Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder (8 page)

John quickly walked to the nurses’ station. “Can I be
of some assistance?”

The man stopped pacing and grabbed John’s arm. “Tell
her I can see him.”

John could see the young man’s eyes were clear and his
gut told him the kid wasn’t dangerous, just desperate for news of his friend.
John felt sorry for the guy; he’d probably do the same thing, if it were his
close friend in there. John turned toward the ICU nurse. “Cindy. I got this.
Let me have a word with him.”

Her face was still flushed with anger, but she nodded
curtly. “He’s all yours.”

John grabbed the young man’s arm and gently steered
him down the hall. “I am Doctor Goodman, Rick Wilson's surgeon. I am afraid I
can't let you see him right now, but why don't we go down to the café and I’ll
see if I can answer some of your questions. I don't know about you, but I could
use a shot of caffeine.”

John felt the kid relax a fraction. “Uh, yeah. Guess
we can do that. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. Just wanted to make sure he’s
ok. Jesus, shot in the fucking head.”

The young man followed John down to the café. He
absently thanked John for the cup of coffee, but just fidgeted with the handle
when they sat down at a table in the nearly deserted room.

John studied him for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me
a little bit about yourself. Can I ask your name and how you know Rick?”

The young man looked up and mumbled, “Name’s Billy
MacGregor. Rick and me go way back. I’ve been helping him lately.”

Billy’s eyes darted around the room and his leg
jiggled up and down. When he didn’t say anything more, John said, “What have
you been helping him with?”

“Look, what’s with all the questions, huh? I just want
to know how Rick is.”

John could see the kid was winding up again and he
needed to defuse the situation. In a calm voice, he said, “Of course you do.
Look, your friend isn’t out of danger yet, but his body is working hard to heal
right now. He’s in an induced coma to help him get better.”

Billy shouted, “A coma? A fucking coma? This is bad,
this is really bad.” He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. He began
to pace once more.

John quickly stood up and gently pulled Billy’s arms
down. “Billy, it’s ok. Come on; let’s go sit back down, where we can talk.”

John righted Rick’s chair and they both sat down. John
said, “Billy, I know you are worried about Rick, but he’s getting excellent
care. Is there something else going on? You seem pretty worried. Maybe I can
help?”

“Nobody can help me with this. It was just some dumb
college assignment, you know? Rick needed an A in the class and he knew the
prof would be jazzed about the topic.”

John prompted, “The topic….”

“Yeah, you know. Fracking. The topic du jour. About
how those fuckers are getting away with raping the land, yadda, yadda. I was
just the camera guy.” His leg resumed shaking and he looked into John’s eyes.
“Do you think I’ll be next?”

John wanted to tell this kid everything would be okay,
that he was just being paranoid. But after what had happened to his friend, who
could blame him?

Clearing his throat, John said, “Billy, I don’t know
anything about why your friend was shot. Maybe he was at the wrong place, at
the wrong….”

Billy interrupted him. “No, that’s not it! Those
fuckers were after
him!
They knew he
was getting close. And they knew I was there, right next to him the whole time.
Oh, shit.”

He folded his arms, laying them on the table in front
of him. He bumped the cup and the coffee sloshed over the sides. Billy rested
his forehead on his arms and his shoulders shook.

John was surprised to see the young man cry. He was
just a kid, really. He was obviously scared, but of what exactly? John thought
about Rick Wilson lying in the hospital bed in a room above their heads and
thought,
Maybe he has a right to be
scared.

“Billy, look. I have a friend who is working on Rick’s
case. You could tell her what you know and she’d protect you. I’m sure of it.”

Billy looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “Nobody can do
anything to protect me, don’t you get it? They have all the power.”

“No, they don’t. My friend works with the FBI. She
needs to know what you know, so she can protect you and find whoever did this
to Rick.”

Billy continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “Rick was
worried. I told him he was paying too much attention to all those conspiracy
websites he'd been reading lately. Guess there was something to it after all.”
He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Shit, man. I’m just a glorified gofer.”

John gripped Billy’s forearm. “Please, just talk to my
friend, she….”

“No, I shouldn't even be talking to you. Look, can I
see Rick or not? “Cause I’ve got to go, man. It isn’t safe for me anymore.
Didn't even feel safe coming here. It's just that I owe Rick a lot. We go way
back, you know? He convinced me to get clean. Wasn't easy, but Rick was always
right there, telling me I could do it.”

John realized he needed to talk to someone. He would
rather it be Jo, but maybe if he listened to what Billy had to say, he could
convince him to talk to her. He sat still, letting Billy continue without
interruption.

Billy ran his index finger through the coffee puddle
around his mug as he spoke. “When he asked me to do this fracking project, I
was like fuck yeah, road trip across the states. But then we started seeing
some heavy shit. Like what those suits were doing to the environment, just to
fill their pockets.”

He absently pushed up his sleeves. John saw a tattoo
of some phrase running up the inside of his left arm, but he couldn’t make out
the words. He also noticed some small white scarring from needle marks. They
all looked old and well-healed. John was glad to see the kid was apparently
telling the truth about getting clean.

