Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 01 - Headaches Can Be Murder (34 page)

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Authors: Marilyn Rausch,Mary Donlon

Tags: #Mystery: Thriller - Crime - Author - Iowa

BOOK: Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 01 - Headaches Can Be Murder
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“Hush, girl, Lucinda will chop me into dog kibble if I don’t make some headway on this book.”

The whining continued. Chip looked over to see Honey lying on her rug panting. “Oh, Lord, is it time for more puppies already?”

Chip called Jane, and she said it would be easier if he just brought Honey to the clinic. He loaded both dogs in the backseat of the Volvo, which by now reeked of wet dog and was covered with dog hair and littered with half-chewed rawhide and leathery pig’s ears.

 

 

With Honey settled in a whelping box, they watched and waited for the puppies to arrive.

“Chip, I can never thank you enough for what you’ve done for Sven. He’s a different kid. Walter gave him the job of filming the Fourth of July parade coming up and the town’s anniversary picnic in August. The women of the Historical Society are thrilled with the project, and they also asked him to put old photographs into a video presentation. He’s thinking documentaries may be his calling.

“Leif, on the other hand, got caught smoking pot last week. Poor Christine. I think she might be headed for a nervous breakdown.”

“How’s Ingrid doing?”

“She spends a lot of time with her horse. I think this thing with Hal has been hard on both of the kids, but they’ll work through it. They’re strong.”

“Like their mother.” Chip held her hand as they witnessed the birth of Honey’s litter of four male and two female puppies.

“French names this round, I think. How about Pierre, Claude, Jacques, and Henri for the boys and Mimi and Colette for the girls?” said Chip.

The laughed and kissed … and kissed some more.

 

 

Epilogue

Brain Freeze

Two Harbors, Minnesota and Cartegena, Columbia

 

Jo sat back in Belinda’s chair, taking a short break from the grueling hours she had been putting in on the investigation of NeuroDynamics. They had set up shop in the former headquarters and a team of fifteen junior agents, technicians, and lab experts were turning over every bit of the place.

She munched on a sandwich that John had packed for her, before he left for Baltimore. His patients needed him back home and his expertise was no longer required on the NeuroDynamics case. Any medical loose ends for the case could be handled remotely.

Jo was glad to be busy with the case. John’s absence already felt like gaping hole in her life. John had promised he’d be back in a few weeks, and she made plans for a quiet, romantic weekend upon his return.

Before climbing into his rental car this morning, John had given Jo a long, lingering kiss. She was lost in thought about that kiss when Kevin Parker, one of the technicians rapped on the doorframe, startling her.

“Got a sec?”

Jo set the sandwich down on the desk and wiped her fingers on a napkin. She swallowed and said, “Sure, whatcha got?” She could see that Kevin was fairly dancing with excitement.

“Remember when you told us to let you know immediately if we found out anything about the missing test victim, Dennis Farley?”

She sat up straight, curiosity getting the better of her. “Oh, yeah. Frisco’s still looking for him. So, what did you discover?”

“Looks like we may have found him … well, at least the file on the guy. We were searching Candleworth’s office and came across this.” He tossed a thick manila folder on the desk, next to Jo’s sandwich. It landed with a heavy thunk.

“Why don’t you give me the condensed version?”

“Um, sure. The notes indicate that Mr. Farley responded above expectations in the clinical studies, not only showing a decrease in migraine pain, but also an increased willingness to engage in criminal behavior. No stimulus of the microchip to control behavior was necessary.”

Jo rubbed her temple. “So, it would appear they developed the perfect psychopath in Dennis Farley.” She thought for a moment. “Does the file indicate where this lab-created monster currently resides?”

Kevin shifted on his feet at Jo’s intense green stare. “Well, no. But there was a reference to his contract being activated, whatever that means.”

“I’ll bet they sold his services to the highest bidder. Looks like Detective Frisco was wrong when he thought this guy would wander off quietly and die.” She looked up at Kevin. “Good work, Parker. Keep digging. We gotta find this guy.”

