Profile of Terror (27 page)

Ryder called out, "Hope you're alive, Special Agent Stone, you fucking bitch.  I still have a score to settle with you.  This ain't over.  Not even close."

Pushing Sean Mahoney in front of him, Ryder headed down the path from which they'd come, toward the Suburban parked near the graveyard.  Once they reached the vehicle, he forced Sean to unlock his handcuffs.  Then he shot Sean in the chest and left him lying near an ancient tombstone.  Fishing the keys out of Sean's pocket, he jumped in the large SUV, fired up the engine, and headed north on State Road 341 for ten miles.  Fighting the panic ready to explode within him, he drove the speed limit and nearly had a cardiac when a sheriff's patrol car raced past him just before he'd gotten to Mellott.

Soon he turned onto Monroe Road, then turned left onto a gravel road that led to the old stone quarry.  Parking the Suburban at the quarry's edge, he reached in the back seat and grabbed the duffle bag filled with weapons, opened the door, and placed it on the ground.  He then pushed the gear to neutral, leapt out of the vehicle and ran to its rear where he grunted as he pushed the heavy vehicle until it fell off the edge, a straight-down drop to the deep water below.  Peering over the edge, he watched until the Suburban sank to the bottom of the quarry's basin. 

Throwing the duffle bag over his shoulder, he crossed the two-lane highway and entered a forest on the other side, and pushed deep into the woods heading toward the Smith-Cedar house.

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Ryder had first discovered the old house by accident while a deputy on patrol two years or so before he was arrested.  A passerby had called dispatch to report they'd seen a light inside the Smith-Cedar house on Monroe Road, out past the quarry where the kids swam all summer. 

It wasn't an easy house to find.  He'd driven past it two times before he realized it was located about a fourth of a mile off a dirt road, shielded by giant red cedar trees that lined the front of the property.  Illuminated only by a full moon, the two-story, early 1800s Federal/early Republic style house was graced by five columns in front, six windows with dark shutters on the lower level, and eight on the upper.   Though it was in various stages of disrepair, thanks to a series of renters, the old house must have been a beauty in its day.

There were no vehicles on the property, or any other obvious signs of trespassers, but he was paid to check it out, so he retrieved his flashlight from the glove box, got out of the squad car, and checked the front door. Finding the door locked, he moved to one of the windows, flashing a light beam inside, but saw nothing but an old fireplace and papers littering the wooden floors.  He rounded the house to the back and found the door there unlocked, so he went inside. 

"Anyone here?" he called out, his words echoing through the house.  Searching from room-to-room, he found nothing that suggested squatters — no sleeping bags, oil lamps, cans of food, or anything else required for impromptu living.

Squatters were common in Shawnee County during the recession, where more homes were foreclosed and deserted than he'd ever seen before.  People moved into abandoned houses and called them their own, with some success if neighbors were scarce.  Homes like this vacant house were prime pickings.

Checking the house room-by-room, Ryder entered a lower-level bedroom and tripped over something, landing face-first on the floor with a thud, knocking the air out of his lungs, and stirring up a cloud of dust that choked him once he started breathing again.  Cursing between coughs, he pulled himself up and dusted off his uniform.   He found his flashlight that had rolled across the floor when he fell, and searched for whatever had tripped him.  Aiming his flashlight, he found a groove in the wooden floor that blended in so well that one would have to be looking for it to notice it.  Fingering the groove, he lifted until he heard the squeaking of a hinge, as a 5' by 3' trapdoor opened to reveal an ancient wooden ladder leaning against a rough rock wall, perched on a dirt floor about 6' below him.  Ryder swung the flashlight beam until it lit up the room below. Hesitant about putting his two-hundred-and-fifty pound weight on the ladder rungs, he tried the first one and it held.  The third rung cracked as he stepped on it, so he decided to jump the three feet to the dirt floor below.

The room was empty, filled only with stale, mildewed air, and over a hundred years of dust.  He walked the perimeter of the room with his fingers running over the coarse, rough rocks embedded in the walls.  Hearing only the echoes of his footsteps, he moved to the wall opposite the ladder.  Besides the ceiling being lower in this part of the room, there was something else.  Fresh air seeped from the wall near the floor. On hands and knees, he discovered the large rocks in the wall were loose.  One by one, he pulled out rocks and set them aside.  Before long, he realized he'd discovered a hidden cave, or possibly a tunnel. Gripping his flashlight tightly in one hand, he crawled about six feet or so, then entered a long corridor, just tall enough for him to stand up to walk. Lining the walls of the tunnel were rusting lanterns.  Jutting off the passageway was a catacomb of rooms, some the size of a closet, others much larger.

It was true what Ryder had heard at the library long ago.  Surfing the Internet on his laptop, using the library's free Wi-Fi, and searching for young girls to seduce online, Ryder overheard a conversation two of the librarians were having.  In the 1800s, the Smith-Cedar house provided food and shelter for hundreds of runaway slaves.  However, neither librarian mentioned that beneath the house was a tunnel with a maze of rooms that hid the fugitives from bounty hunters and plantation owners. 

Wondering where the tunnel would lead, he moved forward until he reached another cave.  Crawling, he'd reached the end of the cave when the beam of his flashlight hit upon another trapdoor, this one above him.  On his back, Ryder strained as he pushed until he dislodged whatever was preventing the hatch from opening.  Emerging from the cave, he discovered he was in a wooded area, thick with trees, which undoubtedly, was the escape route for slaves who found refuge in the tunnels he'd just left.  Circling the trapdoor was about a half-dozen paper birch trees, which probably served as a marker for fugitives coming from the opposite direction, searching for the house and safety.

