Authors: Julia Spencer-Fleming
Tags: #RETAIL
The passenger door swung open, and Russ stepped out. “I’m sorry, darlin’. You didn’t have to come all the way up here.”
“What’s…” She waved at the car while catching her breath. “… going on?”
The trooper stepped out of his vehicle. He was as tall as Russ, but leaner, bald with a laurel wreath of gray hair clipped down to a shadow at the back of his skull. “You remember Bob Mongue, don’t you?” Russ said.
“Sergeant Mongue. Of course.” Every time Russ’s path had crossed with Bob Mongue’s, it was like watching two dogs snarling over the same bone. She had never really gotten the story why.
“It’s lieutenant now, Mrs. Van Alstyne. Why don’t you get into the car where we can all stay dry?”
Clare ducked into the rear seat. Oscar was already there, his nose making smears against the Plexiglas shield that separated cops from criminals. Russ and Bob Mongue climbed back into their places. Mongue slid the partition open, leaving a grated screen they could talk through.
“Lyle and the Burnses both reported us missing,” Russ said, before she could ask what had brought the state police to their door. “I’ve told Bob what happened yesterday.”
“We’ve called in the license number of the truck that towed your vehicle.” Mongue tapped the elaborate radio and computer mount on his dashboard. “We’re waiting to hear back on the owner.”
“You just … drove right past there, without any trouble?” Clare glanced at Russ. Had his concerns about the danger been overblown?
Mongue laughed a little. “Well, I do have chains on the tires. I’m not going to take a nosedive off the road like Russ’s truck did.”
Her husband’s lips tightened.
“I meant, no interference from anyone,” Clare said. She checked her watch. It was almost eight o’clock. “Did you use your siren the whole way?”
“I certainly did. It could have been an officer down. We all remember what happened that other time Russ went walking through icy woods.” He grinned. “Although that was more like officer falling down.”
“I don’t think one broken leg in ten years as chief actually sets a precedent,” Russ said.
“Still, we’re glad you came.” Clare wanted to get the subject away from “officer down,” before they started showing each other their bullet scars. “I’d expect a trooper, not a lieutenant.”
“Oh, Mrs. Van Alstyne. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
Russ opened his mouth, but at that moment the radio crackled to life. “State delta oh-four-nine.” The voice was washed with static.
Mongue unhitched the mic. “This is state delta oh-four-nine. Go ahead.”
“The owner of record is Travis Roy. He has one arrest one conviction possession, one arrest one conviction—” The voice was drowned in a surge of static.
Mongue twisted the dial. “Dispatch? Can you copy that?”
“—possible ten-fifty.”
Russ and Mongue both sat up straight. Russ gestured to Mongue. The lieutenant keyed the mic again. “Dispatch, ten-twenty-one.”
“Travis Roy is BOLO from the Millers Kill Police Department in connection to a possible juvenile ten-fifty.”
Russ sucked in his breath.
“What’s a ten-fifty?” Clare asked.
The grating cast a shadow over Russ’s face. “Missing person,” he said.
2.
“Dep?” Noble Entwhistle peered around the door, waving a sheaf of papers in his hand. Lyle was spending the morning working the phones in the chief’s office, split between worry over Russ and annoyance that the man had gone on his benighted honeymoon in the first place. Lyle knew what honeymoons were supposed to be for, and as far as he was concerned, you could do it at home in the comfort of your own bed. But no, Russ had wanted ice fishing, and as a result they were shorthanded during what was bidding fair to be the ice storm of the goddamn century.
He beckoned Noble in, still talking into the receiver. “Then turn your search and rescue guys out. If they can find idiot hikers in the mountains, they should be able to throw up a few barricades and help direct traffic.” John Huggins had called him up complaining about not having enough emergency roadway volunteers. Lyle, who already had a bad taste in his mouth after having to go hat in hand to the state police for help in finding Russ, wasn’t inclined to baby the fire chief.
“I can’t ask those guys to—”
Lyle cut him off. “I don’t care if you ask the Girl Scouts to do the job. We’re getting calls about fallen tree limbs and downed lines and all the National Grid guys can tell me is we’re on their list and they’re responding to reports in order of importance. So you get someone out there before somebody drives over a goddamn live wire and fries himself!” He slammed the phone down. He’d pay for it later, but it sure made him feel better right now.
