Paying The Piper (29 page)

“What do we do?” Scott asked.

“By the book? Wait for backup and pin Alex in.”

“We can’t. You corner this guy, and you take his choices away. He’ll go down and take Sammy and Peter with him. We have to go in now, while he still thinks he has an out.”

Sheils pursed his lips and exhaled. “I know.” He peered at the open windows and rooftops for Alex. “He’ll pick us off.”

“I don’t think so. He can’t shoot us and juggle Sammy and Peter. He knows he doesn’t have time. He’ll go for the boys.”

“So we’re going in?”

“Loud and proud. He knows we’re coming. Let’s tell him we’ve arrived.”

Sheils called Brannon on his cell. “Alex is at the mine. We’re going to make contact. Get here as quick as you can.”

Sheils eased the sedan forward. No bullets perforated
the windshield, but Alex failed to identify himself. Sheils rolled up on the rear of Alex’s sedan and stopped. Nothing happened. No shots. No hailed warnings. Nothing.

Scott leaned across Sheils and thumped the horn three times. He didn’t wait for an answer and flung the door open.

“Stay in the vehicle,” warned Sheils. Scott clambered from the car to stand in the open.

“Alex Hammond? It’s Scott Fleetwood. I want to talk.”

He scanned the buildings surrounding him, looking for any kind of movement or a face. He didn’t feel fully exposed since he wore the Kevlar vest Sheils had given him. He didn’t know how accurate a handgun was over distance, but felt Alex stood little chance of a head shot from one of those busted windows. He called out to Alex, but got no reply.

Sheils climbed from the car. “Stunts like that are going to get us killed.”

Scott ignored the remark.

Sheils jogged over to Alex’s sedan. He opened the driver’s door and jerked the keys from the ignition. He stuffed them into his pocket and jogged back to Scott.

“I’m going to search for him. Stay here. When Brannon arrives, fill him in.”

Sheils didn’t get ten feet before a whine emanated from the winch house. Scott locked gazes with Sheils. They both understood. Alex hadn’t shot at them or answered Scott’s shouts because he’d gone down into the mine to fetch Sammy and Peter. They ran for the winch house.

The winch house was nothing more than a simple enclosure protecting the mine shaft from the elements. The rusted carcass of the head frame that supported the hoist system for lowering and raising the men and materials jutted through its roof. The original winch system no longer existed. In its place, a power winch had been bolted onto the head frame.

Sheils pointed to a small office off to one side. “In there,” he ordered.

Scott ducked inside the office and knelt on
the dirt floor. He peered through the window frame, the glass long since smashed.

Sheils pressed himself up against a wall to the right of where the elevator spilled out. The majority of the room’s lighting came from the open doorway. A couple of naked bulbs hung from a limp cable nailed to the ceiling, but only one bulb worked. Shadows easily hid him. Scott heard, rather than saw, the FBI agent remove his weapon from his holster.

The elevator system was nothing like Scott had seen before. It was a primitive product of frontier times. The shaft descended at a steep incline instead of vertically. Skips rode a pair of narrow gauge rails along the incline pulled by the winch. Scott stared at the steel cable coiling around the winch drum. Each turn of the cable brought his sons closer to the surface.

“I’ve got this,” Sheils growled at Scott. “I’ll take care of Hammond. Is that understood?”

Alex’s voice echoing up from the depths prevented him from answering. The distance reduced the kidnapper’s shouts to ghostly whispers. The weaker echoes of sobbing followed. Relief swept over Scott at the sound of crying. If his boys could cry, they were alive.

He listened to Alex’s voice gain strength and lose its echo. He was berating Sammy and Peter. He threatened to leave them to rot in the tunnels if they didn’t do as they were told. It took every ounce of restraint Scott had to stop from screaming down to Alex to leave his boys alone. He couldn’t give away their position. Sheils needed the drop on Alex. It was all they had.