Re-entering the cave and closing the trapdoor, he crawled until he reached the main corridor, then plopped down on the floor.  He couldn't believe his luck.  No one had lived in this house for years, and although the county wanted to purchase the home for a historic landmark, the money wasn't in the budget. It would take years to raise enough.  Too bad, so sad.  The place was perfect for his purposes.  Perfect. 

Ryder could house his teenaged slaves here, instead of the basement of his house, which was much more apt to be discovered by the law.  The Smith-Cedar place would also be a perfect hideout should he need it.

He spent the weeks and months to come preparing the place for his purposes. Hiding canned foods in one room, he placed them in a corner and covered them with rocks.  In another room, he dug a hole in the dirt floor to hide a sleeping bag, a coat with hat and gloves, and clothing in sealed plastic bags.  He dug another hole large enough to hold a covered plastic bin filled with candles, matches, lamp oil and lamps.  Still another plastic bin held bags of charcoal and a small portable grill he could use outside to grill small animals he'd hunt, as well as heat his coffee.  Finding an old shed on the property, he bought an old Toyota with cash, stole a license plate for it, and parked it inside. 

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Ryder raced through the woods, constantly looking over his shoulder, listening for police sirens.  He hoped he'd been successful in killing all of them.  If he had, he'd be ahead of them for days, if not months or years.  They'd never find him in the tunnels of the Smith-Cedar house. Did anyone even know about the tunnels?  He doubted it. The Master was back.

In the distance, he located the circle of paper birch trees where the trapdoor to the tunnels and his safety awaited.

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Carly wiggled out from under Brody's heavy body and reached for his wrist.  Thank God.  He had a pulse and he was breathing.  Wiping her hand across her forehead, she realized it was wet and sticky.  It was blood! But whose blood?  Was it blood from Sam and Jon?  Had Brody been hit? Was she injured?  Carly unbuttoned Brody's shirt and discovered he was wearing a Kevlar vest, so she looked for injuries in exposed areas like his face, neck, arms, and legs.  No gunshot wounds appeared.  He groaned and reached for her.

"Don't move, Brody," she said, still looking for injuries.

"The bullet hit my vest, hard as a fucking sledge hammer.  It hurts like hell."

Carly helped him remove his vest, finding a darkening spot near his shoulder.  A little higher and the bullet would have found its way to his neck, where the vest didn't cover, which could have killed him.  Shuddering at the thought, she pulled him into her arms.  They sat on the ground holding each other for a long time.

Finally Brody said, "Carly, it's okay, I'm fine.  What about you?  There's blood on your face."

"I'm fine.  I have to check the others," Carly said, moving toward the two fallen agents next to them.  Jon Finnelly was dead; blood had blossomed across his forehead and was drying around the bullet hole.  Focusing her attention on Sam Isley, she found he had a very weak pulse and was barely breathing.  "He's alive. But we have to get help!"

Brody searched for his cell phone.  Finally finding it in his back pocket, he called Dispatch.  "Officers down.  Jim Ryder has escaped.  We need backup.  We're behind an old cemetery off State Road 341, just east of Hillsboro.  We need help, and fast.  Get the medical helicopter from I.U. Health in Lafayette.  Get the closest deputies on patrol to close off the road. And put out a fucking BOLO on Ryder.  He's heavily armed and dangerous.  Driving a newer-model white Suburban."

He ended the call to dispatch and then called Cameron.  "Ryder's escaped.  Get the copter and come get Carly and me.  We have to find him!"

"Are you okay?  Is Carly?"  Cameron asked.

"We're fine.  I want to get us in the air as fast as we can to find that son of a bitch."

"Brody, I'm in Indy meeting with Wayne Griffin.  I'm leaving now, but I'm an hour to an hour-and-a-half-away.  I'll call Gabe."

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"Cam says Brody and Carly are fine, but I need to see for myself.  Those two have a bad habit of refusing medical help when they need it," Gabe said to Kaitlyn, who sat in the passenger seat beside him as the helicopter took to the air.  He'd just picked up from school and was almost home when he got Cameron's call.

Pulling off the brunette wig Carly loaned her for a disguise, she replied, "They have to be okay. Where's the first aid kit?"

"It's on the seat behind you.  I hope the medical copter beats us there.  There were three federal agents with them who were shot.  Don't know how serious their injuries are."

Soon the helicopter hovered above the cemetery.  Four deputies were on the scene, light bars atop their vehicles flashing.  Two more deputies had parked to block the road so both helicopters could land safely.  The medical helicopter was nowhere in sight.

"There's Brody!"  Kaitlyn cried out.  Brody stood in the graveyard, waving his hands.  Next to him, a man lay near a tombstone.  She grabbed the first aid kit from the seat behind her and held it on her lap.

Gabe landed the helicopter on the highway, jumped out, and then joined Kaitlyn to run to his brother.

Reaching Brody, Gabe hugged him hard, then checked for himself to see if his brother had any injuries.

"Will you please stop it?  I'm fine.  But he's not."  Brody pointed to the man beside him who was clearly unconscious, his head bleeding.

"He's wearing a Kevlar vest," said Gabe, as he examined the man.