Deadly Pursuit (36 page)

Sarcasm dripped from Cole's voice. But a tremor also ran through it. Telling Mitch the other man was beginning to succumb to both stress and pain.

“You want to check and see if Sarge has any news from the CSU folks?”

“Sure.” Cole weighed his phone in his hand. “They should have Warren in Clayton within half an hour. You want to pay him a visit? See if we can dig a little deeper?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

They didn't have anything else to do, since there were no other leads to follow up on. Taking a deep breath, he started the engine and put the car in gear.

“You know, you made a smart call about where to focus our energies. This visit to Erik paid off big-time.”

Mitch blew off Cole's praise with a dismissive gesture as he pulled into traffic. “Not unless someone spots the license plate. Right now, we're no closer than we were before to finding Alison.”

“Yes, we are. Every law enforcement officer in a fifty-mile radius will be looking for that plate. Unless he's left the area, which I doubt, someone's going to spot it.”

That was true. Mitch knew the truck would turn up eventually.

The real question was, would it be in time?

Denver Jackson punched the remote, silencing the late-night talk show on TV and plunging the living room into darkness. None of these new guys could hold a candle to Johnny Carson. Now
there
was a talk-show host. He'd been funny too. That Carnac the Magnificent mind-reading routine had always left him in stitches. Laughs like that were hard to come by these days.

Yawning, he heaved himself out of the armchair, cursing the arthritis that stiffened his knees whenever he sat too long. But his evening glass of wine would ease the discomfort and help him sleep. It always did.

After hobbling to the kitchen, he uncorked the bottle of red wine on the counter and poured four ounces. He knew precisely how much that was, because he'd measured it last year and put a mark on the side of the wine glass. It was too easy to succumb to the lure of alcohol when you were hurting and alone, especially late at night.

With a sigh, he walked over to the window that overlooked the river. How he missed Margie. But she was in a better place now, just like Reverend Sheldon had said at the funeral two years ago. It had almost been a blessing when God had called her home. For both of them. Watching the cancer eat her away to nothing, helpless to alleviate her pain, he'd ended up with an ulcer himself as his stomach twisted into knots day after day.

Sipping his wine, he did his best to block out thoughts from that sad time. Giving in to melancholy wouldn't change the past. The key to happiness was counting your blessings in the present, and he had a lot of them. A house that was his, free and clear. A steady pension from his railroad job. Decent health, good enough to live on his own at seventy-nine. A nice river close by where he could spend his days fishing when he wasn't volunteering at the World Bird Sanctuary down the road.

All in all, he couldn't complain. A lot of folks had it much tougher.

Denver did a circuit of the house, checking all the locks as he finished off his wine. He liked this secluded spot. It was woodsy and felt remote, but it wasn't too far removed from civilization. You had to be careful, though. The news was full of stories of addicts who would slit your throat for ten bucks to feed a drug habit, and thieves out to make a fast buck from stolen merchandise. That's why he had double locks on some doors and a first-class security system, even if he didn't have much worth stealing.

Pausing by the back door, he checked the sky. Looked like the rain had finally stopped. It sure had been a gully-washer tonight. River would be running high. But at least the storm might have broken the heat wave.

He opened the back door and exited onto the screened-in deck. Yep. It was a lot cooler now. Low seventies, maybe. Almost cool enough to turn off the air-conditioning. Except tomorrow could be ninety again. That was St. Louis for you.

If he could take the heat, he'd do without air-conditioning and open the windows to let in the peaceful sounds of the night. A gentle breeze rustling the leaves, the call of an owl, the croak of a frog, the . . .

A sudden loud squeaking noise closer to the river intruded on the stillness, jolting him. It sounded like the door of a car opening.

Odd. There weren't any houses down there.

He peered toward the river, but with all the trees and bushes leafed out, it was tough to see very far. Especially at night. It got pretty dark out in this neck of the woods, away from city lights.

Denver waited a couple of minutes. He didn't hear any more noise, but someone was over by the railroad tracks. And whoever it was didn't belong there.

It could be a couple of kids necking, like the time he'd called the police a few months ago, after he'd heard suspicious noises in the same area. The two teens had sure been surprised—and embarrassed—when the cops showed up.

But that had been a nice night. Balmy. Full moon. Romantic, he supposed, if you were young and feisty. Kids looking for fun and games wouldn't show up on the heels of a raging storm, with thunder rumbling in the background and the threat of another downpour hovering in the moisture-laden air.