The skip neared the top. Its wheels squealed on the rails. The cable enveloped the winch drum completely. It had to be only feet from the surface.

Sheils aimed his weapon. He’d have a bead on Alex the moment he stepped from the skip.

Scott’s hands tightened into fists, his skin stretching
tight across his knuckles. “C’mon, you bastard,” he murmured in the dark.

The skip appeared. It was nothing more than an elaborate cart set on the rails. Wooden bench seats were set at an angle. Alex stood. His head appeared to rise up from the depths. He held a gun on Sammy and Peter. The two boys, cuffed to each other, cowered on the bench seat next to him. Dirt and grime covered them from head to toe. They were still in the same clothes they’d been wearing when they were abducted.

The sight of his children left Scott giddy. They were petrified, but they were alive. Relief squeezed his chest until it hurt, but his fear lifted. He wished Jane were here to see them.

The skip jerked to a halt when it reached its end. Alex grabbed Sammy’s wrist and jerked both boys to their feet by virtue of the cuffs connecting them.

“Let’s go,” he snarled and tugged them off the skip.

Sheils let Alex get two paces before he moved. His gun muzzle was inches from the back of Alex’s skull when he said, “Freeze. FBI.”

Alex did as he was told. Scott felt an instant of release. It was over.

And it was. For an instant.

A
lex sagged as if in
defeat, then stiffened. He jerked his gun arm up and back. The pistol smashed Sheils in the cheek. The FBI agent staggered back before falling to the ground, his Glock tumbling from his hand. Alex whirled on Sheils, then aimed to shoot.

Scott jumped up from his hiding place. “Don’t.”

Alex flinched, jerking Sammy and Peter. Alex looked as if he’d expected Scott to be holding a gun on him.

Sheils used Alex’s hesitation to reach for his dropped weapon.

Alex saw Sheils’s move. He jerked Sammy and Peter toward the mine shaft. He whirled them around, and the momentum sent them over the edge. Only Alex’s grip on Sammy’s wrist prevented them from tumbling into the abyss.

“Daddy!” both boys screamed.

“Touch that gun, and the kids die,” Alex barked.

Sheils drew his hand away from the weapon.

“You don’t have to hurt them,” Scott said.

He kicked the elevator descend button. The safe landing spot under Sammy and Peter’s feet disappeared with the plunging skip.

“Take it easy,” Sheils said.

“Help us, Daddy,” Peter whined.

Light from the open doorway fell on Alex, highlighting
the veins standing out on his arm. The man had strength, but how long could he hold on to Sammy and Peter?

“It’s okay. I’m here.” The words caught in his throat.

Sheils went to get up.

“Stay there,” Alex barked.

Sheils dropped to his seated position.

Scott counted the minutes. Brannon and his team were moments away. Instead of quelling the fire, their presence would ignite it. Alex would panic. Scott looked Alex in the eye.

“Give me my boys and go,” Scott said.

Alex hesitated. “No. They’re my ticket out of here.”

“You don’t need them. You’ve got your money. Just give me the boys and go. No one’s going to stop you.”

Alex eyed Sheils. “What about him?”

“I won’t let him.”

Sheils looked at Scott with disgust but said nothing. Scott couldn’t fault Sheils’s duty. He’d sworn to uphold the law. In addition to that, he’d put his life on the line to stop Rooker and Alex. He’d taken two bullets for Scott’s kids at the abandoned store on South Van Ness. He wouldn’t let Alex go without a fight. “I’d really like to believe that,” Alex said.

“I’ll prove it.”

Scott came out from the office and snatched up Sheils’s Glock. Alex stiffened. He swung his weapon from Sheils to Scott. Before he squeezed off a shot, Scott pointed the weapon at Sheils. Alex held off on the trigger.

“Go,” Scott said. “He won’t give you any trouble.”

“Scott, you idiot,” Sheils snarled.

“I’m sorry, but I have to think of my kids.”

