Authors: Julia Spencer-Fleming
Tags: #RETAIL
“Oh, that is utterly not fair!”
“Fair or not, darlin’, it’s the truth. I’ll see you soon.”
She kissed him, hard. “Be careful.”
“Always.” He loaded the shells and checked the safety, cradled the gun in his arm, and set off up the hill. The road ahead was trackless but not bad underfoot; enough snow had fallen to compact beneath his boots. He thought about approaching through the woods crowding in on either side but figured the benefit of hiding his path was outweighed by the cost in time of working his way through the forest.
The road curved and he left the truck behind. His biggest fear wasn’t running into DeJean or Roy—he knew he could take care of himself—but that some other meth brewer might come along behind Clare and Bob. It wouldn’t be hard for a large-scale vehicle like an SUV or pickup to block their escape route.
He walked on, alert and straining for something out of the ordinary, but except for the foul odor, there was nothing to trigger his alarm. He didn’t see any signs of life; not that he’d expect to with trees all around and the air thick with snow. He didn’t hear anything except flakes settling on pine and hemlock needles, a sound that was almost, but not quite, silence.
He had been walking steadily uphill the whole time, so when he reached the next curve and discovered it was a summit, he wasn’t surprised. Beneath him, the road dropped steeply down to a single-lane bridge that crossed a frozen stream before rising up through open pasturage to the top of the next hill. Russ stopped. There was no way any vehicle could have made it down that stretch and threaded the bridge during the ice storm. He had been wrong. DeJean and Roy must have gone some other way. He turned to head back to Clare, and that was when he saw DeJean’s SUV, covered in snow and wedged in between hemlocks that had screened it from his view.
The vehicle was back a good two car lengths from the road, and Russ could see what looked at first glance to be a natural gap in the trees was actually cleared space. Which made sense, given the dangerous slope of the road. It made sense—if there was a house close enough to walk to.
Russ walked into the trees and and brushed the snow off the rear window. There was nothing inside except the bags of sand and the compact shovel he had shared the space with yesterday. He went back to the road. Had they walked down the hill? Or was there a path through the woods to the farmhouse Russ was now sure sat in one of the fields below?
He opted for the road. He descended slowly, occasionally skidding, once slipping and hitting ass-first. When he was three-quarters of the way down, he took to the verge. The going, through deep snow crusted with patchy ice, was much slower, but he wanted to be in a position to see what was past the woods without anyone spotting him first.
He got closer and closer to the bridge. The snow was letting up, giving him better visibility. Across the road to his right, he could see more and more open land, blanketed in white and bounded with a sagging wire fence made beautiful by ice. He stopped near the edge of the stream. Through a thin screen of trees, he could make out a dilapidated farmhouse, shutters dangling off the hinges, painted clapboards scoured away to raw gray wood. It was square in the middle of its sloping field, a good quarter mile past the woods where Russ stood. A long drive that showed signs of having been plowed within the past few days ran down to the road. Russ couldn’t hear any generators, but there was smoke coming from the house’s two chimneys.
Behind the farmhouse, barely visible from this angle, was a large barn. It looked to be in better repair, with fresh white paint and a solid black door. The wind had changed and the odor of cooking meth was fainter.
He was going to have to get closer. He started working his way through the trees, keeping back far enough so that he would be invisible to any watchers in the house. He churned and floundered through the snow until the lightbulb went on and he realized the stream bed was deep enough to hide him if he crouched while walking. He made his way back to the edge of the trees, dropping to his belly and combat-crawling the last ten feet. He slid over the bank and landed with a thud on the ice. Not even a creak or crack—the stream was probably so shallow it was frozen right down to the ground. He brushed himself off and realized it had stopped snowing.
His goal was to get at a right angle to the buildings so he could see what approach was like from front, side, and rear. Getting across the open ground to the house was going to be a bear of a job. No cover and—he looked up at the sky, which was finally clearing after four days—a good chance of a moonlit night.
He had gone a few yards upstream when he caught a flash of movement in the woods above him.
Shit.