No. Whoever was down there was up to no good.

He reentered the house, set his wine glass on the counter, and grabbed the binoculars he used for his bird work. Then he began the slow ascent of the steps that led to the second floor, grateful his knees were cooperating now. He could see part of that gravel road from his bedroom. It might be worth a look.

Three minutes later, wedged into a corner of his room, he aimed the binoculars sideways out his window and focused on the dead-end gravel lane that paralleled the railroad tracks. Trees obscured most of the view, but he could see a dark pickup truck. There was a big, covered box of some kind in the bed. A person stood by the driver's-side door, upending a can against his lips.

Beer, Denver assumed. Nobody drove out to an isolated place like that to stand around and drink Coke. Alone.

The alone part bothered him. It didn't feel right.

When the moon suddenly peeked out of the clouds, Denver focused in on the bottom of the tailgate, where the license was. The binoculars had excellent magnification, but the truck was a couple hundred yards away and his eyes weren't as sharp as they'd once been. Nevertheless, he managed to make out a letter and two numbers before another cloud snuffed out the moonlight.

The person by the truck was still drinking his beer. And pacing. Looking jittery and nervous. Like he was waiting for someone. Or something.

All of which added up to trouble.

Setting the binoculars on his nightstand, Denver picked up his portable phone. This might turn out to be a bust, but as a police buddy of his had once told him, a lot of their tips came from observant citizens who weren't afraid to get involved.

And as he'd also pointed out, it was better to be safe than sorry.

As Mitch moved into the right lane of I-270, heading for I-64 east, his BlackBerry began to vibrate. He took one hand off the wheel and pulled it from his belt, glancing at Cole in the seat beside him. They'd spoken little since leaving Erik's house twenty minutes ago. There hadn't been much to say.

“Morgan.”

“It's Paul. We may have a break.”

A shot of adrenaline ratcheted up his pulse. “Tell me.”

“A guy on a dead-end spur off Lewis Road spotted suspicious activity and called 911. A dark pickup pulled down a gravel lane next to some railroad tracks near his house. There's a large, covered square object in the back. The caller got part of the license number, and the 911 operator checked it against the BOLO alert for Chuck Warren's truck. It looks like we may have a match.”

As he listened to his boss, Mitch maneuvered out of the eastbound I-64 lane. It would be easier to reverse directions if he took the next exit.

“What's up?” Cole's terse voice broke the silence in the car as he straightened up.

“Hold on a second, Sarge. Cole's still with me. I'm going to brief him and put you on speaker.” As he removed the phone from his ear, he brought Cole up to speed.

“He sounds like our guy.”

“I agree.” Mitch hit the speaker button. “Sarge, you're on. We need to get a helicopter in the air and paramedics standing by.”

“We also need a couple of snipers from the SWAT team on-site,” Cole added, his tone grim.

“All three are already in the works. How fast can you get there?”

Mitch pressed harder on the accelerator and flipped on the lights and siren. “Fifteen minutes.” If he floored it all the way. As he intended to.

“We've got some patrol cars ten minutes away. I'm going to have them get in as close as they can on foot without alerting the subject. If he's our man, he's likely volatile. I'd rather have all our ducks in a row before we move. Unless he forces our hand.”

“Agreed. Give me some directions from Lewis Road.”

“Just follow it to Deicke. Stay straight ahead when Lewis curves right. The guy's parked by the Meramec River, next to the Times Beach railroad trestle.”

Beach time.

As the words echoed in Mitch's mind, he looked at Cole—and saw his own thoughts reflected on the other man's face.

The beach time reference now made sense. And they both wished it didn't.

Because when you put together a railroad trestle, a river, and a tweaking meth addict bent on vengeance, it was a recipe for tragedy.

Daryl took a final swallow of his beer. Tossed the can to the gravel. Crushed it under his foot.

It was time.

And he felt ready.

Pumped.

Powerful.

Poised for victory.

Tonight, he'd play the game of chicken and win.

Bending, he grabbed the crushed can and sailed it into the woods that ran in a steep slope down to the river. Then he lowered the tailgate, swung into the bed of the truck, and whipped the canvas off the cage in the back. Jiggling the change in his pockets, he grinned at Alison.

“It's beach time, honey. Ready to go for a swim?”

As Alison stared up at the man looming over her, his face moved in and out of focus. After the bouncing ride in the back of the truck, her head was pounding and she felt nauseous again. It was hard to think. But the word
swim
set off a new wave of panic, and the rush of adrenaline helped clear her mind.

