CHAPTER 23

 

Deputy Kevin Kearns lay prone on the motel room floor grunting through a set of push-ups. He’d been alone for several hours since Farrell left to go grocery shopping. The retired San Francisco cop checked them into a Holiday Inn under the names Richard and Donald Henderson; father and son.

Kearns had the TV turned on, though was only half-heartedly paying attention. Star Trek was playing, but not the old reruns with Captain Kirk and Mister Spock. Commanding the Enterprise in this new show was a bald guy with a British accent. Kearns was about to switch the channel to something else when a member of the crew named Counselor Troi appeared on the screen in a uniform that showcased her cleavage. Kearns decided he liked the new Star Trek.

He was also thinking about what transpired within the last twenty-four hours. He was certain Sergeant Evers and the sheriff were wondering what happened to him, and guessed Special Agent Scanlon had already issued a warrant for his arrest.

He finished the push-ups and reversed his position to begin sit-ups. Exercise cleared his head. He needed a clear head now.

A few scant hours ago a stranger posing as his attorney lured him away from what was left of his ruined career. That same stranger, now claiming to be an ex-San Francisco cop, convinced him to join forces and hunt a serial murderer named Vernon Slocum. A killer whose identity was known only to them.

Sweat glistened on his body. His brain felt as if it was also sweating.

Too much was happening too fast. He wondered if a more experienced cop would have avoided the series of events which led to his predicament. Frustrated at having no better instincts to rely on, he took out his anger on his muscles.

He pondered bracing Farrell when he returned, and telling the older cop he wanted out. Returning to the sheriff’s department and facing the music. Informing Agent Scanlon and Sergeant Evers about Slocum and about the file Farrell swiped from the VA hospital. Maybe they would understand.

Not likely.

Kearns switched back to push-ups. He chuckled to himself over the irony of it all. The task force had no idea of Slocum’s identity. An alcoholic ex-cop from California produced more by himself, in one afternoon, than the combined efforts of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Iowa State Police, and the Story County Sheriff’s Department.

For all his seedy methods, the chain-smoking Californian got results.

Kearns got up to answer a loud and insistent pounding on the motel room door. He squinted through the peephole.

Farrell stood in the doorway laden with packages. He was knocking on the door with his foot. Kearns opened the door, and Farrell staggered into the room under the weight of his burden. He dropped his cargo on the bed and plopped down, out of breath.

“Getting your Christmas shopping done early?” Kearns said.

Farrell shrugged out of his trench coat and loosened his tie. “Give me a minute to catch my wind,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

Farrell went to the bathroom and poured himself a large glass of water. Kearns had been exercising in his undershorts and now donned his trousers.

“Hell,” remarked Farrell, noting Kearns’ muscular torso. “If I’d known you were Charles Atlas I’d have brought you along to carry the groceries.”

“You told me to wait here. I waited here.”

“It was sound advice; by now most of the cops in Iowa will be looking for you.”

“Thanks to you.”

Farrell motioned for Kearns to sit down. He made an extravagant gesture of unpacking his purchases, which consisted of two large bags and an oblong-shaped box.

From the first bag Farrell produced a carton of Camel cigarettes and a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon whiskey. Kearns grunted. Next, his bony fingers brought out several pairs of thermal underwear and two packages of socks.

“We’re not going to have time to do laundry,” he said. “And it’s cold as hell in this godforsaken state of yours.”

Next came food, none of which seemed particularly healthy to Kearns. Instant coffee, doughnuts, pretzels, cough drops, breath mints, and a box of Oreo cookies.

“This is what you ventured out into a blizzard to get? These are the essentials?”

“One man’s pill is another man’s poison,” Farrell said. “Be patient, young deputy, the best is yet to come.”

He tossed the empty grocery bag aside and delved into the other. Its contents proved more interesting.

Farrell held up a Radio Shack box and handed it to Kearns. It was a police scanner.

“The guy at the mall sold me all the crystals for the police frequencies. Cost over a hundred dollars, but worth it. Here, this goes with it.” He tossed Kearns a parcel. “It’s an adapter that plugs into the car’s cigarette lighter.”

Digging further into the bag, Farrell withdrew two other items and set them on the table in front of Kearns.

