Chapter Twenty-Five

“Let’s go get that slimy little son of a bitch,” Harry said. “How long will it take to get a helicopter here, rifles, search warrant, and whatever backup you think we need?”

Jessie looked at her watch. “We’ve got lots of daylight left, so that’s not a problem. We’re only going after one man, and I don’t think Dutch will be stupid enough to put his people up against us if we have a lawful warrant. Your Max Abrams has one from a Florida judge that he sent us, and since it involves four homicides, no Alaska judge is going to refuse to honor it. That will only take an hour or two and a quick fax from Juneau to Homer. Then it’s just a question of one or two officers for backup and we’re good to go. I’d say by three at the latest.”

Harry took Vicky aside. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked intently into her eyes. “I want you to promise me something,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I want you to deal with Rolf from a distance. Promise you’ll do that. You let me handle him up close.”

“What is this, Harry? When did I become some rookie cop who you have to protect?”

“It’s not you, it’s him. He’s a psycho about women. If you get close to him he’s going to want to cut you. He won’t be able to help himself. Meg was good at what she did. She was very, very good. He shouldn’t have been able to kill her, but he did. You are too important to me, Vicky. Just don’t let him get too close to you.”

“I’ll do my best. That’s all I can promise.”

He squeezed her shoulders and she leaned against him. It was a brief moment of tenderness, but it was enough.

* * *

The helicopter brought Regis Walsh to the lodge at two p.m. Dutch immediately took him into the office without letting Tony know he was there.

“How serious is it?” Dutch asked.

“I gather there’s a warrant out for my arrest,” Walsh said.

“What are the charges?” There was a demanding edge to Dutch’s voice.

“Apparently my assistant, Ken Oppenheimer, has told the authorities that I shielded Tony from them even though I knew he had killed at least one woman, possibly more. It’s nonsense, of course. Ken is simply trying to justify his own errors in judgment.”

“Did Tony kill the woman?”

“I have no way of knowing. I certainly don’t believe he did.”

Dutch let out a long breath. “I can’t allow my company to become involved in a murder.” There was a tremor in his voice.

“Nor could I allow the church to be involved with one,” Walsh said.

“I think the police are going to be coming for him.”

“That may be the best solution. Providing Tony doesn’t survive the police assault.”

“That would seem to be the best solution for everyone,” Dutch said.

* * *

Dutch went down to Tony’s room and found him staring out a window into the vast expanse of wilderness that surrounded the lodge.

“Do you get many wild animals close to the lodge?”

“Only when someone is careless with food,” Dutch said. “We always warn guests about that, but sometimes people get careless. It only takes one encounter with a bear—a black bear usually—who wants the remains of a sandwich that was left out on a bedside table to make a believer out of a careless guest.”

“I’ll bet,” Tony said.

“By the way, Regis is here. Would you like to see him?”

“Yeah, sure,” Tony said. “Is anything wrong?”

“The police are sniffing around. I think it might be a good idea if you slipped back to Homer and let us get you on a fishing boat that will take you out to sea for a bit.”

“Shit, I was really looking forward to staying here for a while.”

Dutch thought for a moment that Tony might stamp his foot. He could be such a little boy when things didn’t go his way. “Let’s go see Regis,” he said.

Regis was still in the lodge office and when Tony entered he moved quickly toward him and embraced him like a long-lost relative. It was a heartfelt scene and completely genuine on the surface and Dutch made note of it for future reference. Regis had far better acting skills than he had ever suspected.

“Dutch tells me the cops are on their way,” Tony said.

Sadness filled Walsh’s face. “Yes, the two sheriff’s detectives who harassed us in Florida, the one they call the dead detective and his female partner, and some Alaskan state police officers they’ve enlisted up here. Also, you should know that Ken Oppenheimer kicked open the door by giving sworn testimony to a Clearwater police sergeant named Max Abrams who apparently has warrants out for both you and me. The whole thing is absurd, of course, but it has to be dealt with.”

“That fucking Oppenheimer, that goddamn turncoat—you made him and this is what he does to you?”