Russ flattened himself against the bank, twisting so he could see upward. He raised the shotgun into ready position, barrel against the side of his face, stock tight against his chest. He heard a scrabbling sound and thought for a second
fox
, but then a branch snapped under the weight of something much heavier than a fox. His heart kicked into high gear. He tried to steady his breathing. There was a high sharp keening noise and then something dropped on top of him and he swung the shotgun out to shoot and was nearly knocked down by Oscar, yipping, dancing, jumping up in excitement. The relief almost knocked Russ down.
“Shh. Shh, boy. Good boy. Get down.” He stripped off his gloves and knelt on the ice. He ran his hands over the dog, checking for injuries, while Oscar tried to climb over him, licking his fingers and face. He yipped again when Russ passed a hand over his flank, and pulling the dog around, Russ could see a streak of rusty red.
“Where have you been, big guy?” Russ gave Oscar’s head a fierce scratching, and the dog sighed and leaned whole-body against him. “Did you find a barn to hide in? Hmm? Clare’s gonna be mighty glad to see you.”
When he straightened to continue up the stream, Oscar fell in beside him. Russ feared the dog might draw unwelcome attention by barking, but Oscar seemed content to walk close by, occasionally butting himself against Russ’s leg.
They were getting close enough to the house for Russ to start scanning the bank for a likely place to climb up and enter the woods. He got a different idea when he saw an eastern pine that had split and was half-hanging over the stream. He snapped a needle-heavy branch off the tree, packed some snow atop it, and strapped it over his knit hat with his belt—the cold-weather version of the branches-in-helmet camo he had used in Vietnam. Sticking close to the tree’s brushy foliage, he pressed himself against the bank closest to the field and rose until he could see over the edge.
At his feet, Oscar whined fretfully. The back door to the house opened, and a man emerged. Even bundled against the cold, Russ could see he wasn’t DeJean or Roy. The ease with which he crossed the backyard indicated a shoveled path to the barn. Instead of going to the tractor-sized entrance, he veered toward a narrow door on the left edge of the barn. He pressed against a buzzer. A moment later, the door opened from inside and he entered.
No sign of a window. Maybe the door had a peephole. This wasn’t a couple of rednecks brewing up a little crystal for fun and profit. Whoever was running this had put some money and muscle into it. It was going to take more than one middle-aged cop, a pregnant priest, and a statie with a busted leg to liberate Mikayla Johnson.
Russ let himself slide back until his boots were on the ice again. He unlatched his belt and tossed the pine branch onto the snow. “Come on, boy.” He let Oscar lick his fingers again. “Let’s go give Clare the bad news.”
8.
They had their briefing huddled in the lee side of a mom-and-pop store just off County Highway 16 while waiting for a promised plow truck to open South Shore Drive for them. The snow, having dumped a good foot in the past twelve hours, was finally tapering off. Hadley didn’t take it as a sign their weather woes were over. The way this storm had played out, she wouldn’t be surprised if they got hit with a hurricane next.
“Our DEA informant tells us there are two structures on site: a barn, where the meth is processed, and a freestanding house, where the workers stay.” Tom O’Day stripped off a glove to hand around several papers.
“How come Agent—your DEA informant didn’t come with us?” The question had been bugging Hadley. The O’Days were after Tim LaMar for murder. The meth ring was Boileau’s case.
“This isn’t a drug bust. The informant”—O’Day gave her a glare, warning her to watch her mouth—“will remain undercover until the rest of the dealers are ready to be taken down.” He turned toward the others. “First and foremost, we’re looking for Annie Johnson. Secondary to that, her daughter, Mikayla Johnson.”
The Essex County deputy held up a copy of the picture of Annie, Mikayla, and Travis Roy that Hadley and Flynn had taken from the Johnsons. “This is the girl who’s been missing from Millers Kill?”
“That’s right,” Flynn said. “If she’s there, she’s likely to be very sick, possibly nonresponsive.”
“Shouldn’t we have an EMT on board, then?”
Marie O’Day answered the deputy. “We’re lucky to get this group, considering the emergency situation.” She glanced toward the highway, where there was still a conspicuous lack of a plow.
The senior state sharpshooter was looking at the photo. “This her boyfriend?”
