4 The Marathon Murders (19 page)

As I opened the door to go check on the vehicle, Jill poked
the black umbrella at me. Mine was black, hers red. “You’d better take this if
you don’t want to drown.”

The pesky rain had let up a bit but
still posed a problem. My shirt was damp in spots from getting in and out of
the Jeep. I pulled the
Glock
off my leg and stuck it
under my belt. I could free my gun hand quickly if necessary. With umbrella in
one hand and a small flashlight in the other, I walked up to the Malibu. I kept
my head swiveling back and forth, checking the area for any movement. All
growth had been cleared from around the house, and it was still light enough to
see into the nearby trees.

The Malibu was locked, as expected.
Shining my small point of light through a front window, I spotted a container
on the floor that resembled Warren’s description of Kelli’s disguise case. The
only other things I saw were a water bottle on the front seat and a copy of
The
Christian Science Monitor
in back. She must have bought it before leaving
Nashville.

When I returned to the Jeep, Jill
gave me a questioning look.

“It’s hers,” I said. “No doubt
about it. Even contains a copy of
The Monitor
.”

“Where do you suppose she is?”

“If I had to make an educated
guess, I’d say somewhere around Kirk
Rottman’s
house.
Let’s go take a look.”

I drove on down the street past a
large frame house, a small open field, then more woods, until I saw a mailbox
with
Rottman’s
house number. I switched off the
headlights and continued slowly. The house sat back in the trees, some thirty
yards from the road. Blinds had been drawn in front. Light showed in a large
window on the right, likely the living room.

“There’s a car parked next to the
house,” Jill said in a hushed voice.

I eased on past until a line of
tall bushes hid us from the house. Swinging onto the shoulder, which I hoped
was solid enough to give the traction we’d need for a quick
getaway,
I pulled on the handbrake and switched off the ignition. As we sat there,
something clicked in my brain.

“Didn’t you jot down
Rottman’s
phone number as well as his address?”

Jill handed me a slip of paper. I
took out my penlight and held it so that only a speck of light shined on the
paper between my knees. I flipped open the cell phone and checked the incoming
call that purported to be a wrong number.

“That bastard has Kelli’s phone,” I
said with a growl.

Jill gasped. “Why would you say
that?”

“The wrong number I got a while ago?
The caller was from Hartsville. It came from Kirk
Rottman’s
phone. Okay, maybe he accidentally hit my number in the six-one-five area code.
But Warren got the same call. Where would you find both our numbers?
In Kelli’s cell phone contact list.”

Jill stared at me. I could barely
see her eyes in the darkness. Her voice carried a new urgent tone. “What can we
do?”

“I’ve got to know if Kelli’s in
there.”

“And how do you propose to find
out?”

“I’ll have to work my way up close
enough to see through a window, or find a way inside.”

She clutched my arm. “If Kirk
Rottman
killed those three people, he’s a dangerous maniac.
You’d better wait here for Agent Fought, Greg.”

I’d thought of that, but it seemed
too big a risk.

“Dangerous, yes.
But not a total maniac.
I think he knows exactly what
he’s doing. It sounds like he’s trying to get information out of Kelli. If he
doesn’t get it, then he could go berserk and treat her the same way he did
Mickey Evans. It could be too late already. I can’t wait around and take a
chance.”

I had shifted the
Glock
to a more comfortable position when I got in the car.
I moved it back to the ready.

“What should I do?” Jill asked,
almost frantic.

“Call Fought and the sheriff. Tell
them what we learned and what’s happening. Get your gun in your hand and sit
tight. If anybody comes out and it isn’t me, shoot first and ask questions
later.”

“What if you need help?”

“It shouldn’t take them long to get
here. Keep your eyes and ears open and let them know the situation as soon as
they arrive.” I leaned over and kissed her. “We’ll be okay, babe. Keep the
faith.”

She squeezed my arm until I thought
her fingers would leave holes.

“Be careful, Greg. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I whispered.

I slipped out the door and eased it
shut. By now the rain had dwindled to a drizzle, which wasn’t the most
comfortable environment, but one I could live with. I was happy I had decided
on my typical dark colored shirt this morning, with navy pants. I didn’t worry
about being seen as I skirted around the trees toward the house. I navigated
through soft, squishy soil, doing my best to avoid mud holes.

