went into the living room. Redfern owned the bare minimum: a chair, a table, a TV, and a couple of picture frames that sat on the mantel above the fireplace. Scott picked them up. One was a studio shot of a smiling woman who looked to be in her early thirties. The other photo pictured a vacation shot
of the same woman with a man and a couple of kids around Sammy and Peter’s age.

“My sister and her family,” Redfern said, returning to the room carrying two bulging cardboard file boxes. He set the boxes down on the ground.

Scott set the picture frames back on the mantel. “Do you see them much?”

“What do you think?”

Scott let the subject drop. He opened up one of the file boxes and yanked a fistful of file folders free.

Redfern said something about making coffee and padded into the kitchen while Scott sifted through the files. A lot of what Redfern had collected was what Scott had expected—newspaper clippings, online news reports, and even videotaped recordings from
60 Minutes, Dateline,
and just about every other news magazine show on TV. Redfern went the extra mile with screen dumps from various Internet conspiracy sites. There was so much crap that Scott almost gave up. Then it got interesting.

One file revealed a transcript of telephone calls the Piper had made to the kidnap families, all on FBI letterheads. Redfern had annotated the transcripts and highlighted repetitious words said by the Piper. Essentially, he’d created his own CliffsNotes on the kidnapper. No wonder everyone had bought his act.

“How did you get these transcripts?”

“When you tell people you’re from the FBI, they tend to believe you,” Redfern said proudly.

Scott set about putting the jumble of information into some semblance of order. He separated out the Internet bullshit. Any official documents—and there were a lot—he kept separated from the media stories. These were all of note, but the stuff Scott really wanted to get at was Redfern’s own notes and the journals he’d put together. He’d managed to accurately mimic the Piper from reading between the lines.

“So,” Redfern called from the kitchen, “why did you track me down? You never did say.”

Scott had expected the question. “You seemed to know a lot about the Piper, so I thought you might be able to help
me get something on him.”

Redfern returned to the living room carrying a mug of coffee in each hand with steam unfurling from them. “Funny that you should come to me and not to the cops when the Piper has your kid.”

“Yeah, well, if I can give the Feds any info, it’ll help them stop him.”

Redfern nodded. “So it was lucky you had my address at hand.”

Scott had created a facade from spun glass. It was pretty to look at, but fragile as hell, flawed by beginner’s errors. It stayed intact as long as no one touched it. Now it was crashing down. He anticipated Redfern’s move a fraction of a second before it happened.

Scott dropped the papers and lurched out of the way of the hot coffee Redfern hurled at him. The scalding liquid splashed across one leg. Ignoring the searing heat, he scrambled across the couch.

Redfern jerked out a steak knife from the back of his pants and threw himself at Scott. He landed on Scott’s back, and both men bounced off the couch and crashed into the coffee table, upending it and all the stacks of paper Scott had placed on it.

Redfern locked his legs around Scott’s waist and snaked an arm around his neck. He pressed the knife up against Scott’s throat. “Do you think I’m that stupid?”

Scott held very still.

Redfern jerked Scott’s head back. “Do I have to give you a scar like mine to get an answer?”

“No,” Scott croaked.

“Where’s the Piper? Outside? Waiting?”

“I don’t know.”

Redfern dragged the knife an inch
across Scott’s throat. No additional pressure was necessary. The serrations took up Redfern’s cause, and the blade cut through Scott’s skin. He felt the jagged edge invade his flesh and his blood run down his throat. He choked down a scream.

“Lie to me again, and I won’t stop,” Redfern threatened.

“I’m not lying. The Piper sent me, but I don’t know where he is.”

Redfern repositioned himself to gain a better lock on Scott. He pressed his knees down on Scott’s arms to pin them to the floor. Although Redfern had him, the man had no strength. His prison time and whatever life he’d led since had given him a certain intuition, but not physical power. His 130-pound weight went only so far.

“And what were his instructions?” Redfern asked. “To kill me?”

“No. Just to bring you to him.”

“But you don’t know where he is?”

“I have to call him.”

Redfern had made the mistake of only pinning Scott’s upper half. Scott’s legs were free, and he snapped them back. His feet slammed into Redfern’s back, pitching him forward.

Free of the deadly threat, Scott thrust up onto all fours, bucking Redfern off. The force pushed Redfern into an untidy somersault, sending him crashing onto his back. Scott snapped to his feet. It was his turn to pin someone to the floor.

Scott was on Redfern before he had a chance to recover. The Piper wannabe slashed the air with the steak knife. The blade sliced through Scott’s sweatpants and slashed his right calf. He didn’t stop to check the damage. He swept in and kicked Redfern in the face, snapping his head around and leaving him dazed.

Scott grabbed Redfern’s knife hand at the wrist and twisted hard, until Redfern yelled out and the knife went slack in his grasp. He snatched the knife away and disabled Redfern with a kick to the ribs.

Suddenly feeling the pain in his injured leg, Scott
staggered back, collapsing onto the couch. He examined the damage. He wouldn’t need stitches if he taped it up tight enough.

Redfern groaned and squirmed on the floor. Scott wasn’t about to give Redfern a chance to recover, so he kicked him in the head. The kick knocked him out.

Scott made the call. “I have him. Where do I bring him?”