Perilous (19 page)

“Same clothing. Why would the injured one shoot the unarmed one?” I asked. “And which of these two called 9-1-1?”

“They could have had it out or something. One shot the other. This guy doesn’t appear as if he was armed, though,” Wakkman said. He got low to the body lying on the carpet. He rolled the man slightly to the side, looking for a weapon underneath him. “Nah, no gun.”

I looked over the man on the bed. “I think this is probably the guy I shot in my parents’ driveway. The other guy must have brought him back here.”

“What makes you think that this is the guy you shot?” Sommer asked.

“The blood on his pants.” I pointed at the man’s legs. “There’s blood all the way down to his shoes. He damn well didn’t get shot lying in bed. I’d probably say we have a trail of blood from that car coming inside.”

“Let’s go check it out,” Sommer said. “Wakkman, keep an eye on our bleeder here.”

He nodded.

Sommer and I had started for the door when Clements shouted for us outside. We rushed through the small living room and out the front door.

In the driveway, I asked, “What’s going on?”

Clements stood at the back of the Malibu, pointing at the trunk. “There’s someone in there.”

I saw the quarter panel of the car flexing in and out. Someone was kicking from inside. “I’ll find the trunk release.”

Sommer and Clements stood at the rear of the car with their guns drawn. I opened the driver’s door of the car, and the passenger seat caught my eye. It was soaked in blood. I looked toward the back of the car as I thumbed the release for the trunk lid. It flipped up, and Sommer holstered his weapon. Clements appeared to be pulling someone from inside.

“Carl,” Sommer said, waving at me to come to the back.

Within two steps, I saw my father’s white hair. Sommer was pulling a blindfold from my father’s eyes. I rushed to the back of the car. My father and stepmother, Sandy, were sitting on the trunk sill.

Sandy slid off, stood, and leaned into me. She wore a thin flannel nightgown. I put my arms around her.

“Does someone have a couple of blankets in their cruiser?” I asked.

Clements nodded and went to get them.

Sandy was handcuffed. She cried into my chest. I held her back and looked at her. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying—her thin face looked tired. Her brown, shoulder-length hair was a mess. My father stood. Blood had dried in the white of his hair and beard. He wore handcuffs as well.

I grabbed him around his wide shoulders and brought him next to me and Sandy. He wore a black T-shirt and pajama pants.

“Are you guys all right?” I asked.

Sandy nodded. “I’m so happy to see you, honey.” She continued to cry.

“Are you all right, Dad? What the hell happened?”

“I thought you weren’t coming up here for a day or two yet.” he said.

“I knew something was wrong.”

“How?”

“Long story. I’ll fill you in, in a bit. What happened with you two?”

He shook his head. “Some assholes attacked Sandy and me in our sleep. They kept us locked up at our house for a bit and then moved us up the street.”

Clements returned with two blankets. I draped them around my father’s and Sandy’s shoulders. “Thanks, Clements,” I said. “Do you have a key that will work with these cuffs?” I asked.

“Let’s see.” He pulled his key ring from his hip and tried to work the cuffs’ lock. “Nah. They’re not the same as ours. I’ll go check the guys inside for a key,” he said.

“No problem.”

I looked at the cut in my father’s hairline. “What happened?”

He pulled his head back. “It’s a scratch. I’ll be fine.”

“It needs stitches, Dad,” I said.

“Sandy will fix me up. First things first, we need to get these damn cuffs off.”

Clements stuck his head out of the doorway. “Doesn’t look like either man has the keys on him. I’ll keep looking.”

“I can do it back at my shop,” my father said.

“We have an ambulance coming for the man inside. They should be able to take care of your head as well,” I said.

“Guy inside?” my father asked.

“Two Hispanics. One was shot. The other was dead when we arrived,” Sommer said.

“Let me see them,” my father said. “I want to see if it’s the guys who had us.”

“Hold on, Dad.” I looked at Sommer. “Can we sit my stepmom in your cruiser with the heat on?”

“That’s fine. I’ll take her. Take your dad in for a look.”

I walked my father inside, to the back bedroom.