Approaching the house from the end
opposite the living room, I found two windows, likely bedrooms. The structure
featured brick up to the window level, wood the rest of the way. A pale glow
showed through the window of the back room. The blinds fit snug, however,
leaving no chance of seeing around the edges. I put my ear close and listened.
I detected no sound.

Easing around to the rear of the
house, I saw another window. It must have been in the same room. Since the lot
sloped to the rear, I searched about, found an old concrete block and boosted
myself even with the opening. This blind had not been let down all the way. A
small space beneath it allowed me to view a narrow slice of the interior. I
identified what I saw as the surface of a bed covered by a tan spread.

My elation at this break quickly
disappeared as my gaze moved to the right. A pair of bare female legs stretched
across the bedspread. The feet were tied to what I could see of two bedposts. I
had observed the same bright red toenails in Kelli’s sandals on Blair Boulevard
last Wednesday. Then I saw the gleaming blade of a long knife. My heartbeat
went into overdrive as it dropped onto the bed between Kelli’s legs. I took
that as a threat of something soon to come.
Too soon.

I stepped off my block perch and
ran toward wooden steps at the other end of the house. They led up to a small
deck. It provided access to a kitchen door. Light flowed from a window I reasoned
would be above the sink. As I took the steps at a run, I noticed an overstuffed
garbage can with the lid ajar. A pizza box lay half-exposed. I checked and
found it relatively dry. That meant it had been discarded recently. Did it also
mean the door had been left unlocked?

I moved around a rusted barbeque
grill and eased up to the door, which contained a window in the upper half.

By now I had virtually shut out the
misty weather from consideration. The adrenaline flowed like a surging tide. I
felt the tension of a race against time. Scant knowledge of the man I would
soon encounter kited up the situation. The only certainty was his capability
for extreme violence. I couldn’t block out that image of Kelli’s bare legs tied
to the bed. Add to that the more gruesome picture of Mickey Evans on her living
room floor. As my anger grew, I fought to keep myself calm. This was no time to
get irrational.

A sheer curtain covered the window,
allowing a full, though somewhat fuzzy, view of the kitchen. It included the
usual appliances, along with a round wood table and four chairs. I saw a
glass-covered light fixture mounted above the table. A doorway toward the front
probably opened into the living room. Glancing around, I saw no one. I grasped
the doorknob, gave it a gentle twist.

The knob turned.

There was also a deadbolt. Could
rattling the door make enough noise to alert Kirk
Rottman
?
This was no time for debate. I pulled on the knob.

The door came open.

Crossing the room quickly, I passed
near the range. In my rush, I failed to notice a pan with a long handle that
stuck out from the stovetop. My hip brushed against it. As I looked around, the
pan toppled off the stove.

I grabbed at the handle but hit it
instead. As I watched in what seemed like slow motion, the pan careened toward
the floor.

The clatter made enough noise to
wake a corpse.

I knew I’d lost the element of
surprise, but I hesitated only for a moment. Maybe I could still catch him off
guard. Throwing caution aside, I ran through the doorway into the living room
like a rookie cop on his first crime-in-progress call.

A gunshot inside a small house
makes a hell of a racket. And when the sound is accompanied by a stinging
sensation in your arm, you know you’re in big trouble.
Especially
if it’s your right arm, and you’re a right-handed shooter.

My
Glock
fell to the floor as I looked down at the blood and grabbed my arm.

Fortunately, I hadn’t squared my body into a two-handed
stance, or I’d have taken a bullet in the chest. It appeared to be only a flesh
wound to my upper arm. I flexed my hand. The fingers still worked okay. But I
now stood defenseless as the young man I recognized from Friday night stood in
the doorway to a hall. He aimed what appeared to be a .38 revolver directly at
me. I took a deep breath to calm the thumping in my chest.

“You must be Kirk
Rottman
,” I said, hoping I sounded calmer to him than I did
to myself.

I eased toward the back of a nearby
chair. My
Glock
had landed beside it.

“Stay where you are, Mr. McKenzie.
I recognize you, too. My mother told me about you.”

I tried to muster a smile. “I went
by to see her yesterday afternoon, Kirk. Do you know what she wanted?”

“Man, I got no earthly idea.”