“I got the circ sheet info for Travis Roy.” He frowned at the stack of papers in his hand. “There’s more than one.
“There usually is.” Lyle took the papers and began thumbing through them.
“Dep?”
“Yeah?” Lyle pulled out one of the circ sheets as a possible.
“You know you asked me to run a check on the MacAllens? Just in case?”
“Yeah.” Here was a good one, he thought, glancing over the sheet in hand. Guy had been arrested for soliciting for prostitution—pimping. Maybe he had branched out into little girls.
“There was something kind of funny.”
Lyle finally focused on Noble. “What?”
“Mr. MacAllen was retired FBI. And, uh, as near as I can tell, they never took in any foster kids before they got sent Mikayla.”
3.
Mongue wanted to head over there right away. “There are two of them,” he said, leaning over the kitchen counter. “There are two of us.”
“Two is the minimum number. There may be more.” Russ stuffed his flannel-lined jeans and a heavy sweater into his fishing duffel. “Plus hostages. If he is the kidnapper, he’s got our missing girl. Plus there’s a chance Amber Willis and her baby are still in the house.”
“All the more reason to hit ’em now.” Mongue crossed to the enclosed porch and peered out to where, on a clear day, they would have seen the morning sun. “Before they get moved to another location.”
Clare looked up from where she was filling her day pack. “Is it possible Roy has the girl? It sounded like the mother had taken her when you told me about it.”
“Yes, it’s possible.” Russ swung his rifle’s magazine cover open and let the cartridges fall into his hand. He locked the safety and slid the gun into the duffel. “But whoever took Mikayla Johnson left two bodies behind. They’re dangerous. Which is why you’re not getting anywhere near them.”
“You could leave her here,” Mongue suggested.
Russ rounded on him. “I’m not leaving my pregnant wife alone in the middle of an ice storm so you can get another commendation letter in your file!”
Mongue’s jaw set. “Fine. Have it your way.” He picked up Clare’s pack. “I’ll carry this up for you, Mrs. Van Alstyne.”
“Please, call me—” But Mongue was already out the door. She turned on Russ.
“I’m not going to just drop this lead,” he said. “But I want to get you somewhere safe first. Then we’ll get proper reinforcements, and
then
we can hit that house and question Travis Roy.”
She shook her head. “What
is
it with you two? Every time I’ve seen you together you’ve been at it like … like he stole your lollipop or something.”
“More like I stole his.” Russ picked up his duffel. “When Chief Gardiner retired from the MKPD, Bob was one of the applicants to replace him. He got far enough in the process so that it was down to him or me. The board of aldermen chose me.”
“Ah. That explains a lot.”
“Yeah, well. I thought it was mostly water under the bridge, until this last meeting that I crashed. Turns out Bob’s been the guy presenting the evidence the staties should take over the MKPD.”
Clare nodded. “And you think he’s doing this out of animus toward you?” Her voice was neutral.
“Oh, hell.” He jammed his fingers in his hair. “No. Probably not. It was the aldermen’s idea. He’s just the highest-ranking investigator who’s done a lot of work with us.” He frowned down at her. “But he definitely took this job because he wanted to lord it over me. ‘Bob Mongue has to rescue Russ Van Alstyne after he drives his truck off the road.’”
“Really?” She slapped her leg and Oscar leaped off the floor. “Because I was thinking the road conditions must be so bad after twenty-four hours of icing that the state police are forced to use investigators to do the jobs their patrol officers would normally handle.” She opened the door and Oscar shot out. “Coming?”
Russ followed her. Damn woman. She wouldn’t even allow him the pleasure of his irrational irritations.
Mongue had set his parka and Clare’s day pack in the passenger seat. Fine. If he wanted to be petty, Russ wasn’t going to argue. He piled his duffel bag and a grocery sack of perishables on the seat and slid into the back. Unfortunately, instead of his wife, he found Oscar, ears pricked and tail thumping. Clare got in on the other side, leaving the dog between them. She shot Russ a glance. “Thank you again for coming to our rescue, Lieutenant Mongue. Is it as bad out there as I imagine?”
“Depends on how good your imagination is, ma’am. We’re up to our neck in accidents, but the real trouble is the electrical grid.” Mongue put the cruiser into first and began a slow, churning drive through the unplowed stretch of their access lane. “Phone lines and power lines are coming down all over the place. I heard there was a cell tower up by Lake George that went down under the weight of ice alone.” Beneath them, the chains thunked and clanked against the tires.