Regis looked at Tony’s cold eyes and knew without question that Ken Oppenheimer would be a dead man if Tony ever set foot in Florida again. It was truly tempting, but the aftermath would be far more dangerous to all concerned. He slipped an arm around Tony’s shoulder in a gesture that exuded fatherly warmth. “The important thing right now is to keep you out of the hands of the police. I believe Dutch has a workable plan. We’ll send you out with a hunting guide, who will take you back to Deep Creek, the river about a quarter of a mile north of the lodge. From there he’ll head back toward Ninilchik. You’ll have a compass with you and a radio so we can keep you informed about the police. Once you hit the river, it’s just a question of following it west until you reach the village. You’ll be picked up there and taken to Homer.”

“What if the police show up before then?” Tony asked.

“The guide will lead them away from you, and when they stop him he’ll just explain that he was out scouting a hunt planned for tomorrow. If they ask about you, he’s instructed to give them a see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil response. When they’re gone he’ll find you again. If they find you first, do your best to get away.”

Dutch came over to them. “It’s important that you stay out of police custody. We need time to set up a strong defense against the lies that Kenneth Oppenheimer is spreading about us and about the church.”

“They won’t get me,” Tony said. “Do you have any camouflage clothing and a good hunting rifle?”

“Of course. Come with me and I’ll get you outfitted and introduce you to your hunting guide.”

* * *

Two Alaskan state police helicopters were waiting for them at the Homer Airport, along with two extra troopers. Jessie had equipped Harry and Vicky with bulletproof vests and rifles fitted with telescopic sights. She had the arrest warrants Max Abrams had sent ahead—one for Tony Rolf and one for Regis Walsh—along with a request that they be held for extradition to Florida.

Harry and Vicky had decided to use their own handguns and Jessie was familiarizing them with the rifles. “These are Savage 116 Bear Hunters. They take a .300 Winchester Magnum cartridge and hit with a helluva wallop. They also give a good kick to the shoulder, so just be prepared for that,” she warned. “The scope is a standard Bushnell eight-power on a raised mount so you can use the iron sights beneath it as well. It’s been sighted in but may be a touch off for you. I think it will be so slight it won’t make a difference. Now, the weaponry they have at the lodge is a helluva lot better than ours. You can expect anything this guy Rolf is using will have more sophisticated attachments.”

“Like what?” Vicky asked.

“Laser scopes, infrared scopes, basically scopes that paint little dots on you. Some of them are cheap and ain’t worth shit, but some others are pretty sophisticated. So if you see a little red dot dancing across your shirt, hit the deck.”

“Sounds like good advice,” Harry said.

“Indeed,” Vicky added.

* * *

Tony was dressed in camouflage clothing from head to foot. His boots and shooting gloves were made of camouflage cloth, his face was painted, his one-piece hunting outfit looked like tree bark with loose pieces designed to move like parts of a bush blowing in the wind. No section of his body remained uncovered. For a weapon he carried a Remington 700 .30 06 rifle with an eight-power infrared scope. In the right hands it could stop a charging brown bear at one hundred yards. In the wrong hands it would probably get you killed.

Tony was also carrying an eight-inch hunting knife with a razor-sharp edge. By the way he had caressed it, Dutch could tell it would be his weapon of choice. His personal switchblade was also tucked into his left hunting boot. For Tony it was like some people and their American Express Cards: he just didn’t leave home without it.

Tony and Dutch stepped out into the hallway and ran right into the movie star, who was bleary-eyed and unshaven and stood there absently scratching his belly.

Tony was too startled to speak, not because he was face-to-face with a man he had seen so many times on the silver screen, but because that man was almost a head shorter than he and was staring up at him with a silly smile on his face.

“Hey, bro, we’re off to the woods, are we?” The smile widened into the broad, sparkling gleam familiar to millions.

“Tom, how are you?” Dutch said, stepping forward.

“Oh, Dutchman, I am one starving, very hungry man.”

