Blood Silence (40 page)

“Because as it turns out, you and I were right about Deep Core last night,” Mac replied and then told the sheriff about the Adam Murphy memorandum, the smoking gun that he was going to leave behind. Then he told them about what Coolidge found in Washington and what Subject and Gerdtz confirmed in the Twin Cities. “Our little theory-building session over beers was overheard by a little microphone hanging over your favorite table. I’m guessing they heard everything we said. But now, we know who these killers are, or at least we have their cover IDs. The hunt is on around here, and soon it’ll be on around the country. I have some friends in DC trying to determine these guys’ actual names, and the minute I hear from them, I will call you. With what I’m leaving you and what will be coming, I think you’ll have plenty to go to the Industrial Commission to get them to start investigating Deep Core. I’m leaving you all kinds of information with Leah here, and you all can take them down for the Bullers and for Adam Murphy.”

Mac decided to leave Brock and Borland with Rawlings and stepped into the hallway. He quickly took out his laptop and checked the surveillance system at the hotel. As he fast-forwarded through, he saw that nobody had bothered his room other than room service. A quick run-through of the surveillance on his truck showed nobody had approached it. If they were still around, if they were coming after him, they’d have shown at the hotel.

Brock exited Rawlings’s room and approached Mac while he shut down his computer.

“So,” Mac asked, a little smile on his face, a little knowing tone in his voice, “how long have you and Sam been an item?”

Brock looked at Mac in shock but then thought for a moment and realized she’d let her guard down ever so slightly in the hospital room. “I don’t know that we’re an item” was all she could muster in reply.

Mac gave her a look.

Brock relented. “A month, I suppose. It’s not super serious but … I like him, he likes me, and it feels good to be with someone again. We have a lot in common.”

“Single parents?”

“And cops.”

“He’s a good guy, Leah,” Mac stated happily. “Take care of him. He’s going to need that. It’s going to be a long way back for him.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ve done what I came here to do. I’m going to drive back to the Twin Cities, and tomorrow we’re going to get the murder charges dropped against Meredith. And after that, I’m going home to DC, I’m going to hug Sally, and I’m going to sleep for about a week.”

“You don’t want to see this through?”

“There is nothing left I need to see through. I’m leaving it in good hands. You, the chief, and Rawlings, once he’s able, can handle the Buller and Murphy cases. Soon enough, there is going to be a nationwide search on for Wilton and Hutchinson. Even if it takes a long time to find them, we know what they did. You don’t need me; you have all you need. And when the time comes, we’ll have Rahn come to town. And Leah, I’m always a phone call away.”

“You’re sure?” Brock asked.

“Yeah,” Mac replied, tired yet relaxed and satisfied. It was over.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Brock asked.

“How about a ride to my hotel, and I want you to drop me off where you did last night.” He wasn’t dropping his guard completely. He wanted to quietly slip out of town.

Fifteen minutes later, Brock stopped where she’d picked him up the night before, the night now dark, a few light flurries starting to fall. Brock extended her hand. “Mac McRyan, it was a pleasure to work with you.”

Mac shook her hand. “The pleasure was all mine, Leah.”

• • •

“Mac, you’re sure?” Lyman asked. “These are the two who tried to kill Meredith last Sunday?”

“Yes,” Mac answered as he stuffed his clothes in his duffel bag. “Gerdtz and Subject chased it down for me. They were the ones from Sunday night. They were the ones who killed Meredith’s husband and his lover. They rented the Mercedes, and the GPS puts that vehicle at the lake house at the time of the murder. It was a setup.”

“But you don’t know who they really are?”

“Not yet. Wilton and Hutchinson are not their names—I’m pretty sure those are cover IDs. Judge Dixon has some friends over at the FBI doing a search for these two to see if we can get real names and identities.”

“I take it nobody has seen them around there since last night?”

“No, and they’re looking hard. They’re pretty smart guys, so I think they’ve blown town. Their pictures are with law enforcement all over the state, soon nationally, and it will all go public later tonight, and for once they’ll be the hunted instead of the hunters.”

“They’re professionals?”

