Deadly Stillwater (39 page)

“What do you have?” Mac asked, hustling up to him.

“Sawdust,” the deputy replied. “It’s just kind of spread here in the dirt, and it’s spread around here.” The deputy saw the look on Mac’s face. “Is this important?”

“Yes,” Lich replied as he walked up. “Mac, did you see the new shovels and sawhorses over along the wall there?”

“Yes,” Mac answered as he jogged out the back door of the pole barn, his hand over his eyes as he scanned the property.

Sheriff Head walked up to them. “House is clear. I assume you noted the chairs and table in the kitchen.”

Mac nodded, but kept the search on. “How big is this piece of property again?”

“Eighty acres,” Head replied, following Mac as he started to walk back toward the driveway. “It runs out the back, east to the property line for the state park. What are you looking at?”

Mac walked quickly past the sheriff’s Suburbans and his Explorer to where a jagged road ran back toward the state park. Mac kneeled down where the road ventured into taller grass. There appeared to be fresh or at least recent tire tracks. “I think someone’s driven through here recently.”

He stood up and looked up at a thick forest in the distance, perhaps a half mile or a little more away. The road – practically a trail through the taller grass – meandered like a stream in the direction of the trees. Mac closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and thought back to the kidnappers’ video, the view out the windshield that showed high grass, weeds, and a rough road up to a heavily wooded area. Then later they’re in the woods, thick woods, burying the girls.

He opened his eyes, looking again into the distance. The land looked right. As Mac looked around, he couldn’t see another house or building anywhere in the distance. He knew O’Brien State Park. The area that was frequented by the general public was along the St. Croix River, not on the land backing up to the farm.

“Sheriff, how far to the state park line?”

“Like I said, it’s an eighty-acre plot,” Head replied, pointing straight out. “It goes back, I don’t know maybe another quarter of a mile, maybe a little more to the property line.”

“Is there a fence or boundary for the state park?”

“No,” Head replied, shaking his head. “There are some green posts every so often that mark it, but there isn’t a fence or anything.”

Mac turned to the sheriff. “There are a bunch of new shovels in the pole barn. Grab them!” he yelped back over his shoulder, running to the Explorer.

“Mac!” Lich yelled, running behind him. “Where are you going?’

“You drive,” Mac ordered, handing the keys to Lich. “Follow the trail.”

“You think the girls are out there?”

“No,” he answered. “I know it.”

* * * * *

As the van took I-35E south into downtown St. Paul, an FBI tech taped body mics to the chests of the chief and Lyman. “Just speak normally,” Burton said. “These are very sensitive microphones. They’ll pick up any conversation you have, even if you whisper.”

Lyman and the chief both nodded, tucking their shirts back into their pants.

“Downtown’s pretty quiet today. Won’t be anyone around,” the chief said. “It’ll be hard for you to be close.”

“We’ve got you wired, and we’ve got the tracker in the bags,” Duffy said.

“We won’t be far, and your boys will be around and they know the streets,” Burton said calmly. “Just concentrate on getting your girls back, and we’ll worry about the rest.”

The chief sat down next to Peters and asked in a whisper, “What do you think?”

“Watch your back,” Peters replied quietly.

“Two blocks,” the driver yelled.

Burton and Duffy each handed bags to the chief and Lyman.

* * * * *

Foxx pulled up to the curb just short of the corner of Main Street and West Fifth Street. She was parked a block back from Riley and Rockford, who’d taken a left on West Fifth Street and parked their white Chevy S-10 along the side, just short of the end of the street. The reporter could see Rockford, who had a set of binoculars put up to his eyes.

“What are they watching?” the cameraman asked, filming across Heather from the passenger side.

“Well find out soon enough,” Heather answered.

* * * * *

The truck pulled up to the corner, and the chief and Lyman jumped out. Without a word, Burton slid the door closed. The truck pulled away down Washington Street and turned right on Kellogg Boulevard, heading out of sight.

