Pursuit

A L
INK IN THE
C
HAIN

“What do you have?” Captain Walker sat down, closing a Missouri State Patrol convention brochure and its intended agenda.

Julie pulled a two-page report from her binder. “A disappearance seventeen years ago. That in itself is not unusual, but three others took place over a period of ten months—all within a couple-hundred-mile radius. At the time, they were thought to be runaways.”

“Females, I presume.”

Julie nodded. “Tracked a mother of one of these women to a trailer park. When I phoned her, she says, ‘It took you near a decade or more to get back to us. Why you botherin' now?' I asked Mom if the girl took any items with her when she left: clothes, toiletries, anything. She said, ‘Marylou left cocky, naive, and naked as a jay.' That doesn't sound like a runaway to me.”

Walker puzzled with a ring of keys, dropping them in an ashtray. “The problem with cold cases is they're just that. People just don't give a damn. Tell you what. Pursue the three runaways, but keep it to yourself. If the commish finds out, I'll be down in the basement with you, and I am way too old for that. Good luck, and, of course, not a word of this to anyone.”

Critics praise Gene Hackman, an author who “takes aim at a clear target: telling a good story. He hits it, too.”

—
St. Augustine Record
on
Payback at Morning Peak

A
brisk fall
day in 1995. The oaks and cottonwoods battled for color rights in the annual October leaf display.

The wooded path wound east across two rock-strewn creeks, through a grove of walnut trees, and out into a slight rise overlooking a hundred acres of sweet corn.

“I'm Cleopatra's handmaiden—prettier, of course, and smarter, but always demure.” Betty's schoolbooks were piled atop her head. She swayed her hips along the dirt path in time to a dum-ditty-dum-dum beat.

“Yes, of course, and I'm Amelia Earhart flying across the Pacific.” Beverly, the younger of the two sisters, had always been more levelheaded and astute.

“Ah yes. And we know what happened to her, don't we? While others fritter away their time on adventurous nonsense, I, on the other hand, reign supreme gathering my awards and accolades.”

“You got a B in gym class, for heaven's sake. Give it up.”

“Give it up? Hardly. Mr. Scott says I could go all the way.”

“Mr. Scott, I think, means the
two of you
could go all the way. You're almost seventeen, get with it.”

“Oh, Bev, you're no fun. Every time I do well, you beat me down. Go on ahead.”

He parked not in his accustomed dirt road spot but farther on in a wayside picnic area. Dodging into the wooded expanse between the road and wetlands area, he found the animal trail that led him back to a knoll and his favorite dogwood.

Arriving early had been the plan, not just to get settled but to convince himself he would be doing the right thing. He needed time to think, not about what he was going to do but the consequences. His past deeds had been easy. The planning, execution, all a snap. He watched, off and on, for days, under this particular yellowed tree. The anticipation when the distant school bell rang. The delicious wait as the two girls emerged along the bushy path. He felt he knew them, shared their silly rhymes and school songs. Others crowded his past life. Drifters, thumb trippers, but now a different grander path, a different set of prey.

They came right on time, their incessant bickering a dreary habit. The two of them, though dressed in identical clothing, were not twins but made a handsome pair. The older and taller of the two was also prettier, while the other, more thoughtful. It would be difficult convincing them he was injured and needed help. Using a long oak branch as a makeshift crutch, he braced the gnarled cane against a large stone and recited in his head the memorized plea.
“Help, please help. I'm injured and can't walk.”
It needed to be just right. Not too much hooey and not overdone.

The two of them would be a challenge, but they would keep each other company at his Bait Shack. Down on the path from school, he could hear them arguing.

“I need to go, I can't wait.”

“Hold it til we get home. I'm leaving, stupid. See you at the house. Remember, chores.”

The younger girl moved on.

He saw her through the gap in the trees. She, flouncing her golden hair and sprinting away. It just got so much easier. Charlie's day brightened with opportunity.

Other than a few errant scratches around his throat from the older girl's stupid protests, he was fine. Wearing a turtleneck to work would quiet any nosy questions.

Later, sated and filthy from digging, he felt regret. Not for his happening, as it were, but for the missed chance of a double conquest.
Maybe later.

S
aturday afternoon, and
Julie Worth parked at the Westside Mall to shop for her teenager's birthday. Despite leaving her Jeep close to the entrance, she would still have quite a walk. As she started across the vast macadam lot, the air held the crispness of a perfect late-fall day. Near the mall entrance, the early rumblings of a disorderly crowd, with several people rushing through the electric doors. A woman fell, trying to push through the slow-moving exit.

“A man, with a gun. Inside.”

Julie helped the woman to her feet.

Others rushed past her.

“Jesus save me!”

“Move it, bitch!”

She pressed against the rough brick surface of the mall entrance. Part of her wanted to stop, seek cover, and wait for backup. But she knew that was so 1999. Columbine changed everything. Old rules—call it in, wait for a Special Weapons and Tactics team—still applied to a barricaded badass. But this situation looked like an active shooter, someone still racking up a body count. And the orders
were simple—go stop him. About 30 percent of the time, the first cop in would get shot. So she knew she would have a two-out-of-three chance of going home tonight.

A woman clutching a child stumbled and grabbed Julie by the waist. “He's killing people, call the police.”

I am the police.
Julie stepped through a broken glass door and pushed against the human stampede. With one hand clasped on her holstered 9-millimeter Sig Sauer, she held her badge high above her head and moved toward the corridor wall.

Once firmly inside the mall, she saw only a few people remaining in the wide hallway, some crouched in store entries. Julie signaled them to slip away. She waited and listened. Halfway down the mall at the junction of another hallway, a body lay sprawled on the floor.

Julie stayed to the extreme left side of the wide passageway. Stepping lightly, she stopped at each store entrance to assess the situation. Echoing effects of shouts and cries for help played tricks with the direction of voices.

She took a deep breath and called 911. “Sergeant Worth. Missouri State Patrol. I'm at Westside Mall. Active shooter on scene. Man down in center of corridor. Condition not known, send an ambulance. I am armed.”

She put her phone on vibrate and once again eyed the corridor before her: a man in a pale green security guard shirt and navy blue pants, splayed out in front of an information kiosk. A distant siren drew close; someone else must have called 911 first. Julie secreted herself in each storefront, checked the area and moved on. Her phone vibrated. She didn't recognize the number. “Sergeant Worth, who is this?” She stepped deep into the vestibule of a shoe store, her hand cupped over her phone.

“Lieutenant Mac White, city police. Sergeant, I suggest
you get the hell out of there while we assemble our SWAT team.”