“Yes.” Hadley pulled out the next page in the file. “This is a mug shot of Hector DeJean, Mikayla’s father. Like Roy and Johnson, he’s also missing, also presumed to be a suspect.”
Tom O’Day pointed at the photo. “This is a few years old. He’s completely bald now, so keep that in mind.” He held up a hand-drawn map that roughed in house, barn, road, and fields. “According to our source, the place was chosen both for its remoteness and its position. As you can see, it’s in the middle of a cleared acre, giving it a good view in all directions. This area across the road is also cleared.”
“Trees back here?” the second tac guy asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He pulled off his glove. “We can cross where there’s cover. Trooper Burton and I can take the rear corners”—he pointed on the map—“which will give us a good line of sight for the back of the barn and the flank of the house.” He traced along the cleared area running between the buildings and the trees. “That leaves five of you to enter the house.”
Hadley stamped her boots to keep her feet warm. “I thought you tac guys did that.”
“When we’ve got the squad, yeah. In a situation like this, with just two of us, we’re more effective providing suppressing fire.”
“Cover,” Flynn translated in a whisper.
“We won’t need everyone to approach,” Tom said. “Agent O’Day and I will enter the house.”
“What?” Flynn straightened. “That’s crazy. We had a hostage situation a couple years back with two perps in an old farmhouse. We went in with four officers and it still wasn’t enough to keep our chief from getting shot.”
“Well, of course.” Marie O’Day gave him a knowing look. “You’re not trained FBI agents, are you?”
“Ma’am, I
am
trained for hostage situations, and I agree with the officer.” The senior tac man handed the briefing sheets back to Tom O’Day. “There’s no telling how many people might be in there and how hostile they are. If they’re using meth as well as cooking it, you could be facing some extremely aggressive bad guys, not to mention chemical hazards.”
“We appreciate your professional judgment,” Tom O’Day said. “But our goal is to retrieve Annie Johnson and, hopefully, her child, without appearing as if we know about the meth production going on in the barn. We’ll be very happy if the meth cookers remain completely undisturbed.”
“Uh … I don’t think my captain will be very happy with that,” the deputy said.
“Do you honestly think you can waltz up to the front door and ask for Annie Johnson as if you were sorting out some custody dispute?” Hadley shook her head. “Whoever has her is on the hook for felony arson and a double homicide! Do you think they won’t realize that?”
“I think you need to leave the strategy to us.” Marie O’Day’s tone left no room for argument.
A rumble and clank announced the arrival of the snowplow. It stopped on the road next to their collection of squad cars and trucks. The driver pushed open his door and leaned out. “You the folks needed to get up this road?”
“That’s us.” The Essex County deputy shouted to be heard over the plow’s heavy engine.
“Who the hell you goin’ after up there? Osama bin Laden?”
“Just plow the road,” Tom O’Day yelled. He and Marie headed for their anonymous black SUV. Flynn jogged over and said something to the driver, who waved in agreement before shifting into gear and lurching forward. His huge steel plow lowered, and the snow and ice that had rendered the road impassable began to roll like water off a tanker’s bow, piling up at the side of the road in a frozen tidal wave.
Hadley paused, one hand on the Aztek’s door, waiting for Flynn. “What did you say to him?”
“Asked him to keep going around the lake to where the chief’s cabin is.” Flynn swung into his seat.
She climbed in and buckled up. “What do you think of the Feds’ plan?”
“I think it’s balls.” He started the engine and looked at her, frowning. “And I think we’re going to have to be ready to move in right after them, because I think this whole thing is set to go south.”
9.
“I think I should go after him.” Tented beneath her parka, Clare tucked her hands inside her sweater to stay warm. They had decided to conserve gas by turning the truck’s engine off. She would turn it on again when it got cold enough to see her breath.
“He didn’t say I
couldn’t
shoot you in the leg,” Bob said.
“It’s ridiculous. He’s been gone way too long.”
“We haven’t heard any alarm shots.”
“What if he wasn’t able to fire? What if they got the jump on him?”
Bob laughed. “Got the jump on him?”
“You know what I mean.” She slammed her boots against the floorboard and growled out her frustration. “God! I hate this waiting.”
“You’re a cop’s wife now, Clare. Waiting is what you do.”