Lyman and the chief walked up onto the corner. The chief scanned Rice Park, a park shaded by mature trees. The park took up the entire block, with benches lining walkways running diagonally from the outside of the block to the large marble fountain in the middle. The park was empty.

“What next?” Lyman asked.

Just then a ringing sound came from the garbage can sitting on the corner.

“That,” Flanagan answered as he looked down and then reached into the can, pulling out a duffel bag. A cell phone with a traditional telephone ring tone was inside. The chief answered.

“Flanagan.”

* * * * *

Paddy McRyan stood in the empty St. Paul Grill restaurant, inside the St. Paul Hotel, peering out the large picture window that looked out across market Street and into Rice Park. He watched the chief grab a bag out of the garbage can, pull the cell phone out, and start walking toward the water fountain in the center of the park. “Captain, they’re getting into the fountain, they’re going underwater,” Paddy said as calmly as he could, knowing what would happen to the body mics.

“Copy that,” Peters replied into Paddy’s earpiece. And then, his captain confirmed his worst fears. “We’ve lost audio contact.”

“We need to keep an eyeball,” Paddy said urgently into his radio, moving to his right to improve his viewing angle.

“Copy that,” Peters answered, taking charge. “What are they doing now?”

“They’re out of the fountain.” Paddy put his binoculars to his eyes, focusing the view. “The chief is on a cell phone. Do we have audio back?”

“Negative. We are not getting that feed.”

Paddy watched as Hisle and the chief knelt down to the ground, just out of his view. He couldn’t see what they were doing. After a minute, they slung the nylon bags over their shoulders. “They’re on the move, south, hold on….” The detective moved to his left, to the far edge of the picture window. “The chief and Hisle are walking out of Rice Park, south, back along Washington Street over to Kellogg.”

“Are you sure?” Peters asked. “The tracking devices in the bags show them stationary.”

That explained why they had knelt down. “They transferred the ransom into different bags. They are now out of my line of sight.”

* * * * *

I’m on the west side of the Xcel Center,” Riles said into a radio. “They’ll have to come out onto Kellogg Boulevard, and we have a good viewpoint.”

“Copy that,” Burton replied. “But keep your distance. Hang on… I’m looking at the map….”

“We’ll hold along West Seventh and Kellogg,” Riley responded. “We should have an eyeball if they walk our way.”

“Do that, but hold to the corner,” Burton ordered.

Rock pulled his truck up to the corner of West Seventh and Kellogg, holding in the left hand turn lane, his hazard lights on in case anyone pulled up from behind. Riley was looking east as Kellogg gently curved away like a half-moon. Flanagan and Hisle came into view, walking across the street to the sidewalk on the south side of Kellogg. They turned west, walking toward Riles and Rock. Three hundred yards away, a half-dozen people waited at a bus stop in front of the pedestrian tunnel entrance to the RiverCentre parking ramp, an underground ramp built into the bluff over the Mississippi River. You could enter the ramp with your car from Kellogg Boulevard on top or from Eagle Street, which ran eighty feet below Kellogg at the bottom of the bluff.

“We have them in view. They are walking in our direction.” Riley reported into the radio.

“They’re stopping,” Rock added. “They’re stopping.”

“Be advised the chief and Hisle have approached a group of people waiting at a bus stop at the RiverCentre parking ramp,” Riles said. “Are they going to put them on a bus?” he asked Rock.

“Looks like it,” Rock answered. Just then a bus approached from the south on West Seventh. It had its turn signal to take a right.

“We have a MTC Bus, an articulated bus, approaching our position from West Seventh. It’s turning east on Kellogg.” Riles gave the bus number and read the digital board over the windshield. “Be advised. The digital board on the bus says it is going to the Taste of Minnesota.” The Taste of Minnesota was a large food and music festival taking place on Harriet Island on the south side of the Mississippi River, opposite downtown. The culmination of the Taste was the big Fourth of July fireworks show. There were thousands of people on the island taking in the concerts and food.

