Drive 150 west,” Reese said as they slid into the Packard.
After starting the car and pulling away from the curb, Meeker glanced to the left and asked, “What’s up?”
“Nothing to do with the Hall case or anything you’re working on. It was a case I was assigned to a year ago before they teamed us up. You know about Jack McGrew.”
“Of course,” she replied as she turned right and brought the car up to speed. “You brought him up the other day as having known that Hooks character. He’s a one-time small crook that graduated to the big world of bank heists. He’s been on the Public Enemy List for a couple of years. If I remember correctly, he’s from Wyoming.”
“That’s our guy,” Reese replied. “We got a tip that he is holed up in a farmhouse nearby between two small towns—Ogden and Hope. There’s a trooper waiting about two miles south of Ogden on the highway. His partner is watching the house to make sure McGrew, if he is there, doesn’t take off.”
“So, we need to speed it up a bit?” she asked, pushing the car up to seventy.
“No,” he said, “we’ve got lots of time. We are going to do this one real quiet-like and try not to create any fireworks. And speaking of fireworks, you set a few off today. You were pretty hard on Johns back there.”
“Oh.” She grimly smiled. “You heard me dig into him when you were on the phone?”
“I can do more than one thing at a time. But why the issue with him?”
“He should have recognized the sketch.”
“How do you know? You’ve never seen Burgess, maybe the sketch doesn’t look enough like him to set off alarms.”
“I think he might be hiding something,” she shot back. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe the sketch doesn’t look like the Burgess he knew. Time will tell. Now, how did McGrew get the nickname ‘Pistolwhip’?”
“It’s not a name he likes,” the man explained. “He got pistol whipped by a member of the Chicago mob back when he was trying to make their team. He was just a hick from the west trying to impress Capone and his gang. He took one step too many. Unless he’s gotten it fixed, his nose is still pretty crooked.”
Reese waited a moment before adding, “When you get about halfway through Ogden, you turn left on 49.”
“Got it. What do we need to know about McGrew? Are we going in to arrest the guy or just confirm he’s the one in the house and then wait for backup?”
“The latter,” Reese explained. “I’ve seen McGrew. When I get a look I’ll know if it’s him. If it is, we’ll call in a task force with lots of firepower. Then, after we’ve figured out how many men are in that house, we’ll move in. Hoover has stated that he’d like to save the courts the cost of a trial.”
“That’s grim,” she replied, “but I understand. It’s not about the banks, it’s about the blood he’s spilled.”
“Three cops,” Reese added. “Look up there. That must be the trooper beside that car parked in the ditch.”
Meeker eased the Packard to a stop on the shoulder, and the two got out to meet with one of Illinois’ finest. As they walked up to the man, the agent noted a bit of dampness in the air. Looking over her shoulder she observed storm clouds gathering. She wasn’t looking forward to getting wet, not in her best suit and pumps.
“You Reese?” the trooper asked.
“Yeah, and this is a member of FDR’s crime task force, Helen Meeker.”
“I’ve seen you in the newsreels, ma’am. I’m Strickland.” He nodded at her.
“How far is the farm?” Reese asked.
“About a mile to the west, down that gravel road over there. We got a tip from a postman about McGrew being holed up in the house. The postman recognized him from a poster that had been pinned up in the post office.”
“Yeah,” Reese said, “those things work from time to time. Whose house is it?”
“No one has lived there for a couple of years. The man who owned it before sold it to a neighbor and moved to the city to work in a factory.”
“Anybody there besides McGrew?” Meeker asked.
“We don’t know,” the trooper admitted. “My partner, Jim Schwatzy, is up there. Maybe he can tell us. You ready?”
Reese nodded.
“Then get in the Packard and follow my Ford. I’ll lead the way.”
A few drops of rain spattered on the windshield as they reentered the Packard. By the time they turned onto the gravel road the skies opened up.
“The rain’s a good thing,” Reese noted as he pulled out his gun and checked it. “It’ll make us harder to spot.”
“I take it you’re expecting trouble?” Meeker noted, her eyes going to the thirty-two.