He stood in the doorway. “Yeah, that’s the two. There was one more with them at some point. A littler guy. I busted the guy’s teeth out. It wasn’t either of these two, though. That’s probably the guy who left a little bit ago.”

“What do you mean left a little bit ago?”

“Someone started a car and drove from here maybe twenty minutes to a half hour ago. That’s what I was saying—it was probably the little guy.”

“It wasn’t,” I said.

“How do you know that?”

“I killed the guy you speak of hours ago. Did you see the car?”

“No, we were in the trunk.”

“But you’re sure you heard a car leave?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Did you hear any talking or anything prior?”

“No. Not really.” My father rubbed his eyes with his cuffed hands. “I’m pretty damn positive I heard another car though, Carl.”

“Okay. Come on.”

I told Sommer what my father had said. However, it would get us nowhere. We had no make, model, or clue as to who was driving it. I sat my father next to Sandy inside the cruiser.

“Give me a couple minutes, guys, and we’ll get you home. I need to get back inside for a minute.”

I headed back for the house, patting my pockets for my phone, to call my sister and Callie and tell them I’d found my father and Sandy. I pulled it out and dialed my sister’s prepaid number.

“Hello?” Melissa answered.

“Mel, I found them. They’re okay.”

“Thank God. Where are you?”

“We’ll be back at their cabin in an hour or so. I’ll call you back when we get there.”

“We’ll just come now and wait for you guys.”

“Just wait until I call, Mel. I just found them. They’re going to have to go through everything with the sheriffs still, and I don’t want you guys at their cabin until I’m there. Just give me an hour.”

“Fine. Just call me as soon as you’re back and we can come.”

“I will.” I hung up and walked inside.

We drove toward my father’s cabin. Wakkman followed in his cruiser behind us. Clements and Howard stayed back at the trailer to wait for the coroner to pick up the body of the man who’d been shot in the head. His ID said his name was Rodrigo Aguero—we ran the name, which appeared to be a fake. We found three phones on the living-room couch, none of which had batteries. They looked to be the same model as the one we’d picked up off of Jose Gomez, the shooter I’d killed on my father’s property. We could use the battery from his to search the new ones we’d found.

We pulled the ID from the man with the stomach wound before the ambulance took him to the hospital in Antigo. That was the closest facility where he could be treated—a forty-five minute drive. His ID said his name was Ramon Bega. That also appeared to be an alias, and the identification a fake. I’d have to wait until morning at the earliest to try to question him—if he made it through surgery and the night.

Each of the men had carried only one ID, unlike Jose Gomez, who’d carried his real driver’s license and a fake. I clicked on the map light in Sommer’s cruiser and looked over both counterfeit Florida driver’s licenses. I pulled mine from my wallet to compare. They were identical. The fakes were straight from the Department of Motor Vehicles—one-hundred-percent real cards with made-up names. Whoever had made them had access to a DMV in the state.

We drove past the scene of the car fire. The fire truck and fire chief remained. A wrecker was loading up the torched remains of the sedan.

I looked over my shoulder at my parents. “They had you there today?” I asked.

“Up until an hour or so ago when they moved us,” my father said.

I looked over at Sommer. “Where are they taking the car?”

“That one, along with the one where we just came from, will go to our impound lot. We’ll have to have our crime-lab guys go over them as soon as they get a chance.”

I shook my head.

“What?” Sommer asked.

I ran my hand over my stubble-ridden scalp. “I just have no clue what the hell we’re dealing with.”

“How long have you been doing this?” Sommer asked.

“Doing what?”

“Law enforcement.”

“On the force for fourteen years total, detective for four, sergeant for four, lieutenant for three.”

“You were only in patrol for three years?” he asked.

“He had a degree and was good on the beat,” my father said.

Sommer nodded. “The point is you know how this works. Bits and pieces will trickle in. It will take a bit before you get anything resembling a complete picture.”

“Meanwhile, people are trying to kill me,” I said.

“Well, the number of people trying to kill you is shrinking,” Sommer said.

“What do you mean people are trying to kill you?” Sandy asked.

“I’ll tell you back at the house,” I said. “I’m just glad you two are safe.”