“Have to be. We traced them to Washington, DC. They followed Shane Weatherly out of the airport, and Wilton shows up in the East Union Tavern. I have them both in a couple photos that John Biggs took while he was following Sterling and Gentry in Bismarck. Early the next morning, Murphy was killed, and it was a hit, in his own apartment. We’ve got financial confirmation they were here in Williston around the time Murphy was killed.”

“So you’re coming back?”

“I’m not pushing my luck around here anymore. I’m leaving in ten minutes. I’ll drive through the night and be at your office in the morning. This thing is over.”

• • •

Wheeler dropped his keys and cell phone on the counter in his kitchen, reached inside the refrigerator for a beer, and plopped himself down on the couch and kicked his feet up. He turned on the television, finding the Thursday night NFL game—the Broncos and Chargers. He slipped a pillow under his head and settled in and then faded … away.

Riiinnnggg!… Riiinnnggg!… Riiinnnggg!… Riiinnnggg!

The sound startled him awake.

Riiinnnggg!

It was his cell phone. He scrambled off the couch and bounded to the counter. It was his man at the hotel. “Yeah.”

“Jesus, Dan, where have you been? I’ve been calling you for twenty minutes.”

“I fell asleep,” he replied, rubbing his eyes and looking at his watch. It was 8:08 pm. “What’s going on?”

“It’s McRyan. He’s left the hotel,” the man reported to Wheeler. “He loaded all of his luggage into his Yukon and pulled away from the hotel. You weren’t answering, so I followed him.”

“Where is he now?”

“Shit, we’re at least fifteen miles south of Williston on Highway 85. I think he’s blowing town. Do you want me to keep following him?”

“Yes! Yes! Stay on him. Don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll call you back in a minute.” Wheeler hung up and pulled out his burner phone and hit the one pre-set number.

“Yeah?” Royce’s voice answered.

“We’ve found McRyan,” Wheeler reported as he pulled on his coat and grabbed his keys. “Meet me at the end of the road in ten minutes.”

M
ac settled in behind the tanker truck, keeping a comfortable distance. The intensity of the blowing snow increased, starting to come across the road in light, wispy sheets. It wasn’t going to be a full-on blizzard, just a few inches of snow and some wind. Nevertheless, in this flat and windy part of the country, roads could end up treacherous in a hurry. There would be some blowing and maybe some reduced visibility, but that was supposed to be it. It was also supposed to stay north of Interstate 94. Mac just wanted to get down to Dickinson and turn east on I-94, and he thought he’d roll into the Twin Cities in the early morning. He had some windshield time in front of him, so he started making phone calls.

“So you think you’ll be home tomorrow night?” Sally asked, excited.

“I hope so. I need to see you, I need to sleep in my bed—I need to just sleep.”

“I’m yours all weekend,” she stated mischievously. “I’m not going to work Saturday or Sunday.”

“I like that kind of talk.”

“I think you’ve earned it,” Sally replied. “You did a good thing here. Have you talked to Meredith? Have you told her?”

“No. I figure Lyman can handle that.”

“You just don’t want to talk to her, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because every time I talk to her, it’s like the hair on the back of my neck starts itching, my chest gets tight, and I feel the angst—”

“Or anger?”

“Whatever it is, it rises up in me, and I don’t like who I become. I really think it’s just better if we don’t.”

They talked for another ten minutes, and Sally had to go. If she was skipping out all weekend, she needed to get more work done.

Next up was Riley.

“You’re still breathing. I heard there were some fireworks up in Williston last night,” Riles asked. “You’re okay?”

“Yes. It was a little hairy, but when I have the time, I’ll give you all the details. Last night, Riles”—Mac paused—“well, that was a night you just can’t make up.”

“And you think you have Meredith clear?”

“Yes. Lyman and I are going to go see the Hennepin County attorney in the morning. I don’t see how they don’t drop the charges.”

“And you’re on your way back?” Riles asked, wanting to make sure.

“I’m a half hour south of Williston. I’m on my way.”

“Good. I was worried about you up there.”

Lich was the last call. “So, tell me about this Detective Brock.” Years of experience told Mac where the conversation was going. It was going where it always went with Lich.

“She wasn’t your type,” Mac answered.

“Why not?”