“Those buses must be thirty, maybe forty feet long,” Rock said.

“If not longer,” Riles responded and then to Burton he said, “They’re going to run the chief and Lyman through the crowds at the Taste and try to lose us.”

Burton’s voice came over the radio. “We’re flooding the Taste of Minnesota. I want units converging on that location now.”

“That’ll help,” Rock said, relieved.

“About fuckin’ time we got after it,” Riles added.

The bus pulled up to the stop. The chief and Hisle were out of their view now, hidden behind the bus.

“Do I turn?” Rock asked, anxious.

“Hold here,” Riles responded coolly. “We have temporarily lost visual,” he reported. “We are blocked by the bus.” They didn’t have enough assets in the area at the right spots. “If they get on, we’ll follow.”

“Copy that,” Burton answered.

Twenty seconds later, the bus’s brake lights went off and it pulled east down Kellogg boulevard. There was nobody remaining at the bus stop.

“Be advised, Flanagan and Hisle are on the bus,” Riley reported.

Rock turned left and followed.

* * * * *

Lich accelerated along the path, which had started to smooth out. The sheriff and his deputies followed behind them. The tall grass was halfway up the doors on the Explorer at points as the trail snaked its way towards the tree line. A green metal stake appeared to their left, just as the sheriff said.

“That’s the property line for the park,” Mac explained. The trees were getting ever closer.

The tire tracks turned in a slow arc to the left until they ran parallel with the tree-line, now two hundred yards to the right.

“God, I wish I had the laptop with me,” Mac muttered as he closed his eyes again, pulling up the video in his memory bank. He recalled the van turning to run parallel to the tree line and then abruptly turning right, into the high grass, directly to the woods. Opening his eyes, he saw it, fifty feet ahead, a right turn into the high grass. “Turn right.”

“I got it, partner. I remember this from yesterday,” Lich said, slowing the Explorer and turning right to follow the fresh tire tracks. “These aren’t too old Mac. A day or two at the most.”

Mac nodded. The adrenaline was rushing through him now as Lich closed in on the edge of the trees. “Where is it?” Mac said. “Where is it?” He peered at the line of trees, looking for it.

“What? What are you lookin’ for?”

“That!” Mac pointed at a tree with orange tape tied around it. “That orange tie. That was on the video. They’re here. They’re here.” He grabbed a flashlight out of the glove compartment and jumped out of the truck before it had even stopped and ran frantically along the tree line, looking for the next sign. Where had they gone in? Mac worked his way down the edge of the tree line to the right of the orange tape. That felt like the right way. The box was wide. It would have been natural to slide it out of the van and walk straight back. The opening needed to be wider to allow them to operate in the dense trees.

He found it forty feet back from where they were parked, an opening with a jagged path that angled further into the trees. Crouching down, he saw matted-down grass and brush. The trees along the path showed broken branches and scraped bark. The area had been trampled through and recently.

“In here,” Mac said, following the trampled path into the woods, Lich was right behind, with the sheriff and his men trailing with shovels. “We’re looking for a white PVC pipe,” Mac yelled back. “At most, it’ll be sticking up three or four inches out of the ground.”

Mac moved another fifty feet ahead and stopped, wiping the perspiration from his brow. He could feel his hair soaking with sweat and his shirt clinging to his body. There were fresh tracks in the ground straight ahead of him; another set branched to the right off of a larger tree. Lich tracked to the right, while Mac moved straight ahead, deeper into the woods. The mosquitoes hovered in vicious swarms. Within fifteen feet of the split they walked into a clearing, maybe twenty by twenty feet. A thick layer of loose branches and leaves covered the forest floor. Mac panned right to left with his flashlight, and the light bounced off of something unnaturally white beneath a camouflaging layer of twigs and branches.