Billy must have seen John’s glance at his scars. He
rubbed his thumb across a few of them. “Yeah, I shot up. A lot. But I swear I’m
clean now. Rick got me there. I thought about using again when I heard what
happened to him. Then I realized he’d be ashamed of me if I went back to being
an addict now. It would be like giving up on Rick if I gave up on myself now,
you know?”

John nodded. “I’m sure Rick is proud of you.”

Billy took a sip of his coffee, and then started
talking again, “I saw what was going on in Williston, North Dakota. Like the
fucking old Wild West there, you know? Couldn't even get a hotel room. We had
to sleep in the car. Not that I haven't done that before, but Jesus, we had the
money. Just nothing was available. Rick called it crazy town.”

He stopped speaking abruptly and closed his eyes for a
moment. “Jesus. Here I am, just talking away and he’s lying in that fucking bed
up there.”

John prompted, “Maybe you know something that can help
find who did this to your friend.”

Billy sat back in the chair for a moment, thinking.
Finally, he spoke, “We got to know a guy who worked for the head honcho out
there. We first met him when we filmed the documentary, but after a while, he
met us on the sly. Said he was sick of covering things up and he wanted it to
stop. He worked in a department with a name like conformance, um, something
like that.”

John said, “You mean compliance?”

Billy snapped his fingers. “Yeah. That’s it. Anyway,
the guy said they made him shred a shitload of papers about water quality and replaced
them with bogus ones to send to the Feds.”

John heart beat faster. He wondered if Rick and Billy
had uncovered something that had put Rick in the hospital.

He quickly said, “Look, Rick would want you to be
safe. Please, talk to my friend and let her help you.”

For the first time, John saw Billy hesitate.
“Well…maybe. Are you sure I can trust her?”

John smiled, thinking about how many times his own
life had been in Jo’s hands. “She’s protected me a time or two. She’s the best.
I can call her now, if you’d like.”

Billy bit his lip. “All right. But only if I can pick
the time and place to meet her. Tell her I’ll meet her tomorrow morning at ten.
At Nina’s café, on Cathedral Hill in St. Paul. But she’s gotta come alone. Tell
her I have a copy.”

John had pulled out his cell phone by the time Billy
had said the last phrase. The way the kid said it sounded important.
A copy of what, exactly?
John wondered.

 
He nodded and
quickly punched in Jo’s number. He offered up a small prayer of thanks that
this scared kid had agreed to let her help him
.

Chapter Eleven

Turners Bend

Early October

C
HIP
STRETCHED, ROTATED HIS
shoulders and flexed his fingers. Long
hours at his computer made him stiff. He put on a pot of coffee and began to
hunt for the chocolate chip cookies Ingrid made the evening before. A little
jolt of sugar would take him through the morning.

Then
he heard it, an easily recognizable sound. The rumble in the driveway could
only mean one vehicle. Chip peered out the kitchen window to see Iver’s road
maintenance truck. Out stepped his best friend, the guy who always had his
back, his partner in adventures and mishaps, the first person he always called
in an emergency. Circumstances had forged their relationship and brought
together the two most unlikely friends one could imagine…a ne’er-do-well crime
writer from a prominent Baltimore family and a plain-folks road maintenance
worker. Big, burly, unassuming, with a heart as big as the state of Iowa was
how he would described his friend.

Chip
met Iver at the door and welcomed him with a cup of coffee. Iver sat in one of
the kitchen chairs and removed his seed cap, revealing a deep tan line across
his forehead. He wore a blue plaid Western-style shirt with snaps and jeans
held up by a pair of red suspenders.

“I
pulled that fancy car of yours out of the ditch and towed it to the insurance
claims center in Ames. My guess is it will be a total loss. That car sure isn’t
your lucky charm, is it? I never knew a guy to have as many accidents as you,
buddy. Who do you reckon forced you off the road?”

Chip
grimaced as he took the chair opposite Iver. Every muscle in his body ached.
Doc Schultz warned him about what to expect a few days after his accident and
had given him Flexeril to relax his muscles, Percocet for pain and a cervical
collar for his whiplash.

He
felt like crap.

“Damned
if I know, Iver. It wasn’t the same vehicle from the parking ramp in
Minneapolis, that was a black Escalade, but it was no accident. The guy
purposely ran me off the road.”

“What’s
the word on Runt? He gonna make it?”

Still
disturbed by the news from Jane that morning, Chip hesitated and sighed deeply
before answering. A lump formed at the back of his throat. “Jane is going to
assist in surgery today over at the Hixson-Lied Small Animal Hospital. One of
his front legs has to be amputated. They can’t save it. The other broken leg is
going to be okay. They used an external tibial fixator, a metal rod, which Jane
said will stabilize the break and aid in rapid healing of the bone. I can
barely think about him without breaking down, Iver. I love that pup like he was
my own flesh and blood.”

Iver
leaned across the table and put his hand on Chip’s shoulder. “I remember the
day he was born and how you resuscitated him. He’ll be a rascal again in no
time, you just see.”

