Ghost Road Blues
Page 42

“Unit Two.”
“What’s the call-in protocol?”
“Just ask for Ginny.”
Head smiled and shook his head. Gotta love small-town America. Clicking on the mike, he said, “Unit Two to, um, Ginny. Unit Two to Ginny. Over.”
“Who’s this?” a woman’s voice demanded sharply.
“Officer Jerry Head. I’m in Unit Two with Officer Thomas.”
“Oh, okay. What can I do for you?”
“Is Detective Sergeant Ferro there?”
“Yes. He’s having coffee.”
“Can you put him on the line, please?”
“He’s in the conference room with…oh, well, really, Mr. Wolfe, I didn’t say that…. I was just about to…no, I…” The conversation on the other end suddenly became agitated as Ginny and at least two other voices lapsed into an argument. Then a new voice came on the line. “Unit Two, this is Ferro. Over.”
“Sergeant, this is Jerry Head. Officer Thomas and I are on A-32, approximately fourteen miles from the center of town, on the eastern stretch.”
“Copy that.”
“We’re Code Six investigating skid marks indicating a vehicle recently gone off the road and into some cornfields. It looks like a single-vehicle accident, possibly a blowout, though the tracks are clean with no rubber debris.”
“Have you located the vehicle itself?”
“Negative. Request backup so we can check it out.”
“That’s affirmative. Hold for backup en route.”
“Copy that.”
“Ferro out.”
“Out.” Head tossed the mike onto the seat and turned to Rhoda. “You heard that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“We’ll wait. You know who we’re after. I didn’t wake up this morning as John Wayne and you probably aren’t Annie Oakley.”
“I have no idea who Annie Oakley is, but I get the point.” She grinned. “Waiting here is good.”
They stood on the far side of their unit, using it as cover. Head took a foil pack of Orbit gum out of his pocket and popped one through the blister; he offered the pack to Rhoda but she shook her head. His dark brown eyes had a gunslinger squint to them that Rhoda found intimidating.
She said, “You must think we’re a bunch of backwoods dumb-asses.”
He chuckled as he chewed the gum. “Actually, no. Just be happy you don’t deal with this kind of freak every day. It juices you for about the first year on the job but it damn sure gets old after a while.”
She nodded, cradling the shotgun in her arms.
Head grinned. “Tell you the truth, I’d switch jobs with you in a heartbeat. I love this town. I bring my kids up to the hayride every year. We were up here two weeks ago, and I’m probably going to bring my youngest and his Cub Scout pack up here closer to Halloween. My wife, Tracy, and I come up here Christmas shopping every year. Kind of a ritual. We always have breakfast in that place on Salem Street, what’s the name…? Auntie Ems?”
“Yeah, that’s a great place. I waitressed there some when I was still in high school.”
“Yeah? Be funny if maybe one of those times you waited our table.”
“Could have. The place is always packed.”
“Yeah, but man, they make the best breakfasts. I love that one they do, the omelet with Granny Smith apples and cheddar cheese? With a little cinnamon on top.”
“The Scarecrow.”
“Right, right. Man, I love that one. And Tracy really likes the Irish oatmeal with honey and milk.”
“Yeah, all their stuff’s good.”
He blew a stream of blue smoke into the night.
In the far distance they could see red and blue lights racing along A-32.
“That’s them,” he said.
They stood in silence, their guns still pointing at the darkened field, but their eyes flicking toward the approaching lights.
“Officer Head?”
“Jerry.”
“Jerry. Does this stuff—everything they’re saying about the suspect, about Ruger—doesn’t that scare you?”
“Me? Naw. He chopped up some defenseless old folks. I’ve faced down his kind before.”
“So…you’re not scared? Really?”
“Hell no!” Head laughed. “This guy scares the living piss out of me.”
Relief flooded her face. “God! Me too. You know, we only have a couple of full-time officers here in town. Most of us are law students doing this part-time as a kind of co-op thing. I mean, we get some academy training, but they know that we’re not career, so they don’t really drum it into us. And stuff like this never happens.”
“So that’s why we are going to do this just exactly the way Sergeant Ferro said, by the numbers and very tight, like professional law enforcement officers. No John Wayne shit. If that is Ruger’s car back there, and if he’s there, we are going to handle him as if he is armed, dangerous, and every bit as crazy as they say he is.”
“Jeez,” she said softly.