Clare looked at Russ. “Is that even possible?”
He nodded. “If there’s enough area. It’s the cumulative weight. You take one twig and coat it with ice, it’s not much. You take a thousand twigs, and the weight can split a tree right in two.”
The cruiser crested the lane at a steady pace and was on the North Shore Drive. The road was only visible as a flat, pale stretch through a thick forest of oak and hemlock, birch and white pine. The unbroken, ice-smooth surface was littered with twigs and branches. Russ leaned forward. “Are you going to have a problem getting a team together? For moving in on Travis Roy?”
“Hell, yeah, I’m going to have a problem. We’ve got plainclothes behind the wheel because so many of our officers are dealing with accidents. We’re diverting more men to help evacuate people to shelters because of the power outages. We’ll be lucky if we can find a crossing guard and one of those old guys who does the cold cases to back us up.”
“If you’ll waive the jurisdiction, I can get a couple of my—shit, Bob, look out!” There was an impossibly loud crack. At the same moment, a massive tree fell directly into the path of their car. Russ twisted and flung his arms around Clare, getting a face full of dog fur. The car slid as Bob made a futile effort to stop them from colliding with the enormous trunk. Russ heard the wrench-pop of the parking brake, and then the cruiser crumpled into the tree, its front end wedging itself into the pine and wood. Metal shrieked and the engine ground to a stop. They slammed forward convulsively. The air bag exploded with an acrid-tasting bang. Clare cried out, the dog yelped, and from the front, Bob was swearing in a voice shaking with pain and adrenaline. “God damn fucking
shit
that hurts!”
Russ’s face was inches from Clare’s. “You okay?”
She was pale and wide-eyed, but she nodded. “He needs help.”
Bob was alternating between panting breaths and loud cursing. Russ unbuckled and tried to open the back door, but something had jammed in the crash. He swiveled sideways and, bracing himself between the front and rear seats, kicked the door until it creaked open. He slid out, Oscar and Clare fast on his heels.
“Oh my God, Russ.” Clare was staring at the tree. It was an ancient white pine, the trunk at least three feet in diameter. Its jagged stump stood twenty feet from the road, and its full, bushy crown was another thirty feet toward the lake. The monster had smashed another, smaller pine into splinters beneath it and had lopped off a quarter of a maple as it fell. “If we had gone a couple of feet farther…”
Clare, trapped in the car as that monster relentlessly fell … Russ’s gorge rose.
Bob’s continued railing snapped him out of his sick horror. He waded around the car, breaking the thick crust of ice where the tires hadn’t already done the job. He hauled the driver’s door open. He could see what had happened. Bob had stood on the brakes in his hopeless effort to avoid the tree. He hadn’t gotten his foot out in time.
Clare peered around his shoulder. “Can we slide him out?”
“Bob, I’m going to get down there and take a look,” Russ said. “Try not to move.”
“Move?” Bob gritted his teeth. “It feels like my goddamn leg’s been cut off.”
The metal had pinched down, snapping his leg. “It’s broken, all right. I can’t tell if it’s a compound fracture.” Russ backed out of the well. “We’ll get you out of there and splint you up tight.”
“How the hell are you going to get me out? You got a Jaws of Life in that bag of yours?”
“The jack.” Clare was using her pilot’s voice, calm, assured, in control.
“The jack won’t lift that tree,” Russ said.
“It doesn’t have to. All it has to do is force an inch of space up into the engine block.”
“Yeah. Okay. Let’s do it.”
It took them twenty minutes, alternating on either side of Bob’s swollen leg, Russ stretched out across the passenger seat, ratcheting against the metal, then Clare kneeling in the door, throwing all her weight behind the jack’s lever. Bob let out a moan when they finally released the pressure against his shin. Clare tipped the seat back as far as it could go, and together they hauled Bob out of the wrecked interior. Russ tried to keep him as steady as possible, but even the slightest jolt caused the other cop to gasp with pain.
They laid him on the broken snow next to the cruiser and bent to get a closer look at the damage. Russ sucked in a breath. “Jesus, that looks bad.” He glanced at his wife. “Sorry.”
“There are ACE bandages back at the cabin,” she said. “And I was thinking—one of the chairs has skinny slats in the back. If you could break it apart—”