“You carry a Smith & Wesson Model 19, two and a half inch, don’t you?”

“How’d you know that?”

“You’ve been a cop as long as I have, you learn to check people for guns. Your coat pocket’s a lousy place to carry your roscoe; you’ll get a shitty draw. Try this.”

He handed Kearns a holster. It was a Bianchi right-handed model for the S&W Model 19, two and a half inch barrel. With the holster was a box of cartridges in .38 Special +P caliber.

“You carry magnums in that six-gun?”

Kearns nodded.

“Lose them. You’ll get more control with .38s out of a short barrel, and better recovery time between shots.”

Kearns took his revolver from his coat pocket. The gun fit snugly in the new holster. Thumbing open the weapon’s cylinder release, he ejected the six .357 magnum cartridges. He replaced them with the new .38 +Ps.

“I don’t have any money to pay you for this.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Next Farrell unpacked two flashlights and batteries. “I’m afraid of the dark,” he said.

“What’s in there?” Kearns asked, motioning to the oblong box. “Flowers?”

“Nah,” Farrell said. “We’re not at that stage of our relationship; maybe on the second date.” He opened the box to reveal a shotgun. Kearns’ eyes widened. Farrell hefted the weapon and held it lovingly at arm’s length.

“Remington 870, twelve-gauge pump. Best goddamned law enforcement public-relations tool ever invented.” Farrell placed the shotgun gingerly on the bed. He filled a plastic cup with ice and topped it with Jim Beam.

“What’s the shotgun for?” Kearns asked.

“Butterfly hunting,” Farrell said dryly.

“Fuck you.”

Farrell ground out his cigarette.

“What do you think this is, boy: an Easter egg hunt?” The word “boy” was not lost on Kearns.

The Californian cocked his head to one side, appraising the Iowa deputy. “You think I’m a washed-up has-been who’s deluded himself into thinking he’s going to catch big bad Vernon Slocum, don’t you?”

Kearns’ silence was his answer.

“Yep, that’s me,” Farrell said. “A classic burnout.” He took another swig. “But let’s get something straight. I may be a has-been, but you’re a never-been. You wouldn’t know Slocum’s name if it wasn’t for me. You’d still be back at your hick town sheriff’s department getting the third degree from a federal bureaucrat. Answering ‘yes, sir,’ and ‘no, sir,’ and wringing your hands. All because you fucked up bagging Slocum when you had the chance.”

Kearns’ eyes flashed, but he held his tongue.

“That’s right. You fucked up. If you’d stopped Slocum in the schoolyard we wouldn’t be here now. I wouldn’t be freezing my gonads off in the middle of Iowa, and half the cops in the state wouldn’t be missing dinner with their families. You’d be a hero, that kid wouldn’t be dead, and your career wouldn’t be in the sewer. Those are the facts.”

“That’s enough,” Kearns said under his breath.

“No,” Farrell said, gulping down the last of his bourbon. “It ain’t enough. You’ve got some truth to face. We’re the same, you and me. Vernon Slocum made us that way. I’m you, a few years from now. The blood of Tiffany Meade is as much on my hands as yours. I fucked up my chance to take Slocum out in Vietnam.” He refilled his glass with bourbon. “It won’t happen again.”

“That was twenty years ago.”

“Makes no difference. Just like you, I let him slip through my fingers. And another child paid for my fuck-up.”

“You can’t blame yourself. It was out of your hands.”

Farrell grinned at Kearns. “You’ve been telling yourself that for a couple of days now. Sleeping any better?”

Kearns looked at the carpet.

“Well, kid,” Farrell said, raising his glass in a mock toast, “if it’s any consolation, I ain’t been sleeping so good either.” He emptied his glass for a second time.

Farrell’s voice softened. “Kevin, the shotgun is because we’ll need it. Do you think finding Slocum is going to be the hard part? Assuming we locate him, he’s going to go out like a wolverine. If we aren’t ready he’ll leave us both hanging in a tree.” Farrell ran his hands through his thinning hair. “Maybe I was wrong to drag you into this. I thought you understood what we’re up against. I figured because of what happened in that schoolyard you’d want in. Maybe you’d better rethink this whole thing. You won’t hurt my feelings if you want out.”