“Well, get yourself on up to the dining room. I’ve got two four-star chefs just waiting to cook for you. In fact, Regis Walsh is up there ordering a late lunch right now.”

“Regis! What the hell is he doing here? I haven’t seen him since the dedication of the Flag Building in Clearwater. And why lunch? The hell with lunch, I need breakfast. You think your boys can rustle up an order of huevos rancheros? I became addicted to them on a gambling junket in Vegas last year.”

“If you can hum a few bars, they can play it,” Dutch said.

The dazzling smile returned. “Atta boy, Dutch,” he roared, then turned back to Tony. “Go find out where all those deer are hiding, I wanna take back a freezer chest full of venison.” He spun on his heels. “See you guys at dinner.”

Tony watched him wander off down the hall. The man hadn’t even asked his name, hadn’t cared who he was. He just wanted someone to feed him.

“Let’s go find the guide you’re going out with,” Dutch said.

The guide was a French Canadian named Chris Chagal, known to his peers as Frenchy. He had been raised in the woods of Labrador and had worked his way west across northern Canada until finally settling down at age forty as a hunting guide in the Kenai Peninsula.

Standing next to Tony he looked even bigger than his six feet, 230 pounds. He had a full beard of red hair that went down to his chest and covered all of his face except for two-inch patches beneath his eyes. His hands were big and brutish, his shoulders broad, and his protruding belly hard as rock. Frenchy’s arms were as thick as most men’s legs and his legs were like the trunks of trees. He had a scar on his left shoulder where a brown bear he thought he had killed had swatted him, sending him thirty feet through the air. Fortunately, the hunter he was guiding had shot the bear dead. He had never made that mistake again.

Dutch explained the situation: They did not want Tony taken into custody by the police. Frenchy was not to engage the police in gunfire. If they saw him with Tony, he was to separate from him and try to lead the police away from him. When stopped, he was to say that Tony was a guest at the lodge and he was guiding him on a hunt. The real goal, which he was not to reveal under any circumstances, was to get Tony to Ninilchik and then back to Homer.

“Am I to leave him to get to Ninilchik on his own?” Frenchy asked.

“Yes.”

“Is he a skillful enough woodsman to make it all the way by himself? It’s not an easy trip and there are—”

“We expect him to be able to handle it.”

“I hope he understands what this will involve.”

“He’s been told,” Dutch said. “Don’t concern yourself with it.”

* * *

“Let’s mount up,” Jessie said.

Jessie and the two other Alaskan state troopers boarded one helicopter and Harry and Vicky boarded the other. They lifted off from Homer Airport and swung northeast toward the Vandermere hunting lodge. It was a clear, bright, sunny day and visibility was almost endless. Beneath them they could see the occasional moose or deer, disturbed by the helicopters, moving off into the brush. Cars headed north and south along the Sterling Highway, paying little attention to the aircraft that flitted above them. Probably an everyday occurrence for them, Harry thought. Like Coast Guard helicopters in Florida.

Florida—it seemed a million miles away right now. Harry looked at Vicky with her deep tan, matching his own. He reached across the helicopter, extending his hand. She took it. He squeezed. “Let’s get this bastard and go home,” he said.

* * *

Frenchy and Tony moved out into the woods, slowly working their way north to Deep Creek, the river that would lead them to Ninilchik.

Frenchy raised his hand indicating they should stop. He spoke in little more than a whisper. “Deep Creek can be dangerous—shallow and then suddenly opening into deep holes. There are good crossing points, but you have to know them. I’ll show you.”

Tony noted that Frenchy was not dressed in camouflage and he asked about it.

“It’s my job to lead the police away from you,” Frenchy said. “If they come, you use the camo to hide yourself and I will move off and lead them away. When they’re gone, you continue to follow the river to Ninilchik.”

“Will I be able to do it alone?”

“The river goes there. You follow the river, you go there,” Frenchy said. “It’s easy.”

“If you say so.”