“Jane
tried to tell me that three-legged dogs learn to cope just fine. She sent me
videos of three-legged dogs running and playing Frisbee, but I just feel so
sorry for him. If I only had made him stay home that day, as I intended.”

Iver
pushed back his chair, crossed an ankle over his knee and started to chuckle.
“Hell, this reminds me of Gus, a three-legged goat Knute and I had when we were
kids. There wasn’t anything that Billy goat couldn’t do. Plus, you know Jane
wouldn’t sugar-coat it; she tells it like it is when it comes to animals. Your
boy is going to be just fine.”

The
strains of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” sounded, and Iver unsnapped his shirt
pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “I never thought I’d get one of these
stupid things, but Mabel insisted. Look here, it says Chief Fredrickson’s
calling,” Iver said as he showed the screen to Chip, then pressed a button and
put the phone to his ear, “What’s up, Chief?”

Chip
listened as Iver nodded, shook his head and said, “Sure thing; I’ll be right on
it.”

“Trouble?”
asked Chip, after Iver had disconnected.

“Two
steer reported out on County Road 17. Bet they’re the two that Tom Schmitt
thought were rustled. Want to take a ride and check it out with me?”

On
previous occasions Chip had ridden shotgun in one of Iver’s vehicles…snowplow,
road grater or maintenance truck. Every ride had been eventful. “Sure. I want
to get out of this house. Let’s ride, partner.” He smiled for the first time
since his accident.

***

Chip
winced with each bump in the road. He wished he had taken another Percocet
before leaving the house. The hot dust that billowed into the cab did not seem
to faze Iver, but Chip was feeling more than a little queasy and was beginning
to regret his decision to ride along with his friend.

Iver
looked over at Chip. “You okay?”

“I
was just thinking about how smooth riding that Ford was before the accident.
This thing got any shocks?”

Iver
laughed. “Little hard on your body, huh? Speaking of the accident, I was
wondering if any of this has to do with that Finnegan guy who was murdered up
in Minneapolis. Is someone gunning for crime writers? You and he nosing around
in dangerous stuff?”

“Maybe
he was, but I’m writing about fracking. It’s a hot topic, but hardly something
someone would kill over. Except in a crime novel, that is.”

Iver
pointed to two steer grazing in a pasture. “There they are,” said Iver.
“There’ll be hell to pay. That’s Rod Mueller’s place, and they’ve broken
through his fence.”

Iver
used his cell phone to report the sighting and location to Chief Fredrickson.
“The chief is calling Tom to come and get them, and he’s coming out to make
sure there isn’t any trouble. We’ll wait here until the two of them arrive,
just in case the steer don’t wander off on us.”

“What
kind of trouble?” asked Chip.

“You
never know with Mueller. He’s a lunatic.”

The
heat began to rise in the cab and Chip felt light-headed and nauseated. He
feared he was going to vomit. The cervical collar felt like a bull constrictor
around his neck. Sweat began to roll down his face. “I’ve got to get out of
here, Iver, get some fresh air, move a little.”

He
stepped down onto the roadside just in time to spew his breakfast into the tall
weeds. Iver jumped down and handed him a bottle of water, looking away. “Ah
Chip, you know I can’t handle sick people. Lord, you look like hell.”

They
heard a rifle fire and a bullet ping off the side of the truck. “Get on the
other side of the truck and keep low,” yelled Iver. “This is the kind of
trouble I was talking about.”

Chip
did as told, crouched down with his hands over his head and his forehead
resting against the truck door.
This is
insane. I lived in Baltimore for more than forty years and never got shot at. I
come to the Midwest and bullets fly at me every time I turn around. I write a
couple of lousy crime novels and all of a sudden I’m a target. What the…

Iver
placed another call to the chief, who was in route. “Walter, we got a situation
here. Mueller’s shooting at us.”

The
Turners Bend police cruiser came speeding down the road, sirens blaring, lights
flashing, dust flying. It stopped, and with the motor still running, Chief
Fredrickson jumped out and laid an assault rifle over the top of the car. “Rod,
it’s Walter. Put that damn gun down. Schmitt’s cattle wandered onto your
property. We’ll remove them and leave you alone. Just back off…you hear me?”

“Can’t
you read?” yelled the man. “The sign says ‘No Trespassing.’ This is the
Republic of Iowa and you’ve got no jurisdiction here.”

“We
can read, Rod, but the cows can’t. Calm down. We’ll get them out of here and no
one is going to get hurt.”

“I’ll
give you half an hour. If them cows ain’t off my property, I’ll shoot the buggers
and have myself a fine barbecue.”

The
chief kept his rifle on top of the cruiser until Tom Schmitt arrived, loaded up
his cattle and drove off. Iver helped Chip into the police vehicle and the
chief took him home, sirens sounding and lights flashing, just for the fun of
it.

***

Chip
took two muscle relaxants, went to bed and slept for twelve hours straight. His
dreams were full of danger. He was being followed and Agent Schwann was urging
him to run, but he couldn’t seem to move; frac sand was clogging his throat and
stinging his eyes, and Dr. Goodman threatened to amputate his leg if he didn’t
finish the next

chapter of
Head Shot.