“Let’s see—she’s a cop, so she’d see through your shit. She’s a single mom, so a guy like you wouldn’t want anything to do with that. And I think she’s spoken for. She and the sheriff up there have a little thing going.”

“The guy who was run down last night?”

“Yes.”

“He’s injured pretty good, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

“Hey, it’s just a nine-hour drive up here to see. Dot’s not with you, is she?”

“Ah, no,” Dicky Boy replied, and they chatted for ten minutes about nothing in particular. “Get your ass home, my boy. Northwest North Dakota is no place for a citified cop like you.”

Mac checked his coffee, which was low, and then looked at his navigation map. Watford City was five miles ahead. There wasn’t really another town of any size until Dickinson, another hour and a half south. He needed to stop.

• • •

The snow was blowing across the road, and visibility was quickly deteriorating. The wind was increasing and rocking their Ford F-150 as the gusts blew across the prairie. Clint quickly passed another tanker truck and then jerked the wheel hard right and ducked back in front of it just before the oncoming tanker hit them, both trucks hammering on their horns as he punched the gas.

“Jesus!” Wheeler screamed from the backseat. “Be careful, would you.”

“Do we have the time to be careful?” Royce answered as he chambered a round in his .45. “He’s got fifteen, maybe twenty miles on us.”

“If we could just get free from this parade of tankers, we could make up some time,” Clint moaned as he was quickly approaching another tanker.

Wheeler’s phone rang. “Yeah, where? Okay, stay with him.”

“What?” Royce asked.

“McRyan stopped in Watford City at a gas station,” Wheeler answered. “He’s fueling up.”

Royce looked at Clint. “How far to Watford City?”

“Ten to fifteen miles, I’d say.”

“Let’s hustle.”

• • •

Mac jumped back into the Yukon with a tall coffee, a bottle of water, and four energy bars. He’d lingered inside for a few minutes, a little hungry, evaluating boxed pizza slices and wrapped sandwiches. They just didn’t look appetizing, and only a little over an hour into his trip, he didn’t want to go someplace and sit down. His plan was to drive a long stretch and stop in Bismarck for a sit-down meal.

“You heading north or south?” the attendant at the register asked as he rang up Mac’s items.

“South. I’m going to the Twin Cities.”

“Oh, wow! You have a long drive ahead of you, then,” the attendant answered, waiting for the credit card to go through. “You sure you don’t want one of these energy drinks? Truck drivers swear by them.”

Mac shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks.” He’d tried them before, and they made him feel too wired up, almost jumpy. He was more worried about the weather—it was worse than he’d expected. “What do you know about this snow?”

The attendant shrugged. “No big deal, at least around here. A few flurries, some blowing, the usual stuff, but from what I’ve heard, not totally blizzard conditions. The roads won’t be closing. You just watch yourself around all these big tanker and semi trucks. It can get a little crazy between here and Dickinson. There are lots of twists and turns in the road and some rough terrain. There have been some bad accidents out there.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mac answered appreciatively. “Thanks.”

Back inside the Yukon, he put his coffee and water in the cup holders, put his phone in its customary slot in the dashboard, and stuffed the energy bars in the center console on top of his Sig. His backup piece was still strapped to the inside of his left leg. He reached down and took that off, hit the button for the gun compartment, and slipped the pistol inside. All the mechanics complete, he dropped the gear shift and pulled away.

“Thank the Lord for satellite radio,” he muttered as he found the Minnesota Wild game on the NHL radio network. That would keep him entertained for the next few hours, he thought.

Mac turned left onto the Theodore Roosevelt Expressway, also known as Highway 85, and had a small laugh. It was anything but an expressway. It was one lane in either direction. As he motored south and consumed his coffee, he once again found himself in the mix with tanker trucks going in both directions. It didn’t matter: day or night, the oil industry never slept.

Settle in,
he thought with his coffee in his right hand. With these conditions, he was unlikely to be doing a lot of passing.

A half hour later, he took a last sip of his coffee. The Wild were off to a good start, a 2-0 lead over the Calgary Flames after the first period. As the between-periods radio host ran down the out-of-town scores in his unmistakable deep, gravelly voice, his voice faded out. There was an incoming call. On the dash screen, he could see who it was.