“I don’t want to quit. I know what I’m getting into.”

“I’m not sure you do. I can’t have you along if you’re going to question everything I do. Like I said, this ain’t a butterfly hunt.”

“Cut me some slack. Six hours ago I didn’t know who Vernon Slocum was. I don’t want out.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Just start treating me like a partner instead of a subordinate. If I knew what you were up to, I wouldn’t have to question you all the time.”

“Fair enough.”

The men shook hands awkwardly.

“Jesus,” Farrell said. “You don’t want a hug, do you?”

“Not likely. I’m going to hit the shower.”

“About time; you smell like a goat. Soon as you’re done we’ll get a bite to eat. I’m starving.”

“I forgot,” Kearns called out from the bathroom. “You told Scanlon you were taking me out to lunch.”

“So I lied. It was dinner.”

While Kearns showered, Farrell field-stripped the shotgun and cleaned off the Cosmoline. He switched the channel from Star Trek to a local news broadcast.

“…our top story tonight: In the wake of a fiery explosion outside Coon Rapids today, investigators have ruled out the possibility of an accidental cause in the blaze. State arson inspectors would not comment on the incident, but this station has learned that foul play is definitely suspected. Ron Rawlings is live in Coon Rapids.”

Farrell finished wiping off the packing grease and began to oil the shotgun’s components.

“As you can see behind me, firefighters still haven’t completely subdued the tenacious fire, which they’ve been battling all afternoon. It appears hazardous chemicals inside the barn are responsible for the firefighters’ inability to put out the inferno. Though there has been no official confirmation, several bodies have been pulled from the farmhouse. We were also able to confirm with an anonymous member of the Carroll County Sheriff’s Department that the farmhouse was the location of a narcotics search warrant last May. We’re still trying to get further on that. This is Ron Rawlings, on the scene at Coon Rapids. Back to you, Dave.”

On screen, the anchorman looked down at a sheet of paper.

“This just in. Rural Pottawattamie County, east of the Nebraska State line, was the scene of a double homicide today. Two Iowa state troopers were found murdered near their patrol car, victims of an apparent ambush. The names of the troopers have been withheld pending notification of their families. There are no suspects in custody at this time, though authorities assure us every effort is being made to identify the suspect in this crime.”

Farrell reassembled the shotgun. He worked the pump action, satisfied the weapon was functional. He then loaded four rounds of buckshot into the magazine but left the chamber empty.

“In other news, a candlelight vigil was held in Nevada tonight, outside Franklin D Roosevelt Elementary school. Less than one week ago, seven year-old Tiffany Meade was kidnapped here, and her beloved teacher was gunned down trying to prevent it. Meade was murdered later that day, her body discovered at a highway rest stop. Representatives from several area churches were on hand, and despite the inclement weather, a large crowd of mourners have gathered. The mood here is somber.”

Farrell watched hundreds of people standing in the frigid weather. Their candles glowed eerily in the twilight, and a priest led the assembly in the Lord’s Prayer. Many were crying. The image changed to a reporter interviewing Tiffany Meade’s mother at home, surrounded by her family.

Farrell didn’t hear the shower stop in the background. He listened to the mother of a dead child talk about a Christmas which would never be merry again. She spoke of her daughter and displayed a set of coloring books the little girl had purchased with her allowance as a Christmas present for her younger brother.

Riveted to the TV, Farrell didn’t notice Kearns enter the room.

“…an unusual footnote to the Meade tragedy. FBI Special Agent Steve Scanlon, supervising the task force assigned to catch the killer, reported today that Deputy Kevin Kearns, the off-duty officer who allegedly battled the girl’s assailant in an effort to thwart the kidnapping, is now missing. Scanlon said Deputy Kearns was last seen in the company of an unidentified man who claimed to be his attorney. Scanlon would not speculate what this strange new development means. We’ll take a break, and when we come back, we’ll have all the basketball highlights from the Cyclones’ battle with the Hawkeyes. Stay with us.”

Farrell reached over and switched off the television. Kearns stared at the lifeless screen. His face was ashen.

“Scanlon’s implying I’m involved. It’s happening just like you said.”

“Don’t let it bother you,” Farrell said.

“Could you?”