 

 

The assassin sat down at the table on the cobblestone patio of the café on the Plaza Santo Domingo. He shaded his gray eyes from the glaring, tropical sun. His vision was drawn to the hot pink hibiscus flowers filling the enormous cobalt blue pots lining the café entrance. The old colonial buildings across the street were brightly painted in bold reds, blues and yellows. He watched a giggling group of tourists snapping photos standing next to a policeman.

He pulled the damp shirt away from his body; only 10:00 a.m. and already it felt like a sauna. Having arrived in Cartagena, Colombia, four days ago, he had yet to adapt to the climate. Minnesota boys were not raised at a constant ninety percent humidity level.

Juan bustled over to his table, sweaty water pitcher in hand. A large grin revealed white, even teeth against a deep tan. Dennis had the fair skin of his English ancestors, and only managed to acquire a peeling, sun-burnt nose during his stay. “Señor Olson. So wonderful to see you again! Will Mr. Nash be joining you again this morning?” Juan’s English was excellent, even if his accent was strong. He poured a glass of still water and set it down in front of “Mr. Olson,” the name on the passport Dennis had used to leave the United States.

Mr. Nash was an alias, too, for that matter. The one his target, Michael Turnbolt Swenson III, had used to slip out of the United States.

“Yes. He should be here shortly. We’ll have dos cervezas, por favor.” Juan did not act as if he thought it odd to take beer orders in the morning. I’m sure I’m not the first tourist to order alcohol before noon. Juan ducked through the doorway, leaving Dennis alone with his thoughts.

The time was finally here. He had received a call on his international cell phone late last night. “Export likely. Proceed. Funds will be transferred upon completion.”

Everything’s in code with these Department of Defense guys; nothing is what it seems. No wonder I don’t trust them. In this case, “export” meant extradition. As in the extradition of Michael Swenson back to the States. Dennis wasn’t quite sure what the DOD guys were afraid of, but whatever it was, they wanted Swenson eliminated. He intended to find out their reasons before he completed his mission. That kind of information might be valuable.

Dennis had spent days cultivating Swenson’s trust. He arranged to “bump into” Swenson in this very café upon arrival. The man was jumpy and constantly looking over his shoulder. Several cervezas, numerous shots of tequila and two whores later and they were the best of friends.

Michael Swenson was a lonely, frightened man. He was a shadow of the person in the photo Dennis carried in his bag. In the picture, Swenson was slim and handsome, just a touch of gray at the temples. Every inch the successful CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Now he looked bloated and disheveled. His former strong jaw line was fleshy and his eyes were constantly bloodshot with alcohol.

Today would be the end for Swenson. Dennis had rented a car and would suggest that the two of them do a little sightseeing. Once away from prying eyes, the assassin would dispose of his new friend. Dennis possessed the calm of a man with well thought-out plans. And one without a conscience. It had been destroyed by nanochips several weeks ago.

He found that he was good at this new career. His first two kills were with that idiot, Kurt Manning, when they were sent to retrieve the microchip from the ME’s office in Duluth. Murder had not been in the plans. Dennis shrugged his shoulders in a philosophical way. Messy, but in the end, necessary. He had learned a lot that day.

And the money was great. From this job alone, he was looking at a payoff of a quarter of a million dollars. He had no idea how much NeuroDyamics had received for their part in his contract, but he really didn’t care. Just as long as I get my fair share.

The whine of an approaching moped distracted Dennis. A pretty brunette was expertly weaving the scooter around stopped cars, her skirt hiked up to reveal toned, bronzed legs. He was instantly aroused. Before the microchip implant, he had been shy around women. As a teen, constant migraines had forced him to spend hours, even days alone in his darkened room. He had no opportunities to develop social skills. Now that the headaches were gone, he felt powerful. Like he could take any woman he chose. He would satisfy his lust soon.

After his job was completed, of course.

He snapped open the morning’s issue of USA Today. He flipped through the pages until he got to the section for the individual states. Under the Minnesota heading, a small article caught his eye:

CEO wanted for questioning in Department of Defense scandal, involving SolarSource, a highly profitable alternative fuel source company based in Minneapolis. Authorities have tracked Michael Turnbolt Swenson III, to an unnamed country in South America. Sources close to the case have indicated that extradition is imminent.