Sommer made a left into my father’s driveway. Wakkman pulled in behind us. Two squad cars remained at the house. We parked and stepped out. Sommer grabbed the bag of phones we’d pulled from the trailer. I let my father and Sandy out of the back seat.

“Come on.” My father nodded toward his workshop. “I’m going to cut these sons of bitches off.” He held out the cuffs around his wrists.

“You guys want a couple coats or something?” I asked.

“I just want these damn things off my, and Sandy’s, wrists.”

“It’s like ten degrees out. I’ll go get your coats,” I said.

He started for the shed. “Your blood is getting thin, boy.”

I walked toward the house. Sommer and Wakkman followed me up the front steps.

“We’re going to have a look through the phones quick. If we find another number, can your FBI guy try to track it again?” Sommer asked.

“Absolutely.”

“All right. Go help those two and meet me back in here. We’ll have to sit down with them and go over everything that happened.”

I nodded, scooped the jackets from the wall hanger by the door, and went to the workshop. I draped Sandy’s coat over her shoulders.

“Thanks, Carl,” she said.

My father motioned for me to toss his on the workbench, so I did.

He pulled an angle grinder from one of his rolling toolboxes and slid the drawer closed. “Figure we can zip off the hinge pins and then slide the toothed part through.” He plugged the cord in and handed me the grinder.

“You want me to do it, I take it?” I asked.

“I can’t do mine myself.”

I had him put his hands up on the bench—I looked at them laid out in front of me. His knuckles were scabbed over.

“Nice knuckles,” I said.

He smirked.

The grinder zipped through the connecting pin in a breeze. I tapped it through the other side and pushed the toothed end through. My father slipped his wrist out and rubbed it with his other hand, still cuffed. “I got it from here,” he said.

He talked in between running the grinder.

“So what’s going on here, Carl?”

“It looks like someone sent a hit squad out after me.”

“Explain,” he said.

I gave them the short version of what had happened out at Melissa’s and what took place in the time I was up north. I apologized for the damage to his house.

“Don’t worry about the damn cabin. We’ll figure it out,” he said. “What do you know about these guys?” he asked.

“We got a couple of IDs. I have my buddy Faust at the FBI looking into everything. You’re sure you heard another car?” I asked.

He thumbed the button on the grinder one more time to finish cutting through the pin. He knocked it through and removed the cuff.

“I heard it too,” Sandy said.

“Great. So there is at least one more. You never saw anyone else, though?”

“Just the three guys.” My father motioned for Sandy to put her hands up on the bench. “Put your wrists right here, hon. These will be off in a second.” My father looked back at me and spoke over the buzz of the grinder. “We were blindfolded some of the time, though. Do you think these guys are connected with your Russians down in Florida somehow?”

“They have to be. The three fake IDs we got and the single real one were from Florida. Two of the guys spent time at USP Coleman, where Viktor Azarov is.”

My father shut off the grinder and knocked both pins from Sandy’s cuffs. She pulled them from her wrists and rubbed at the abrasions from the metal.

“So someone put a hit out on you, and these guys followed you up here is what you’re saying. What was their plan for Sandy and me?”

“I don’t know. Nothing now.”

“Maybe they decided to pull the plug after a couple of guys got shot?” he asked.

“Yeah. Or Plan B,” I said.

“Come on, John. Let’s go get your head fixed up,” Sandy said. “I’m sure these sheriffs want to hear our story.”

My father led us from the shop and slowed when we approached the cabin. “Shit,” he mumbled. He pointed at the broken windows and bullet holes.

“A sheriff and I were inside. We took fire from both sides. The sheriff was hit.”

“What sheriff?”

“Kinnear.”

“I know a couple of the local sheriffs up here. I don’t know him, though. Is he okay?”

“I’m not sure. The EMTs got to him pretty quick, though.”

We walked up the stairs and through the front door.

“Son of a bitch,” my father said. He stood in the entryway and looked left to right at the bullet-ridden interior of his home.

I looked at Sandy. She held her hands over her mouth and stared inside. “You were inside here when this was going on?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Geez, Carl.”

My father pointed. “Is that my HK on the table?”

“Yeah.”

“How did it do?”

“Probably saved my and the sheriff’s lives.”