He wasn’t a trained shooter. He
held the gun in one hand, his finger on the trigger. At this range, I figured
he got me with a lucky shot. I wondered if Casey Olson had been the victim of
worse luck. More likely he was shot close-up as he turned to flee. I decided my
best defense was to keep
Rottman
talking. It would
also take my mind off the pain in my arm.

“Camilla wanted me to take on a
private investigation for her. She wanted me to snoop around and find out who
your dad has been sleeping with.”

He broke out laughing.
“Son of a bitch.
That sounds like her. Hell, he wouldn’t
know what to do—”

While his attention was distracted,
I dived behind the chair, reaching out to grab my pistol.

He fired two quick shots, one
burying itself in the lower part of the large upholstered chair, the other hitting
the floor at least a foot to one side.

I gripped the
Glock
,
flexing my trigger finger. The arm hurt, but I had apparently suffered no
ligament or muscle damage.

With as fast a move as I could
manage, I stuck my head and arms out almost at floor level and fired where I
knew he should have been. I heard the sound of something falling. As I raised
my head just above the chair, a wild burst of laughter came from the hallway.

“Damn! You almost got me that time.
Why don’t you come on back in the bedroom? I have your friend in there. If you
don’t get rid of that gun, I’m
gonna
do something
gross to her.”

Rottman’s
footsteps hurried up the hallway, and I wondered where the hell Fought and
Sheriff Driscoll were. Help should have been here by now.

I pulled out my handkerchief and
tied it around my bleeding arm. Walking cautiously, I held my gun out, arcing
left and right, and approached the doorway. I made a quick move through the
opening, ready to fire. The hall was vacant. As I edged toward the door to the back
bedroom, I kept the gun in front of me. I strained to catch a glimpse inside
the room.

The head of the bed suddenly came
into view. Kirk
Rottman
stood with the long knife I
had seen through the window. He leaned over Kelli’s body, holding the blade
against her chest just below the sternum. Even if I succeeded in killing him
with a single shot, which was unlikely, he could fall and plunge the knife into
her heart.

“Throw your gun on the bed,” he
said in a voice as icy as a glacier.
“Unless you want to see
this woman’s guts all over the place.”

I didn’t see any alternative. As I
tossed the
Glock
onto the bed, I thought of Jill out
in the car. She must have heard the shots. Would she follow my advice and stay
put, or would she be as hardheaded as me and wander into harm’s way?

I turned my attention back to
Kelli. She had been stripped to bra and panties. Her skin appeared white where
it had been hidden from the sun. I’m sure her assignment hadn’t given her the
time to lounge around the pool like Camilla. Her face showed several bruises.
She still wore the red hair we had heard about. A strip of duct tape covered
her mouth. The bed was a four-poster. Strips of duct tape secured her arms to
the head posts. Her brow furrowed as she looked across at me. What I saw
appeared more loathing than fear. She was one tough lady.

“What do you want from us?” I
asked.

Glancing around the room, I saw a
small chest next to the bed. A dresser with a large mirror stood against the
adjacent wall. In front of it sat a small three-legged stool.

“I want to know what the cops know
about me, what you people
have
told them about those
papers. Mostly, I want to know where the hell the papers are.”

I considered whether to send him
out in the open where Jill could train her .38 on him. It seemed a better idea
than leaving him here to do whatever he had in mind.

“That’s easy,” I said. “The papers
are in my car out on the street.”

I saw his fist grip the knife, his
knuckles turning white. “Don’t shit me, man.”

“I have them in my car. Pierce Bradley’s
sister, Patricia Cook, found them in his pilot’s case that he left at her house
last Monday afternoon. Put that knife down and untie Miss Kane, I’ll show you
where the papers are.”

It had already been more than
twenty minutes. If Fought and Driscoll hadn’t arrived by the time we got to the
car, I’d drop to the ground and let Jill take care of
Rottman
.
She had spent a lot of time on the range and become a proficient marksman.

The young man twisted his face in
an evil grin. “You aren’t going anywhere, mister. I’ve already killed three
people. Two more won’t make that much difference. In fact, killing can be fun
once you get into it. You’re a military man. You ought to know that.”

“Son, killing is never fun,
especially in the military.”

Without moving the knife, he
reached over and picked up my
Glock
. “Get up against
the wall and put your hands behind your back. After I get you
trussed
up, I’ll check out your car.”