“We shouldn’t have any problems, but you never know. There’s no predicting a snake like McGrew. The ones that know they’re going to death row are the most dangerous.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask,” Meeker replied, “but I’m making no guarantees I’ll answer.”
“You ever fired your gun? Well, you know … at something other than a target?”
“No,” she honestly replied. “I’m hoping I never have to.”
“Neither have I,” he admitted. “But if this is McGrew, we might both get our baptism by fire.”
The trooper pulled off the road about a quarter mile from a dilapidated, two-story frame house surrounded by a large barn, a corncrib, and a chicken coop. Each of those buildings, just like the house, needed a new coat of paint. Except for one small stand of trees, the remainder of the flat area was completely surrounded by cornfields.
Strickland stepped from the car and glanced over to the small clump of trees. After waving, he walked back toward the two agents. With guns drawn, they waited in the light rain alongside the Packard.
“Schwatzy’s over in the trees watching the place,” the trooper explained. “I’m sure he’ll come over in a minute to give us an update.”
Meeker cast a look in that direction. As she peered through the now steady shower, she saw no movement. “You sure he’s there?” she asked.
“Yeah,” the man replied. “But we can go over and meet with him there.”
“Might be better,” Reese suggested. “The trees will at least offer us a bit of shelter from this darn weather.”
With Strickland leading the way, the trio stepped through knee-high grass to the six or seven trees. “That’s strange,” the trooper said, “he’s not here.”
As the two men took a few steps up the fencerow toward the home, Meeker inspected the area where they had expected to find Schwatzy. It was obvious the man had been here—she could see where his shoes had pushed down the grass. There were also three recently smoked cigarette butts that had been dropped by a tree. She studied the field just to the right of the trees. The cornstalks were brown. Heavy ears, almost ready to harvest, were pulling them down toward the black Illinois soil. Everything looked normal except for a series of broken stalks about twenty feet beyond the woods. It was obvious that something had disturbed them. Moving quickly forward, she ducked in between the rows of corn and followed the channels for almost fifty feet. She stopped dead in her tracks when she spotted the crumpled body in the uniform of a state trooper. The man was lying face down in the black soil, a broken cornstalk resting on his back as if it were a funeral bouquet.
Before approaching the body, she crouched close to the ground. Peering through long rows of corn, she searched for any sign of the person responsible for the attack. Only after she was assured that she was alone did she cautiously head toward the trooper. Moving her gun to her left hand, she reached down with her right and placed it on his neck. He was alive!
Rolling him over, she wiped some mud from his face. His breathing was steady and there were no signs of any obvious injuries. Quickly determining that there was no blood on the uniform, she felt the top of his head. There was an obvious huge knot.
Bouncing up, she moved back to where she’d left the men. They were just coming back down the road. When they got close, she quietly informed them, “Schwatzy’s back in the field. He’s been whacked on the head and he’s out like a light, but he doesn’t appear to be seriously injured. Still, we need to get him to a doctor.”
Strickland hurried past them to check on his partner. As he did, Meeker looked to Reese. “You find anything?”
“Yeah, the whole place is on alert. I’m surprised they didn’t shoot him, but maybe they were trying to do things quietly. There’s no way out other than this road, so they’re holed up for the moment.”
“You said they?” she asked.
“I think there are four of them. I can’t be sure if that is all, but I did get close enough to the windows to see that many and make a positive ID on McGrew. They’ve got a big seven-passenger Buick sedan behind the house. I’m also betting they probably have way more firepower than we do. We’re going to have to get backup. In fact, we probably need an army out here. Why don’t you get the injured trooper into town and notify the bureau that we need some help?”
“Not going to happen,” she quickly replied. “Strickland can do that. He knows the area far better than I do. My place is with my partner, and so is his.”
“But, Helen—”
“You know better than to argue with me.” She smiled. “I’ll keep watch here. Why don’t you go help get Schwatzy into the car and give Strickland the numbers he needs to get us some help from Hoover.”
“You’re crazy,” he said, moving away from her and into the field.
Maybe she was. In fact maybe they both were. They were no match for well-armed thugs. Yet they had a duty that they’d sworn to uphold, and nowhere did it give them an out just because they were the underdogs.