Frenchy placed a meat hook of a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You just follow the river west. Go slow. Use your compass to be sure. When the police leave I will come find you. I promise. You have a good rifle. Only use it for bear and only if you have to. Camo will keep bear from seeing you, but they will still smell you. If you see a brown bear, find a tree you can climb and get up it. Brown bears don’t climb. Black bears, they climb like bastids. They can come right up after you. But the brown ones aren’t aggressive like that. Okay? Just go slow and easy now, and if the cops show up I’ll lead them away and then I’ll come back and find you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

* * *

The state police helicopters started circling when the lodge was a hundred yards in the distance. The brush below was thick, the fir trees rising one hundred, one hundred and fifty feet in the air. Deep Creek lay seventy-five yards to the north and could be seen as patches of sunlight flashed across its surface through openings in the trees. All the troopers as well as Harry and Vicky scoured the ground for any sign of movement. The copters moved up to the river, one covering the north bank, one covering the south. They rose up and then dropped down again, trying to gain any good vantage point they could.

“Do you see anything?” Jessie called over her radio.

“Nothing,” Harry responded.

“We’re going to move toward the lodge, then back out again. Keep a sharp eye. They could be wearing camouflage. Over and out.”

The helicopters elevated to clear the trees and swung toward the lodge. Harry couldn’t believe the size of the place, all of it built in the middle of a wilderness for the indulgence of a few wealthy men.

“Movement, movement, ten o’clock!” Vicky shouted.

Harry looked down and saw someone heading east through the heavy brush. He moved up and pointed the figure out to the pilot. The helicopter swung down and hovered over a small clearing as the pilot got on the speaker and ordered the man into the center of the clearing. Harry radioed to Jessie and told her they had an armed hunter they were about to question. Jessie’s helicopter swung back and both landed in the clearing.

Frenchy came out of the brush, his rifle held in both hands above his head, a large smile spread across his bearded face. “Hey, Jessie, Frenchy did something wrong? I surrender. Okay?”

Jessie walked toward him. “What are you doin’ out here, Frenchy?”

“I’m scouting a hunt for tomorrow.”

“What kind of hunt?”

“Deer—a big buck, I think. We got movie star who wants to take venison home.”

“Why don’t you just shoot him one? It would be easier.”

“For me and for the deer,” Frenchy said. “They usually look like Swiss cheese—they have so many holes—when our guests shoot them.”

“It’s a shame.”

“Mr. Dutch, he says it’s a business.”

“We’re looking for a man we think is here at the lodge,” Jessie explained. “His name is Tony Rolf.” She raised her chin toward Harry and Vicky. “These are two Florida detectives who have come up here after him. He’s a bad man, Frenchy. He’s killed four women that we know of, probably more.”

Frenchy stared at her for a long moment. “Mr. Dutch don’t tell Frenchy that. He just tells me to get him to Ninilchik. Fucking bastid, Frenchy don’t help people who hurt women. Fuck Mr. Dutch. Frenchy don’t work for him no more.”

“Where is this man now?” Jessie asked.

“He’s up at the river. He’s got real good camo. He sit tight, you never see him unless he moves.”

“Is he armed?”

“Yes, good weapon, Remington 700 with an eight-power infrared scope. I don’t know how good he is with it, but the weapon is good enough to take all of you out.” Frenchy shook his head in disgust. “I’ll take you up there, help you find him.”

“No,” Jessie said. “It’s our job, not yours. You tell Dutch we’ll be up to see him as soon as we finish here. Tell him that if he leaves, his ass belongs to me.”

“I tell him. I be happy to tell him dat.”

* * *

Tony took the river crossing Frenchy had showed him and stayed close to the heavier brush, knowing that when he stopped he would be nearly invisible from both the ground and above. His rifle, which was covered in the same material as his clothing, was carried close to his body, with the barrel pointed down and the lens caps closed on the telescopic scope to avoid any glare that might give away his position. He only moved when the helicopters were both flying away from him, making his forward progress incredibly slow. But it was slow for his pursuers as well, and he knew the helicopters would eventually have fuel problems and need to return to Homer. That would be his chance to gain some ground toward Ninilchik, or for Frenchy to get back to find him.