I faced the wall and held my hands
back as instructed. Now I really began to worry about Jill. The window would be
up in the car. Would she let it down so she could get a clear shot? Would he
see her first and try to kill her?

I heard him rummaging around behind
me. I turned my head enough to catch a glimpse of him in the dresser’s mirror.
He had laid down the gun and picked up a roll of duct tape.

“Don’t get any ideas, old man,” he
said, moving closer.

I held my hands apart. I felt him
begin to stick tape on my right hand and pull it toward the left. If I intended
to do anything, it had to be now. I was no match for him physically, but at the
moment he was unarmed. And I had the advantage of surprise.

Spinning, I swung my right leg
around. I got my foot behind his ankle and pulled forward. At the same time, I
pushed off against the wall with my left hand, leaning into him.

He toppled over backward, me right
on top of him. I jabbed an elbow into his stomach. A loud grunt sounded as the
breath came out of him. While he was momentarily stunned, I rolled over and
began to kick his body with all my strength. After a few good blows, I jumped
up and started for the
Glock
, which lay on the
dresser.

Before I could make it, he reached
out a hand and grabbed my foot, tripping me. I came down on my left side,
stretched out like a ballplayer sliding home headfirst. I felt more anger than
shock. Finding myself next to the three-legged stool, I grabbed one leg with my
good arm, swung it forward and threw the stool at him. I heard a solid thud as
it struck his head. He groaned and rolled to the side, letting go of my foot.

Scrambling onto my knees, I grabbed
the gun.

“I was trained to shoot to kill,” I
warned him. “And I have eight rounds to do the job. Roll over on your stomach
and stretch your hands out above your head.”

He took me at my word, turning onto
his stomach, hands outstretched. I wished I had brought a pair of handcuffs.
The duct tape would have to suffice. Not wanting him to pull my trick in
reverse, I straddled his body and rested my substantial weight on his legs as I
applied the tape. In my anger, I wasn’t too gentle.

“Did you rape her?” I demanded.

“No, no, man. I just pulled off her
clothes to embarrass her. I thought it would make her easier to deal with.”

I shoved my hand against the back
of his head. “Stay right there. Don’t move. I’m not taking my eye off you.”

I edged over beside the bed,
reached down and peeled the tape off Kelli’s mouth. “Are you okay?” I asked.

She twitched her lips and spoke in
a weary voice. “Yeah, I think so. Get me out of this.”

I used
Rottman’s
knife to cut the ropes and the duct tape, freeing her arms and legs. She
stretched them carefully, then swung her legs off the bed and sat up.

“Do you know what he did with your
clothes?” I asked.

“They should be in the front
bedroom. That’s apparently where the bastard took them off. Where’s his gun?
I’d like to shoot him right now.”

With the determination in her
voice, I had little doubt she would gladly do it.

I gave her a sympathetic shake of
my head.
“Can’t blame you, Kelli.
I wouldn’t mind
having a piece of him as well. But I don’t believe that would be too good an
idea. Go in there and get your clothes on. Sheriff Driscoll and the TBI are on
the way. They should be here any minute.”

I went back to stand behind
Rottman
.

“What do you plan to do with me?”
he asked. His voice was now filled with anxiety.

“I’m turning you over to the cops.
What they do is up to them.”

Kelli had gone into the other
bedroom. “The police are here,” she called out. “We’d better signal them
everything’s okay. They may come in shooting at shadows.”

In the heat of battle, I had
forgotten my cell phone, which was stuck in the small scabbard on my belt.
Surprisingly, it hadn’t fallen out. I had turned it off before approaching the
house, not wanting a ring to spoil my surprise. I punched in Jill’s number.

“Greg, are you all right?” she
asked, an anxious note in her voice.

“Kelli and I are fine. Tell the
Sheriff,
or whoever’s out there, to come on in. All’s
clear.”

“Agent Fought is standing beside
the car. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Sure. Put him on.”

I heard her say something, then
Fought’s
voice.

“What the hell’s going on in there,
McKenzie?”

“We have your murderer, but I don’t
have any handcuffs. Better get on in here.”

There was disbelief in his voice.
“Who’ve you got?”

“Kirk
Rottman
,
Casey Olson’s superior at the
Samran
plant. I don’t
think he realized what he was doing, but he confessed to three murders in the
presence of two witnesses.”