Streng hopped back into his vehicle and motored up the road even more slowly, checking the sides and behind him as well as ahead. He spotted Olen’s truck around the next bend, where the road dead-ended, its headlights on. Streng took his Jeep off-road, burying it in the thicket. The brush was so dense Streng had to crawl over the back seat and exit through the rear hatch. He closed it softly, unholstered his Colt, and crept toward the Honey Wagon.
The truck was empty. Streng imagined the scenario. One of the commandos had gotten to Olen, who knew Wiley’s address because he cleaned out his septic tank. They poisoned him to get him to talk, and now they were creeping through the woods, looking for Wiley’s house.
Good luck finding it, Streng thought.
When Wiley moved back to Safe Haven, flush with ill-gotten gains, he spared no expense building his dream house. And Wiley’s idea of a dream house was very close to Batman’s. Hidden underground, with secret entrances and exits, away from the searching eyes of the law, the military, and the enemies he’d made in Vietnam.
The last time Streng visited had been during the day, and even then he hadn’t been able to find Wiley’s place. At night, with eyes that were thirty years older, he didn’t even know where to begin looking. A smarter tactic would be to hunt the people who were after Wiley. He could hunker down, cover himself with foliage, and wait for one of them to—
The blade appeared at Streng’s throat with incredible stealth and speed.
“Drop the gun and put those hands up, Sheriff. Don’t make me ask twice.”
Josh was grateful for the heavy rains this fall, which kept the lake level high and made it possible to navigate the tributaries leading from Little Lake McDonald to the Chippewa River.
He drove a bass boat that he borrowed from Doc Wainwright—a seventeen-foot Nitro with a top speed of forty-five miles per hour. Josh figured he could straighten out the grand larceny charges later. He was worried as hell about Fran and Duncan, and he had to get to Safe Haven and find Sheriff Streng.
Josh adjusted the trim when he entered the shallows so the prop didn’t hit bottom, shining the Maglite ahead to avoid the dead trees. The wind bit at his cheeks, making his face tingle. Woof stood beside him, his jowls flapping in the wind, obviously not minding the cold at all. The firefighter turned two wide circles in the murky waters until he found the inlet, and then he buzzed through that and into the Chippewa, heading downstream.
That’s when the motor died. A quick survey of the dash controls showed the boat had no gas. Doc Wainwright was probably getting ready to store the boat for the winter and hadn’t bothered to fill it.
Rather than waste time cursing his luck, Josh hurried to the front of the boat and swung out the electric trolling motor, locking it into place. He sat in the bow chair and used the foot pedal, navigating south at a speed that wasn’t much faster than the current.
Five excruciating minutes later Josh beached the boat along the riverbank, two blocks from the Water Department building. He picked up the pillowcase full of medical supplies and scooped up Woof. Then he climbed over the short decorative iron fence that lined the river’s edge and set the dog down on the street. Woof sniffed around, peed, and then fell into step alongside the jogging firefighter.
Town was dead. Dark and dead. Josh checked his watch, noted it was past two a.m. Even so, there should have been some kind of activity, someone driving somewhere. It was eerie. He tried his cell, got the recorded message about no service, and resisted the urge to throw it at the ground.
He got to the Water Department breathing heavy and coated with sweat. Josh noticed the parking lot was empty. The sheriff wasn’t in. He decided to head to the junior high and borrow Olen’s truck, but before he got three steps away he heard a scream coming from the building.
Bernie, Josh thought. Probably not happy about being locked up. Josh’s first impulse was to ignore him and press on. But maybe Bernie knew something. He sounded upset. Maybe that would make him more susceptible to talking.
Josh checked the front door, established that it was open, and followed the wailing inside.
Woof wanted to run on ahead and check it out, but Josh ordered the dog to heel. He set the pillowcase down by the door, adjusted the flashlight focus to the widest beam setting, and walked down the familiar hallway to the drunk tank. Bernie sat on the floor of the cell, hugging himself and whimpering. Bleeding and broken, the killer looked like someone had dropped him from a building.
Woof growled at Bernie, his hackles rising and his tail pointing straight up.
“Charge,” Bernie mumbled. “I need Charge.”
Josh dug into his pocket, removing the container of pills and the electronic gizmo he took from Ajax. At the sight of this, Bernie hopped onto one foot and stretched his hand through the bars.
“CHARGE! GIVE ME THE CHARGE!”
Surprised, Josh stepped backward. He raised the gizmo.
“Is this what you want?”
“NO! THE CHARGE!”
Josh held up the capsules, and Bernie nodded rapidly, blood and drool running down his fat lips.
“Where’s Fran and Duncan?” Josh asked.
“GIVE ME THE CHARGE! THE CHARGE!”
“Answer my questions, I’ll give you the pills. Where’s Fran and Duncan?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where’s Sheriff Streng?”
Bernie clenched the bars and shook them.
“DON’T KNOW DON’T KNOW DON’T KNOW!”
“Then you’re no help to me.”
Josh turned to leave.
“NOOOOOO!” Bernie cried. “Check the MMDSC!”
Josh paused. “What’s that?”
“The communicator! Check the communicator!”
Josh palmed the electronic thing, showing it to Bernie. “This?”
“YESSSSS!”
“How does it work?”
“Hold the bottom, hold the bottom, pull up on the sides to open the cover.”
Josh tried, but that accomplished nothing. He rubbed the large dent in the center and figured the cover might be jammed. He needed some tools.
While Bernie screamed after him, Josh returned to the hallway and went to the janitor’s closet. The last time he’d been to the Water Department he’d helped the mayor fix a leak in the sink. The toolbox sat on the closet shelf where he’d left it. He set the Maglite on its base and used two pairs of pliers to open the communicator cover.
It exposed a small green screen. Words began to flash across it.
Head bird acquired. Stand by for directions to the nest.
The message disappeared and was replaced by:
Is the doctor nearby? I noticed we just turned onto Old Mason Road.
He lives off of Old Mason, at the end of Duck Bill. Are you familiar with the area?
Josh recognized the new messages as his exchange with Stubin in the car. How did that get on there? Had their car been bugged? Had Josh accidentally recorded it somehow?
Or did Stubin do it?
A few more lines scrolled by, then the monitor blinked and read:
Location 1.6 kilometers east on Deer Tick Road. Attempting to locate nest.
That must be where the sheriff’s brother lived. And probably where they took Fran and Duncan.
“CHARGE!” Bernie called from his cell.
Josh pocketed the device and picked up the Maglite, heading back to the drunk tank.
“YOU PROMISED ME, PROMISED!”