Unless, of course, they had already told Frenchy he was wanted for murder and turned the guide against him. But Frenchy hadn’t joined them, had he? He hadn’t led them back to him. They were just stumbling along like they always were—like they were in Florida, like they were years ago in LA. He had always been able to get away, just as he would this time. And if they weren’t careful, he’d take a few of them down before he did.

* * *

Harry spoke to Vicky through his headset: “Do you see anything?”

“No, I thought I saw some movement on the north side of the river but it was nothing, just some branches waving in the downdraft of the helicopter. I’m wondering if we’d do better with a couple of us on the ground.”

“I’ll ask Jessie what she thinks,” Harry said.

“We can try,” Jessie came back. “Harry, why don’t you have the pilot drop Vicky on the north bank where I’ll be, and you hit the south bank with one of my people. That way, each of you will be with someone who’s familiar with the territory.”

“Sounds good,” Harry radioed back. “You guys watch your backs. If you see him, let us know and we will back you up. We’ll do the same.”

“Roger, over and out.”

* * *

Tony watched from about thirty-five yards away as the helicopters deposited two cops on his side of the river and two on the opposite side. He intended to sit still and let them walk past him unless he had an angle that allowed him to take them out one after the other. He looked up at the two choppers back above him now. No, that would be foolish. He studied the cops more closely. Wait, one was that woman cop from Florida, Vicky Stanopolis, the one who worked with the guy they called the dead detective. They all looked so unisex here in the baggy field dress they were wearing. She sure as hell hadn’t looked unisex in Florida. He remembered her from the marina where the other cop kept his boat. She usually wore tight jeans or slacks that showed off that shapely ass of hers. Oh yeah, he remembered that. The big broad with her must be that Alaskan trooper everyone said was so tough. She was supposed to have broken Pete McGuire’s nose. If they got too close he’d take her out first. No sense in taking any chances, and he definitey didn’t want the humiliation of being brought down by some tough bitch with a badge.

* * *

“He could be almost anywhere. We could step on him before we flushed him out,” Jessie said. She squatted down and listened to the river moving past. “The current’s fairly quick here so it gives some cover to the sound of our movements.” The helicopter roared past overhead. “So does that. But it all works the same for him. We just gotta keep pokin’ through the woods here and hope he gets antsy and makes a mistake.”

“He’s been pretty controlled so far,” Vicky said. “He’s surprised me.”

Across the river, Harry alternated between keeping his eyes on Vicky and Jessie and searching the ground ahead of him. He hoped Rolf would be on his side of the water, as far away from Vicky as possible. He’d seen what that sick asshole did to women and he wanted to put him down before he had the chance to do it again. That’s a new one for you, he thought, actually wanting to take someone down. You’ve done it before, but like most cops you’ve never wanted it. When you started wanting it, it’s time to start watching yourself; maybe even time to start thinking about packing it in.

One of the helicopters swooped down low and the radio crackled in Harry’s ears. “I thought I saw some movement about thirty yards ahead of our people on the north bank,” the pilot said. “It’s gone now—could have been an animal but I can’t be sure, the brush is too thick there.”

Jessie motioned to Vicky, indicating something up ahead. She whispered, “Saw something move. Spread out, about fifty feet apart.”

A shot rang out. Jessie grunted and staggered back; then a second shot, and she went down on her back. Vicky ran to her and dived headfirst next to her. There was a third shot that kicked up dirt about two feet in front of her head.

On the other side of the river, Harry fired into the area where he had seen a muzzle flash—two, three, four shots. The rounds coming at Vicky and Jessie stopped and Harry was up and running into the water, headed for the north bank. Covering fire came from the helicopters circling above.

Vicky watched Jessie gasping for breath. There were two bullet holes in her tunic, both heart shots. She ripped back the clothing and peeled off the kevlar vest. Jessie’s chest had suffered two severe bruises but the bullets had not penetrated her skin.