Head thought, If it is Ruger and he so much as farts too loud I’m going to send his evil ass home to Jesus quick as think about it.
The second unit pulled up to a fast stop as both doors popped open at the same time and two officers stepped out. Jimmy Castle, tall and slim, with straw-colored hair and smiling eyes, stepped out from behind the wheel, and from the shotgun sidestepped Coralita Toombes. She was a stocky black woman with a face as harsh and unsmiling as Jimmy’s was lighthearted. She wore a Philadelphia P.D. uniform and had a Glock in her strong right fist, barrel pointed to the sky.
“Where do we stand, Jerry?” she asked as the four officers drew together in a huddle by flashlight.
Head filled them in and together the four officers moved to the shoulder. “Toombes, you and me’ll take point. One of you two can watch our asses.”
Toombes said, “Jimmy here used to be on the job in Pittsburgh.”
“Street or clerical?”
“Street,” said Castle. “Four years. Then my wife’s company transferred out here, so—”
Head cut him off. “Cool. Okay, let’s do it this way. Rhoda, you stay back here by the unit. I want you actually holding the mike the whole time. Give Sergeant Ferro regular reports, even if it’s to say that there’s nothing to report. Okay with you?”
“Fine with me,” she said meaningfully.
“Keep that shotgun handy,” he said, then added, “But be careful where you point it.” He turned to Castle. “You have a vest?”
“Yeah. First time I’ve worn it since Pittsburgh, though.” He rapped his knuckles on his chest.
“Let’s do it like a dark-house search,” murmured Toombes. “Check, call, and clear.”
Head nodded. “Everyone cool with that?”
“Cool as a Popsicle,” said Castle, but he wasn’t smiling anymore. His usual open and ingenuous face had taken on that hard cop look as he drew his Glock and slowly worked the slide.
Toombes also drew her weapon. “Let’s do it.”
They did it.
Chapter 13
1
It didn’t take long for Ruger to get things rolling. He had Val tie Mark and Connie up, overlapping the multiple turns of rope with strips of duct tape to keep them from wriggling the knots loose, and Ruger checked the knots to make damned sure she hadn’t pulled any fast ones. The two of them sat side by side on the couch, glaring fear and impotent hatred at Ruger. Meanwhile he had ordered Guthrie to knock the pins out of the hinges on the kitchen door and drag it into the living room. It was a lightweight panel, but sturdy and would serve well enough as a stretcher. Throughout this phase Val made occasional eye contact with her father, trying to see if he was planning something, but the elder Guthrie’s face was careworn with concern for his children and when he finally caught Val’s look, and her cocked eyebrow, he gave a single terse shake of his head.
Twice since Ruger had arrived she felt her cell phone—always set to vibrate—start shivering in her jeans pocket, but as before she couldn’t do anything about it. It had to be Crow calling to say he was on his way, and she prayed that he would hurry.
“Okay, kids,” Ruger said as Val and her father stood with him by the front door, “now here’s the way it’s going to go. First we’re going to fetch a wheelbarrow, and then you two are going to come with me and help me fetch my friend and some of our gear from the field, and bring him back here. Then I’ll watch as Val ties you up, Mr. Guthrie. Once that’s done, you, my little broken-nose chickie, will do your Florence Nightingale on my buddy. Then I’ll tie you up and me and my buddy will be out of your lives. Except for fixing your front door and filing an insurance claim for your Bronco, you won’t be much worse for wear. How’s that sound? Fair enough? This is a simple one-two-three sort of thing. Anyone gets creative and everyone comes out losers. Everyone but me, that is.” He looked at them each in turn. Val nodded first, then her father. Mark and Connie, bound and gagged, could only stare. “Cool. Then let’s go. I’m getting a little tired of this Early American decor anyway. Christ.”
Guthrie bent and picked up one end of the door, and Val the other, and together they hefted it. Ruger carried his pistol in one hand and a heavy flashlight in the other, with the length of the clothesline slung over his shoulder. They left the house and descended the porch steps.
“Okay, set it down,” Ruger said and they laid the door on the ground. “You,” he said to Val, “go get the wheelbarrow.” Val felt her pulse jump when she thought of all the bladed tools in the barn—and the phone—but Ruger placed the barrel of his pistol against the back of her father’s skull. “Just the wheelbarrow, sweet cheeks. You read me?”
“Yes,” she said in a voice that was barely above a whisper but well below freezing.