Alex edged away from the elevator shaft, heaving Sammy and Peter out of the precipice. Blood streaked their wrists where the cuffs had sliced into their flesh. Their screams and wailing subsided the moment their feet touched solid ground.

“Thank you,” Scott said.

Alex had yet to release his hold on
Sammy’s wrist. “Toss the gun to me, and I’ll let them go.”

“Don’t do it,” Sheils warned. “He’ll kill us all.”

Scott had no choice. He tossed the Glock. It struck the ground at Alex’s feet.

Alex let go of Sammy’s wrist to pick up Sheils’s weapon.

Scott rushed to his sons. He dropped to his knees and engulfed them in a hug. Both boys broke down. He kissed both their grubby faces and tasted their tears.

As Alex straightened with both weapons in his hands, the sound of vehicles drawing up outside cut the reunion short. From the open doorway, vehicles belonging to both the FBI and local sheriffs pulled up behind Sheils’s Crown Vic. Alex whirled on Scott.

“You lying bastard.”

“No.”

Alex lunged at Scott and his boys, trying to push them down the elevator shaft. Scott shoved Sammy and Peter away from him. Sheils leapt up and snatched both boys out of Alex’s path. Scott scrabbled on the dirt to get out of Alex’s way, but the kidnapper slammed into him while he was still on his hands and knees.

Instead of knocking Scott toward the shaft, Alex’s higher center of gravity sent him pinwheeling over Scott and he slipped over the edge. He released the weapons in his grasp and snatched at Scott, grabbing his forearm and a fistful of his shirt. Gravity sucked Alex down, taking Scott with him. Scott skidded over the loose dirt and gravel until Sheils pounced on his back to stop his slide.

Alex clung to Scott. Scott felt his shoulder muscles and tendons stretch to their breaking points. The kidnapper’s fingernails dug deep into the flesh of his shoulder where he’d grabbed his shirt. Alex flailed, trying to find a foothold on the steep incline.

“In here!” Sheils bellowed.

“Take my hands,” Scott said.

Alex released his grasp on Scott’s shoulder and clamped
onto Scott’s wrists.

“Help!” Sheils cried out.

Sammy and Peter piled on top of Scott and Sheils to lend their weight. “We’ve got you, Dad,” Peter said.

“Thanks, guys.”

Brannon burst into the winch house with two other men, all with their guns drawn and aimed. They put them away the moment they saw the human pile on the ground.

“Hit the button,” Sheils said. “Hit the button.”

Brannon punched the button, halting the skip’s descent and bringing it back to the surface.

“Hang on,” Scott said. “The skip will catch you in a minute.”

Sweat beaded from Scott’s arms. Alex slid a sickening fraction of an inch, but it felt like a mile.

“It doesn’t look good for me,” Alex said.

“I’m not going to drop you.”

“I don’t mean that.”

Scott understood. “Kidnapping. Two murders. No, it doesn’t look good.”

Brannon and another agent pulled Sammy and Peter aside. The two remaining men gathered them up and rushed them out of the winch house. Brannon and the other agent leaned in to take the strain from Scott.

“Take my hand,” Brannon ordered Alex.

He let go of one of Scott’s arms and reached for Brannon’s proffered hand, but instead of grabbing it, he lunged for Brannon’s gun in its holster. Brannon jerked back.

“Gun—he’s going for my gun.”

Brannon’s partner went for his weapon.

Alex swung in the air, held only by Scott’s remaining hand. Scott felt his grasp wane. He grabbed Alex’s wrist with both hands to halt the slide.

“What the hell are you doing?” Scott demanded.

Alex didn’t answer. He tore at Scott’s hands. Scott recognized the suicide bid. He’d seen one man kill himself.
He wasn’t about to see another.

