Now it was 8:21 PM, and the red minivan wove its way through the small town of Bayport, the St. Croix River occasionally visible to the east down city streets. The van passed a bank and then a retirement home on the left, clearing the town proper. The road ahead was clear. “Past the entrance to the window plant, take a right down the dirt road.”
Flanagan, who was driving, did as he was ordered, turning right and driving slowly down the dirt road. “Stop at the dock. Do not get out of the van.” The van pulled to a stop at the dock.
Smith pulled up twenty feet behind the red minivan, Monica was already out of her car and approaching the front of the minivan, pointing a small 9mm. Dean stood at the end of the dock while David approached the van. The brothers wore blue nylon sweat tops with the zippers opened, revealing holstered. 45s. Monica stopped five feet short of the driver’s side door and threw two sets of disposable handcuffs into the car. “Put those around your wrists.” Both men did as they were ordered and held their hands up to show compliance. “Get out,” Monica ordered.
Flanagan and Hisle did as they were told, awkwardly reaching down to open the van doors with their bound hands and stepping out of the van. David pushed Hisle around the front. Smith finally made his appearance, getting out of his van and approaching Hisle and Flanagan from behind, a. 45 in his hand. “Hello, Chief.”
Flanagan turned and recognized Brown immediately, “Smith Brown.”
“You know this man?” Hisle asked quietly, glancing sideways at the chief for effect.
“He does, Mr. Hisle,” Smith answered in a mocking tone. “He needlessly put me in jail sixteen years ago.”
“Needless my ass,” Flanagan retorted, never taking his eyes off Brown. “You got what you deserved.” The chief looked over to Hisle. “He was ex-DEA, a cop, and he was dirty. That’s why I remember him. He was dipping his bill in the company stash and putting it back on the street.”
“Once,” Smith said, the anger flashing in his eyes. “I did it once. I did it to take care of debts.”
“Gambling debts. And you did it one time that we knew about,” was Flanagan’s acid reply.
“You sanctimonious son of a bitch,” Smith growled, punching Flanagan in the stomach and sending him groaning and coughing to the ground. “I did it once. One fucking time! You could have looked the other way. I said I’d resign, walk away from the job.” Smith stood over the chief. “I had a wife, a sick daughter. If you’d looked the other way, I wouldn’t have done fifteen years, I wouldn’t have lost my wife. My daughter might have lived.”
“You’re pinning your daughter’s death on the wrong man,” Flanagan coughed, pushing himself up to his knees, “If anyone’s responsible, it’s you, not me.”
Smith kicked Flanagan in the side, “It was you. You killed her, and now you’ll pay.”
“With money?” Flanagan answered, coughing and spitting, “Figures.”
“No,” Smith replied, backing away. “With your life. You and the counselor here.”
“What’s Hisle got to do with this?” Flanagan croaked, still trying to get his breath.
“So does the name Thomas Mueller mean anything to you?” Monica asked Hisle, standing back, calm.
Hisle nodded. “TOM Trucking.”
“Good memory,” the woman replied. “You took that case for those bitches. They lied about my father, calling him a pervert, making the jury look at him that way, having the newspapers report about him in that way.”
“I offered to settle it,” Lyman said simply. “He should have settled.”
Monica would have none of it. “You shouldn’t have sued him to begin with. You ruined him. He lost everything. Everything. You drove him to put that gun in his mouth.” Monica glared at Hisle. “Now it’s your turn.”
Lyman looked resigned to his fate. He wasn’t going to plead for his life. “Fine, you all have grudges to settle with Flanagan and me. Fine, settle them then. Do what you’re gonna do. But what about the girls? Why hurt our girls?”
“The girls get us you, and they get us money, blood money,” Monica said coldly.
“But what about our daughters? They did nothing to you, nothing,” Flanagan pleaded, still on the ground, but now up on all fours. “We’re the ones you want. Let them go.”
“And quickly,” Hisle added, pleading, begging. “My daughter is diabetic. She’s in danger now, every minute counts for her.”
“Just make the call,” Flanagan added. “You have us. You have what you want. Let them go.”
“When we’re done.” Smith answered harshly, waving to the dock. “Get on the fuckin’ boat.” Then to David he said, “Grab the bags out of the van.”
Flanagan picked himself up, spat, and followed Hisle down a short flight of rickety wood steps and onto the old, weathered pier. The large river cruiser was tied at the end, its bow pointing out of the channel and into the river, which was visible through the end of a narrow, tree-lined channel to the right. A small box was placed at the boat’s side, allowing Hisle and the chief to climb on board. “Go down the companionway,” Smith ordered, “and into the bathroom.”
“You think they’ll even let the girls go, Charlie?” Hisle asked once the door was closed. He was leaning against the wall, his hands bound and clasped at his waistline.
“I don’t know,” Flanagan replied as he sat on top of the vanity He winced as he used the inside of his right forearm to lightly feel his ribs where he’d been kicked. He was having some trouble breathing. Leaning back, taking small breaths, he said, “I just don’t know. The look in Smith’s eyes scared me.”
“I saw it too,” Hisle replied and then snorted. “I guess we both really pissed them off, huh?” Lyman lifted Flanagan’s shirt up to inspect his ribs while the chief held up his bound arms.
“I suppose we did,” Flanagan said and winced as he tried to take in a deeper breath. “Bastard broke my ribs.”
“I suspect he did. He kicked you good,” Lyman added and then sighed. “So where do you thing we’re going.”
“You know the river better than me. What do you think?”
Hisle leaned against the wall and thought for a moment. “I’d suspect we’re going north.”
“Why?”
“Less boat traffic up that way, north of Stillwater, up toward the rail bridge maybe.”
“There’s a lot of boats on the river, aren’t there?”
“Yeah. There will be a big fireworks display in about…” Hisle looked at his watch, “an hour or so.”
Flanagan smiled wryly and shook his head. “They’ll cap us all right. Right during the rockets’ red glare. The sound of the gun firing will sound like fireworks.”
The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, feeling the acceleration of the boat into open water.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Hisle muttered sadly.
“We’re not dead yet.”
“I don’t sense the cavalry charge coming,” Lyman replied. “Face it, Charlie. Your boys know who these guys are, but they have no idea where we are.”
37
8:22 PM
“You’re sure about this connection?” Burton asked Peters as they made their way down the steps to the basement of the Department of Public Safety.
“Yes,” Peters replied. “McRyan has been working this today. Frankly, I thought he was crazy, but that’s Mac. He gets going on something and he can’t be stopped. It reminds me of that PTA case. The guy simply won’t take no for an answer. Anyway, he unearthed this connection between Brown and Mueller and thinks it’s worth pursuing. I want you to take a look at it, but with the chief and Lyman missing, we need to move fast.”
“Sounds pretty thin,” Burton replied as Peters stopped at a metal door and took his keys out of his pocket. “I mean, this Brown name comes up on a criminal case and this Mueller is what, a fellow inmate? That’s pretty weak.” Burton followed Peters into the conference room.