With her hands cuffed and her left leg of little use after hours in the cramped cage, an encounter with water would be deadly.

Daryl was fiddling with the top of the cage, and a moment later he swung it open. Leaning down, he grasped her under her arms and pulled her to a standing position.

Once more the world tilted and she listed to one side as her unbuttoned blouse gapped open.

He grabbed her shoulders. “A little unsteady, are we? I guess that means I'll just have to keep a tight grip on you.” He squeezed until his fingers bit into her upper arms, waiting until she winced before he released her. Then he bent and hefted her over his shoulder again.

The blood rushed to her head, setting off an explosion of pain, and she moaned low in her throat.

Moving to the back of the truck, he set her on the edge of the tailgate, her legs dangling over the side as he jumped to the ground and positioned himself in front of her.

“My, my, such immodesty.” He reached over and stroked a finger along her collarbone. Dipped lower. When she shrank back, he chuckled. “Don't like that? Well, I do. Guess you'll just have to get used to it. Or not.” He chuckled again.

As his fingers continued their unhurried exploration, Alison tried to shut him out, tried to ignore his repugnant touch. She made herself stay absolutely still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of any further reaction. Instead, she focused on her surroundings. They were on a gravel drive. Beside them was a railroad track. Ahead of her, a few hundred feet away, was a small road. In the distance, she could see faint lights through the trees on the hills. Houses? Close enough to help her if she could draw attention to her plight?

At Daryl's sudden, painful squeeze, she swallowed a gasp. Then he drew his hand back and began to button her blouse.

“Let me help you with this, Alison. After all, you'll want to look presentable when you meet your maker.”

An icy chill swept over her.

Please, Lord, not yet! I need more time to think of a way out. And Mitch and Cole need more time to find me. Please! Help me!

“There. Much better.” After adjusting her blouse, he inspected her. It was too dark to see his features, but she could sense his growing excitement, feel a burgeoning anticipatory energy. He was like an athlete preparing for a sprint to the finish line, his goal in sight.

Pulling her off the tailgate, he kept a grip on her arms until she was steady. Her leg was stiff and cramping, but it was holding her weight now. In another couple of minutes it might be strong enough for her to run.

But Daryl didn't wait for that to happen. Taking her arm, he started walking toward the railroad tracks. As he stepped onto them, pulling her after him, the moon suddenly peeked through the clouds and bathed the world in silver light.

And Alison stopped breathing.

Stretching ahead was a railroad trestle high above a river.

No!

Reacting on instinct, she pulled back and tried to jerk away.

Her sudden resistance must have taken him off guard, because he loosened his hold long enough for her to give him a hard kick with her uninjured leg and take off as fast as she could toward the road—and the lights beyond. Desperately praying a car would appear.

She heard the muttered oath behind her, and less than fifteen feet into her frantic dash, her arm was taken in a fierce grip. He yanked it, jerking her back against his chest, and his putrid breath warmed her temple as a cold metal cylinder jabbed into her neck.

“Not a smart move, Alison. Maybe I'll just finish you off right here.” He pressed the gun harder, and she closed her eyes.

For several eternal seconds, he remained unmoving. But at last he eased off on the pressure.

“No. I think I'll stick with the original plan. It's more dramatic—and much less messy. Come on.” Turning, he propelled her back toward the tracks.

She tried to slow him down by limping, stumbling, dragging her feet. But he kept pulling her forward. Onto the tracks. Out toward the river. Leading her to her death.

And short of a miracle, Alison knew her time had run out.

As Mitch barreled down Lewis Road, his flashers and siren now off, his cell phone began to vibrate. He yanked it off his belt and tossed it to Cole. “Put it on speaker.”

Cole complied.

“Morgan,” he barked.

“Detective Morgan, this is Officer Hunter.” The urgency in the man's voice came through loud and clear, even though he was speaking softly. “Two of us just arrived at the scene on foot and we have a problem. The suspect is on the railroad tracks, heading out onto the trestle. He has a woman with him, who's resisting. He appears to be armed.”

For the second time that day, Mitch uttered a word he rarely used and pressed harder on the accelerator. They weren't ready for this confrontation.

“Okay. Move in and alert him to your presence. We'll be there in less than two minutes.”

He hit the flashers and siren again as Cole punched in Paul's number and gave their boss a status report in two sentences before issuing clipped instructions.