Vicky got on the radio: “Jessie’s okay. The bullets just knocked the wind out of her. Can one of you get down here to pick her up? I’ll cover you.”

“Roger, we’re coming in. Get yourself to a more secure location. Our second chopper will provide us with backup cover.”

Vicky ignored the instructions and waited until the helicopter had landed and two troopers were bringing a litter for Jessie before she broke away and headed for a thick brush pile. From her new location she could see Harry struggling against the river’s current. He was waist deep and two-thirds of the way across—a sitting duck if Rolf had a clear shot at him. She scanned the woods, looking for any sign that would give his location away. Then she waved at Harry, motioning for him to get down.

She didn’t feel him come up behind her, and then there he was. The eight-inch hunting knife slid up under her chin, the blade pressing against her throat, and she felt a trickle of blood running down her neck.

“Oooh, that is sooo sharp,” Rolf whispered in her ear. “Just one little flick of my wrist and it will take your lovely head right off that beautiful body. And look at your boyfriend just struggling against the current, trying to get here to save you. Imagine how he’s going to feel when he gets here and your lovely head is lying on the ground all by itself. And all that happens just before I blow his fucking head off. Why, it just might ruin his whole day, don’t you think?”

“You are one sick motherfucker,” Vicky rasped.

“And you have one dirty mouth on you, Miss Vicky. Didn’t your mama teach you better than that? Mine didn’t. That’s why I had to kill her. Did you know her name was Vicky too? No, you didn’t know that? Did you kill your mama? No, of course you didn’t. You were one of those good girls, weren’t you?”

Harry struggled up onto the bank, his rifle held in both hands.

Tony screamed at him: “One more step and her head will be on the ground next to her!” He smiled as he watched Harry stop dead in his tracks. “That water’s cold, isn’t it?”

Harry didn’t answer, he just stared, looking for an opening.

“Now here’s what I want you to do,” Tony said. “You tell the helicopters to back off. That’s number one.”

Harry spoke to the choppers and they pulled away.

“Number two: toss your rifle in the river.”

Harry did so.

“What other weapons do you have?”

“That’s it,” Harry said, thinking of the Glock in his shoulder holster.

“You’re lyin’, but I can’t do nothin’ about that now.” Tony turned his attention back to Vicky and leaned in close to her ear. “When I killed the last one, I slid the knife in just under her left titty then up into her heart. I don’t think she felt any pain at all. She just sort of slipped away, little by little, until that last little sparkle left her eyes and she was gone. It was beautiful, really. For me, anyway; I hope it was beautiful for her too. Do you think it was?”

“You sick fuck,” Vicky spat out.

The roar was so loud it literally knocked them forward a step, and it was followed by an overwhelming stench of putrid breath. Tony spun around, his knife instinctively raised, his rifle all but forgotten. The Alaskan brown bear, which had been drawn in by the earlier rifle shots and the hopes of any easy meal, rose up on its hind legs to its full height of ten feet. It roared again, blocking out all other sound, and it bit down on Tony’s head, driving its three-inch teeth into his skull. The murderer’s screams only seemed to enrage the bear more, and it reared back and swung one giant paw, catching Tony on the shoulder and ripping out his arm as his body flew twenty feet down the riverbank.

Tony’s torment filled Harry’s ears as he rushed forward and grabbed Vicky. He threw her over his right shoulder in a fireman’s carry as the bear loomed above him, then spun and raced back toward the water, expecting the animal to grab them from behind at any moment. He hit the water, headed for the south bank, and called over his radio for the helicopters to return and pick them up. Tony’s screams and the bear’s roars continued as he pressed himself against the rushing water to keep his balance. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the bear had no interest in Vicky or him. It had followed its victim’s body and was happily ripping and chewing on Tony Rolf as a geyser of blood spurted out. Tony’s remaining arm still held the knife and he flailed weakly at the monstrous animal while it tore chunks of flesh from what remained of his body.

Harry continued to stare at the grisly scene as he reached the south bank of the river. “Bon appétit, bear,” he said, then lowered Vicky to the ground and ran for the nearest chopper.