“Let’s not dick around then,” Head said bluntly. “We’re just gonna blow right up the driveway and crash the place. You fellas got vests?”
Lich pointed to the back seat.
“Put ‘em on.”
The sheriff hustled back to his Suburban while Mac and Lich pulled on and secured their vests. Once set, Mac gave a quick honk and they all pulled out, accelerating down the road. The house, a sad place with chipped and fading yellow paint and a slightly sagging green-shingled roof, was set back two hundred yards from the road in a thin grove of maple and poplar trees. A large, rusted, light-blue pole barn sat behind the house. The yard was unkempt, the lawn overgrown and weed-filled. The Washington County Suburbans sped up the long dirt driveway and skidded to a stop at the front porch. Mac stopped hard behind them and everyone was out.
The sheriff yelled, “Go!” Two men went up the porch and hammered down the front door, while Mac, Lich, and a deputy ran around to the back, weapons drawn on the back door. They heard the men working the house, with several “Clears” called out. Within thirty seconds, a deputy pushed out the back door and shook his head. Nobody was home.
Mac and Lich moved inside. A quick inspection of the house revealed no furniture or working power. The only sign of a recent presence was a familiar-looking card table and four chairs in the kitchen.
“They’ve been here.” Mac said. “The table. The chairs. They’re clean, new, recently used and the same as we found at that house in St. Paul.”
Mac was out the back door and jogged to the large pole barn. The front and back doors were open. It was empty other than a few cement blocks, scraps of wood, two sawhorses, and four new garden shoves and a new spade leaning against the wall. Mac walked to the shovels, the metal still shiny. He looked to his left. At the far end a deputy was kneeling down, picking at the dirt with a pen.
“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.”