Alex continued to wrestle his hand free, but when Scott’s grip proved too tight, he went limp. Scott thought he had him, until he reached inside his pocket and brought out a box cutter. He slashed the blade across the knuckles of Scott’s right hand. Scott yelled out and snapped his hand open. His remaining hand didn’t have the strength to hold Alex and the kidnapper slipped from his grasp. Scott watched openedmouthed as Alex Hammond plunged out of sight, swallowed by the darkness. He didn’t make a sound until his body broke on the rising skip. It was several minutes before his twisted remains returned to the surface.

“We could have saved him,” Scott said, unbelieving.

Sheils pulled Scott away. “It was his choice. There was nothing you could have done.”

Sheils guided him out into the open. All thoughts of Alex evaporated when he saw Sammy and Peter. They sat on the tailgate of an FBI SUV and were being tended to by a sheriff’s deputy. She was covering their shoulders with blankets. Scott broke away from the FBI agent and hugged his sons.

Sheils held out his cell phone to Scott. “It’s Jane.”

Scott snatched the phone. “They’re okay,” he said with tears streaming down his face. “They’re okay. We’re coming home.”

T
he spotlight lasted little
over a week. Scott and Jane gave interview after interview under the watchful gaze of the
Independent.
Every time they turned on a TV, if they didn’t see their names and faces, they saw those of Sheils and Friedkin. The media wanted answers, but there were gaps. Assumptions and theories filled in the voids, but Rooker took the mystery out of the saga, even from the grave.

Just as the fervor died down and Scott set about rebuilding the stability in his family’s life, the call came. Rooker’s lawyer needed to meet with him in conjunction with the reading of Charles Rooker’s will. Scott arrived outside the California Street address at precisely 2:00 p.m. on a mild Tuesday afternoon. Jane wasn’t with him; she hadn’t wanted to go. He understood why. She’d opened up to Rooker, trusted him and pitied him. She’d grown to like the man, and he’d taken advantage of her kindness to get to her children and husband.

“You go. Whatever he has to say, I don’t want to hear.”

He gave his name at the reception and was directed to the offices of Thornton and Barron. When Gerald Thornton showed Scott into his office, Sheils and Friedkin were already in attendance. Thornton gave them time enough for small talk before proceeding.

“Gentlemen, as executor to Charles
Rooker’s estate, I’m obliged to read this document to you.” Thornton cleared his throat before beginning. “If this document is ever read out, then I owe those assembled an explanation.”

Thornton plowed through the ten-page diatribe, never once faltering. Scott pretty much guessed what was coming the moment Thornton started reading. Rooker blamed Scott for interfering, Sheils for failing in his duty, Redfern for his idolatry, and the Piper for his contempt for life. The four of them shared the responsibility for Nicholas’s death and needed to pay the price. His plan had festered for eight years while Alice Rooker remained alive. She’d known of his intentions, and she’d used her love to keep him from taking action. The day she died, he felt his promise was no longer valid. Because the eight-year gap consigned Nicholas’s case to cold case status, he needed to ignite a fire under it and did so by resurrecting the Piper through Alex Hammond. In his dealings with Friedkin, he’d identified Alex as a man of need. While Alex donned the guise of the Piper, Rooker worked the logistics. He bought properties and funded capital expenditures as well as ingratiated himself with the Fleetwoods and the FBI for intelligence gathering.

The revelations failed to shock Scott. He was numb to it all. He knew, recognized, and accepted his error in judgment. He’d spent eight years hiding his shame. He wouldn’t hide it anymore. He regretted his part in Nicholas’s death, but it was time to move on and learn from his mistake. He owed Nicholas that much.

Rooker’s statement concluded without apology or remorse. Once the facts were stated, it simply ended. Thornton sighed when he finished reading.

“When was that written?” Sheils asked.

“The day before his death.”

“He saw it was all falling apart,” Friedkin said.

No
, Scott thought,
he knew he’d achieved his objective
. Rooker wanted to hurt the ones who’d failed him. Whether anyone else wanted to admit it or not, Rooker had succeeded.