“Send in the helicopter. Tell the pilot we need a spotlight on the guy. What's the status of the SWAT snipers?” There was silence for a few seconds. “Okay.” Cole ended the call and briefed Mitch. “The helicopter's three minutes away. One of our snipers lives in this area and will be here in five. The other won't arrive for fifteen. He's going to find a position on the far side of the bridge. More patrol cars have been diverted here and to the other side.”

“If this guy freaks, it's over.” Mitch's voice rasped on the last word.

“I know. We're going to have to try and talk him out of this.”

Mitch didn't respond. They both knew that was a long shot.

As he veered onto Diecke and raced down the narrow road, he saw flashing lights in his rearview mirror. Reinforcements were on the way. But numbers didn't matter. The meth addict on the tracks held all the cards.

Namely, Alison.

The railroad tracks appeared ahead, and Mitch swung into the gravel drive that ran beside them. His headlights illuminated the pickup truck—and two figures partway out on the trestle, over the water.

His heart stuttered.

Daryl had a death grip on Alison, and he was jerking from side to side, using her as a shield. Her hands were bound behind her back, she was gagged, and one side of her face was bruised.

But she was alive.

So far.

And Mitch intended to do everything in his power to keep it that way.

As they exited the car, crouching beside it for cover, an officer joined them from behind the truck.

“He knows we're here. But he keeps moving farther out and we can't get a shot without risking hitting the woman.”

The patrol car that had followed him down Diecke pulled in, spewing gravel. Still crouching, Mitch ran toward the car as the whump, whump, whump of rotor blades grew louder. Cole followed.

“Open a communications line to the helicopter,” he instructed the patrol officer.

An unmarked vehicle swung in. Fast. A man got out, carrying a sniper rifle.

“That's Alan. One of our SWAT team snipers.” Cole waved the man over.

As soon as he was within hearing distance, Mitch spoke. “Can you get a line of sight on him?”

The man studied the scene, narrowing his eyes as he peered at the two people on the bridge, faintly illuminated by Mitch's headlights. “The way he's twitching and twisting back and forth, it could be dicey.”

All of a sudden, a spotlight pinned the two figures in a megawatt glare. Mitch issued one clipped instruction to the sniper as he grabbed the PA mike in the patrol car. “Do the best you can. If he doesn't let her go, and you get a shot, take it.”

With a curt nod, the sniper melted into the night as Mitch flipped on the PA system.

“This is Detective Mitch Morgan.” He said that more for Alison's benefit than her kidnapper's. He wanted her to know he was close by. “We have people on both sides of the river, Daryl. There's no way off that bridge. Don't add murder to your list of charges. Just drop your weapon and let Alison walk away.” It was a struggle to maintain a calm, neutral tone when his pulse was edging into the danger zone. “Things will go a lot easier for you if you do. No one will hurt you, and—”

The distant whistle of a train sounded in the night air, cutting off his air supply midsentence.

No!

Panic clawed at his gut, and he struggled to fill his lungs.

“Get me some binoculars. Now! And someone see if we can make contact with that train.”

Fifteen seconds later, the patrol officer thrust a pair of binoculars into his hands and grabbed his radio to call dispatch.

Mitch fitted the binoculars to his eyes and scrutinized the trestle, trying to ignore Alison's battered face and fear-filled eyes. He focused instead on the three-foot-wide walkway on either side of the tracks.

“Is there room to stand there while a train goes by?” Cole's question came out tight and tense from behind him.

“Yes. If you have nerves of steel.”

They both knew a guy who'd been tweaking didn't.

Mitch thrust the mike into his colleague's hand. “Keep trying to talk him into giving up.”

“Where are you going?”

“Down there.” He gestured to the base of the wooded hill, on the far side of the trestle. “If Alison goes over the edge, instruct the helicopter to follow her with the spotlight. And tell them not to lose her!”

Without waiting for a response, Mitch crouched and sprinted across the tracks. At the edge of the woods, he charged down the hill and through the underbrush. Toward the rain-swollen river.

Praying he wouldn't have to put his SEAL training into practice.

His perfect plan had failed.

As Daryl clutched Alison in front of him, changing position constantly so none of the cops could get a shot at him, the whistle sounded again. Louder this time.

He tried to breathe. Tried to rein in his fear. But it was hard not to panic. He was well out onto the trestle. The river was far below. A train was approaching. And cops had guns trained on him. Waiting to kill him. Or send him back to prison.