Dennis whistled softly. No wonder they’re getting antsy. SolarSource had been in the news frequently in recent years, because it had been awarded defense contracts worth billions over the last couple of years. The military wanted lightweight, portable energy sources for their vehicles and camps in Afghanistan and Iraq. Everyone was happy until the solar panels proved faulty and overpriced. There were rumors of bribery at the highest levels of the Pentagon.

Most outrageous of all, there were reports that the DOD was fully aware of the defective solar panels when they signed the purchase orders. Several documented cases had surfaced of soldiers dying as a result of the flawed panels. The case receiving the greatest share of attention occurred at a Marine outpost in the northeastern part of Afghanistan. Eighty-six Marines were killed when their communication links were lost due to failed solar panels. Unable to call for air support, they were overrun by Taliban forces and massacred.

An ambitious Congress woman from Iowa was leading the crusade to investigate the improprieties. Swanson’s testimony would bring down a shitstorm on the heads of the DOD.

Dennis turned back to the front page and scanned the headlines. Beneath the fold, the name “NeuroDynamics” was in bold print. He sat up straight and read quickly, horrified to discover that the man responsible for his release from a lifetime of pain had been killed. Dennis read about the FBI’s investigation into “dangerous neurological experiments.” Special Agent Schwann and the famous neurosurgeon, Dr. John Goodman were featured as heroes that broke the case.

For a moment, Dennis couldn’t breathe. His anger was so intense that his vision dimmed. How dare they interfere with the genius of Charles Candleworth? Not only was the man responsible for curing him, he also provided a new, lucrative career for Dennis.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Calm settled in once again. He would deal with Special Agent Schwann and Dr. Goodman personally when he returned to the States. He owed it to Candleworth.

Dennis looked up in time to see the approach of Swenson. His mind was clear and so was his mission. His work day had begun.

 

 

Afterword

Fourth of July

 

“Knee high by the Fourth of July” is the standard measurement of corn growth, but in Turners Bend the corn was shoulder high this Fourth, making local farmers shamelessly proud. Bingo tables were set under awnings on the lawn of Sacred Heart Church, while the aroma of grilled meat wafted over from the lawn of First Lutheran. Volunteer firemen were busy setting up for the evening’s firework display. Children ran around town with sparklers and squirt guns, shrieking and howling like banshees. Parade units lined up in the park. Flag bearers squeezed their bellies into musty old military uniforms. Teenage baton twirlers with ample bosoms strutted in their sequined costumes. Sven, sporting a beret, was everywhere with his video camera, yelling “Action” and “Cut.”

Iver Ingebretson was the parade’s Grand Marshal. Chip put down the top of his Volvo, and Iver and Mabel perched on the top of the backseat. Mabel wore her wedding suit but traded the pillbox hat for a sun visor. Iver, at Mabel’s urging, had consented to wear a wild Hawaiian shirt with palm leaves and a straw hat with miniature beer cans around the brim. They had a bucket of Tootsie Pops and Jolly Ranchers to toss to the children along the parade route. Runt sat in the passenger seat, his head held high as if he were royalty. Chip slowly motored down Main Street, honking the horn and waving to friends. All of Honey’s first litter and their owners were along the route, even Petunia who had traveled from Des Moines for the event. They barked their greetings to Runt, and he woofed in return.

On the sidewalk in front of the Bun stood Maribelle Collingsworth and Dr. Charles Jr., Chip’s mother and father. Maribelle was dressed in a Donna Karan sundress and a huge floppy-brimmed hat with a gigantic chiffon bow. She was further decked out in three-inch high heels with peek-a-bow toes and a dozen gold bracelets. She was perfectly dressed for the Kentucky Derby or Ascot. The doctor wore white pants and a navy blazer, very nautical. They were quite an attraction. His mother waved a little American flag as Chip passed by. His father, looking uncomfortable and totally out of his element, saluted.

Jane and Ingrid were in front of the veterinary clinic with Honey. The new puppies were in a pen. Ingrid had made a sign, which read “Puppies Free to Good Homes.” By the end of the day all the puppies were spoken for. Chip’s mother had fallen in love with little Colette, who would soon be traveling to her new home in Baltimore.

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