“Did you see a silver Land Rover come out of Lakeshore Drive?” I asked.
“That’d be Mr. Bassett,” the cop said. “He rolled by maybe five minutes ago. He had a passenger in the front seat. What’s going on?”
“The passenger is a hostage, and Bassett is wanted for murder,” I said.
“There’s a couple of countries in Africa that would like to prosecute him for killing endangered species,” Woodruff said, “but I’m guessing you’re talking about murdering another person.”
“Several,” I said. “We’re going to need to take your truck.”
“It’s all yours, Detective, but unless you know what you’re doing, you’re not going to catch him.”
“Why’s that?” Kylie said, climbing into the front seat of the pickup. “Because we’re city cops?”
“No, ma’am,” Woodruff said. “I know some damn smart city cops. But it’s hard to catch someone if he ain’t running.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Kylie said.
“Bassett’s crazy, but he ain’t stupid. He’s got hidey-holes from here to Saskatchewan. He’ll hunker down in one, bide his time till he can jack a car from some drunk fisherman, then move from one bunker to the next until he finally gets to the big prepper palace he’s built in the middle of God knows where.”
“He can’t hide,” Kylie said. “We’ve got air support, we’ll call in K-9—”
“Choppers? Dogs? Lady, now you sound like a city cop — and not one of the smart ones.”
“What do you suggest?” I said.
“Me?” he said, taking off his shades. His eyes were a deep blue, calming and commanding at the same time. Hands down, they were his best feature. “Stop wasting time and hunt him down before he can settle in. And since you don’t know where to hunt, I’d suggest you take along some good ole boy who’s lived here the past thirty-four years, is a trained law enforcement officer, and can shoot the winky off a chipmunk at a hundred yards.”
“Get in,” Kylie said, nodding her head toward the passenger seat.
Woodruff opened the driver’s side door. “All due respect, ma’am, how about you slide over?”
She did, and the two city cops and the good ole boy headed toward the woods to track down the millionaire version of Rambo.
Chapter 74
Woodruff drove with one hand and dialed his cell phone with the other.
“Andy,” he said, “I got two NYPD detectives in the truck, and they’re looking for the butcher.” Pause. “No — murder and kidnapping. He’s got a female hostage in his Rover. He rolled by me on Mohegan six minutes ago. If he can make it to the caves on California Hill, we’ll never dig him out. Get on the radio and shut down Peekskill Hollow at Tompkins Corners.”
Another pause. “No. Put it on the air. Loud and proud. He’s got a scanner, and we want him to know he’s cut off — force him to go to ground sooner rather than later. If there’s anything you don’t want him to hear, use your cell.”
He hung up.
“The butcher?” Kylie said.
“What else would you call a man who paid thirty thousand dollars to slaughter a giraffe who had been nursing her calf, then posed for a trophy photo standing over her with a .458 Winchester Magnum?”
“Do you hunt?” she asked.
“Since I was a kid. I shoot what the law allows, and I eat what I kill. But people like Bassett are thrill seekers. The rarer the breed, the more protected the species, the greater his bloodlust.” He shook his head in disgust. “Do you fish?” he said.
Kylie looked at him like he’d asked if she crocheted. “No.”
“Trout season just opened. You ever want to unwind from the stress of the big city, come up here, and I’ll take you out on the lake,” he said. “Both of you,” he added quickly, lest anyone think he was hitting on a fellow police officer in the middle of a manhunt.
The radio was tuned to the universal police frequency, and we picked up bits and pieces of the dragnet as it came together. The chopper was airborne, the Taconic was covered, and the roadblock at Tompkins Corners was in place. Woodruff drove with purpose, making turns without hesitation.
“You know where he’s going, don’t you?” I said.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea. I’m a fourth-generation ECO, Detective. My great-grandfather was murdered by a poacher in 1919. I’ve had my sights on the butcher for years. I know his habits and his habitats. Bringing him down would be an honor and a privilege.”
We drove along a two-lane that cut through a thick forest caught up in the confusion of seasonal change. Broad patches of snow-covered ground proclaimed that winter was not ready to move on, while tiny green buds and dots of purple and white crocuses declared otherwise.
Woodruff slowed the truck down to thirty. Three times he brought it to a full stop, got out, surveyed the area, and moved on. At the fourth stop, he walked to the shoulder, picked something up off the ground, and came back.
“There’s an old logging trail through here,” he said. “We keep it dozed as a firebreak, and campers or hunters who know about it will use it to go a couple of miles off-road. There are fresh tire tracks, and I found this.”
There was a small ball of red cotton in his hand.
“It looks like fabric pilling, and it’s the same color as the sweatshirt the hostage is wearing,” Kylie said. “She could have picked it off and flicked it out the window.”
“I’m going to go in and find out,” Woodruff said.
“We’re going with you,” Kylie said.
“I’m wearing body armor,” he said.
“What do you think this is?” she said, slapping the vest on her chest.
“Kevlar. It holds up pretty good against a low- or medium-velocity pistol round, but Bassett is going to be carrying a high-velocity rifle. I’m wearing ceramic. I can take the hit. You can’t.”
“And if he aims for the head, none of us can take the hit,” Kylie said. “This is our show, and we’re not going to sit by the side of the road and watch it play out without us. Now let’s move out and take this bastard down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Woodruff said, an expression of newfound appreciation in his eyes. The look only lasted a split second, but I recognized it. I’d seen it from other men in the past when they realized that Detective Kylie MacDonald is as ballsy as she is beautiful.
I had the feeling that the subject of a fishing trip was going to come up again. And this time, my name wouldn’t be on the guest list.
Chapter 75
“We’re going to need some firepower,” Woodruff said, grabbing a Smith & Wesson .308 semiautomatic rifle and a Mossberg 500 tactical shotgun from the gun rack. “Which one of you is the better shot?”
I pointed at Kylie, and she took the Mossberg.
“A lot of hunters set up trail cams,” Woodruff said. “The one in that tree is probably his. If the motion detector picks you up, it’ll send an instant picture to his cell phone. It’s got a range of about seventy-five feet, so keep your distance.”
Even with him pointing straight at it, I could barely make out the camouflaged box that blended in with the bark. “How about you point them out along the way?” I said.
He grinned, took the lead, and headed into the woods. Kylie and I flanked out to either side and kept ten feet behind. It had been thirty minutes since Bassett had plowed into our van, and by now my right knee had swollen to the point where it strained against my pant leg, and I was favoring it by limping.
Woodruff spotted two more trail cams, and we gave each one a wide berth. We were about a half mile in when we heard the shot.
The three of us hit the dirt and waited. Nothing. Just the single gun report.