Thornton picked up a sealed envelope,
came around his desk, and handed it to Sheils. “Mr. Rooker requested you receive a copy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have Mr. Rooker’s estate to take care of.”

Thornton ushered them from his firm. Scott, Sheils, and Friedkin traveled down together in the elevator.

“How are the kids?” Friedkin asked Scott.

Sammy and Peter were coping with their ordeal well. The first night home was shaky, with tears and nightmares, but it was getting better. He and Jane sat up with them and listened to them talk about their experiences. Scott’s chest hurt listening to them. Letting them vent helped. The boys’ therapy sessions helped probe the areas he and Jane were too afraid to explore. He hoped his boys would bounce back like Ryan Rodgers had.

“You know kids,” Scott said, “made of rubber, mentally and physically.”

“That’s great. I’m glad,” Friedkin said, and Sheils agreed.

On the sidewalk, they were about to go their separate ways, but Scott stopped them.

“I want to thank you both. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think we would have been in that room listening to that letter.”

Both men tried to shrug the compliment off, but Scott refused to let them. He pulled out his wallet and removed a check the
Independent
had given him for his story. He’d endorsed it, signing away his claim to the money. He held it out to Friedkin.

“I know Alex Hammond had a family. Will you see that they get this?”

Friedkin took the check. “Two hundred and fifty thousand. Are you sure?”

“Very. We’ve seen where the sins of the father lead.”

“Yes, well, Kerry will be very grateful,” Friedkin said. “Thank you.”

Friedkin made his excuses, blaming a waiting client, and hailed a passing cab.

“That was diplomatic of him,” Sheils said.

The investigator had detected the
mood. Scott wanted a moment alone with Sheils. He hadn’t gotten the chance to speak to Sheils at the mine. Priorities changed for both of them the moment Sammy and Peter were safe. Scott had practiced a speech, but Sheils cut it off before he had the chance to begin.

“That was very generous of you,” he said. “I’m sure there will be other checks coming your way.”

Sheils spoke without malice and more as a statement of fact. The movie and book people were beating a path to Scott’s door again.

“No. I have no tale to tell.”

“If you don’t tell it, someone else will. And they’ll get it wrong.”

“Let them. It’s not important.”

Sheils smiled. “What is?”

“My family. You.”

The remark caught Sheils off guard. “Me?”

“I want to apologize to you. I didn’t make things easy for you. This time around or eight years ago. You went out on a limb for me, and I didn’t treat you well. I’m sorry for that. I don’t expect us to be close, but I don’t want you walking away today thinking ill of me. I hope you can accept my apology.”

Sheils looked away. He followed the progress of a cab running a light. After the cab made a left, he turned back to Scott.

“One question. In the mine, when you pulled my gun, would you have shot me?”

Scott deserved this question. It topped the list of wrongs he’d committed against Sheils. He considered ducking the question and massaging his bruised ego with the kind of answer anyone would want to hear, but Sheils deserved the truth.

“Yes. If it came down to you or my children, I would have shot you.”

Sheils took the answer in his
stride. “Fair enough. I would have done the same in your shoes.”

Scott put out his hand, and Sheils shook it.

“Good luck,” Scott said. “I’m sure you’re in line for a big promotion.”

“No. I think it’s time to bow out. I’ve got my years in.”

Sheils’s admission surprised Scott. He couldn’t imagine the agent retired.

“You could see Friedkin about a job.”

Sheils laughed. Scott realized he’d never heard the man laugh.

“No. There are some lines I won’t cross. The bureau likes retired agents for instructors.”

“Take care of yourself,” Scott said.

He shook Sheils’s hand again and walked away. Sheils didn’t let him get far.

“My wife wants me to invite your family to dinner tomorrow. She wants to meet Sammy and Peter, and she says it’s time we bury the hatchet.”

“What time are we expected?”

“Six thirty.”

“Tell her we’ll be there.”