Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 02 - Love Can Be Murder (31 page)

When she reached the far shore of the lake, she shoved her bag into the larger Duluth Pack and hoisted it onto her back. Pulling the boat up onto shore, she leaned over, grabbed the canoe by the yoke with both hands and heaved, until it was at waist level.

She took a deep breath, and then lifted the boat the rest of the way up, until the yoke straddled her shoulders. Jo adjusted her hands so that she could balance the canoe and began walking in the direction of the next lake. She was amazed she could still portage a canoe. Muscle memory had taken over.

Jo could smell the piney scent of the woods as she trekked along the narrow path that led to the next lake. She barely noticed the undergrowth that occasionally tugged at her pant legs, or the branch that scratched her arm.

She continued on this way for the better part of the morning, alternately paddling and portaging, frequently checking the directions. Every now and then, she pulled out the cell phone to check for a signal. Each time, she was disappointed to see “No Service.”
Guess they haven’t installed cell towers everywhere in the Boundary Waters yet. But of course, he knew that when he gave me the phone.

Jo saw no sign of another human being, no motors, no voices. Nothing but the sounds of nature. It was as if she was the last person left on earth. What should have felt lonely, felt peaceful instead.

When at last she reached the final lake, her arms and legs began to shake from the strain and she rested a moment in the seat of the canoe. She closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath.

And smelled smoke.

Her eyes snapped open and she began paddling. She saw the wisp of smoke in the distance and her back muscles strained as she increased the rhythm of her strokes.

Chapter Forty-One

Turners Bend

Early April

Chip was looking in his closet, trying to decide what to wear to his movie date with Jane and selected a pair of designer jeans, now well-worn and outdated, and a blue sweater. His phone buzzed.

“Chip, I can’t meet you at the Bijou. I don’t know where Ingrid is.”

Chip could hear the panic in Jane’s voice. He had seen her in a number of crises and marveled at her cool, calm command of emergency situations, but he sensed none of that now. She seemed on the point of hysteria.

“What do you mean? You don’t know where she is?”

“She always comes to the clinic after practice, and we go home together. When she didn’t come today, I called around. Her friends say she left practice as usual. No one has seen her since. I’ve been trying her cell phone with no luck.”

“Call Fredrickson, then hold tight. I’ll be at your office as soon as I can.”

“Hurry, Chip, something is terribly wrong.”

Chip hesitated for a moment. “Jane …”

“Yes.”

“What was she wearing?”

“I suppose she was in her Prairie Dogs warm-up suit. That’s usually what she has on after practice. Why?”

He hesitated for a second. “Nothing. I’m out the door.”

Chip grabbed a jacket and ran to his rental car. Gravel went flying as he tore down his road onto the highway. He could feel his heart pumping in his chest and his mind was racing. He replayed his earlier conversation with the chief and Jim.
Could Masterson be wrong about Brown being the serial killer? Was the real killer still out there? Or, could there be a copycat killer?

He tried taking deep breaths to clear his mind. Ingrid could show up any minute. He wanted to convince himself she was probably just fine, but something deep in his gut told him she was in grave danger. He lost his concentration and veered into a ditch alongside the road. He revved his engine and blasted out, back into the lane.

As he neared Jane’s clinic, he saw the police cruiser and Iver’s snow plow truck outside. He parked, jumped out and threw open the clinic door. Jane was standing in the middle of the waiting room sobbing in Mabel’s arms. Iver was pacing around the room. He saw the chief on the phone in the treatment room, just out of earshot. Chip went to the treatment room and picked up on Fredrickson’s phone conversation.

“Damn, we never identified and searched the vacant buildings around Turners Bend. Didn’t think there was a need to since we had already found one body here,” the chief was saying. Then he paused to listen, mouthing the name ‘Masterson’ to Chip.

“Right, right. Send as many people as you can. But in the meantime we don’t have a second to lose. I’m going to call our firemen and first responders and as many others as I can quickly get ahold of, and we’ll start the search. Yes, yes.”

The Chief hung up the phone and blew out his breath. “Masterson is sending FBI agents and a SWAT team from the Des Moines office and police officers from neighboring towns. She’s on her way from Sioux City. The FBI has had a detail on Brown, and we know she’s there, so this is someone else. The first few hours after an abduction, if that’s what this is, are critical. We can’t send out an Amber Alert because we don’t know for sure she’s been abducted, and we don’t have any perp or vehicle info, so we’ve got to rally as many people as we can and get out there. Let’s move it.”

They went back to the waiting room. Jane had composed herself momentarily, but fell into Chip’s arms and began to cry softly. He could feel her trembling.

The chief took charge. “Jane, we’re going to find her, I promise. You and Mabel stay here, she may show up. Check with all your relatives and Ingrid’s friends. If you find out anything, phone Sharon at the station. Chip and Iver, go in Iver’s truck. Iver, you know where there are vacant buildings on the outskirts of town, start checking by going west. Jim and I will head east. If you see anything suspicious, radio me with that old CB radio you have. Don’t do anything foolhardy. I’ll get firemen to start searching vacant houses and storefronts in town.”

Chip took Jane’s face in his hands, using his thumbs to wipe away tears. Her eyes were swollen and full of fear. He kissed her, held her close for a second and whispered in her ear, “I love you.” Then he ran out to Iver’s truck and jumped into the cab. They headed west on Main Street and then out to the highway heading away from Turners Bend.

It was dusk and light was quickly fading. Rural mailboxes and utility poles cast eerie shadows across the crusty snow piles that remained along the road. The temperature in the cab was falling, and Chip was wishing he had worn a warmer jacket. Iver had no jacket and didn’t seem to feel the chill. The April evenings were still cold, and Iowa had recently had a late-season snowfall.

“This is what we’ll do,” said Iver. “When we come to a deserted place, I’ll shine my spotlight on the road leading to the homestead. I don’t plow those places, so if we see tracks in the snow, we’ll go take a look. If not, we’ll just go to the next place. Check the flashlights in the glove compartment and make sure the batteries are working, we may need them. The first stop is the old Mattson place, been empty for years.”

They reached the road. Iver shone his spotlight on the road. The snow on the road cast a silvery glow. No vehicle tracks. Iver had not plowed the road during the past winter.

“The next farm is Lance’s place. He’s in New York with Bridezilla. Supposed to be back tomorrow. Guess we should take a look around.”

They drove up to Lance’s house. All was still. They both took a flashlight and roamed around the yard. All the buildings were locked. They looked in a few windows. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

“What’s the next place?”

“Half a mile down the road is the old Swanson place. When Hal’s father passed away, the missus moved into town. But it’s not vacant. Coach rents it from her.”

“Coach?”

“Ya, Coach Whittler. He teaches PE at the high school and coaches basketball and track.”

“What’s your opinion of him?”

“Kind of a hothead. I saw a ref throw him out of a game recently. He’s had winning teams, so I guess the school puts up with his bad behavior.”

Like the final pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, snippets of information rapidly started to come together in Chip’s head. “Let’s check out his place, I’ve got a bad feeling about that guy. If nothing else, maybe he can give us some more information about Ingrid. Let’s radio Fredrickson from the cab.”

They sat in the truck. Iver radioed Sharon at the police station and asked her to patch him through to the squad car. He handed the CB to Chip.

“Hold this down to talk and let it up to listen.”

Chip held down the button to speak to Fredrickson. “Chief, Iver and I are at Lance’s farm. We’re not far from Coach Whittler’s. I think we should pay a visit. What do you think?” Chip was hoping that Fredrickson could read between the lines. “You know, girls’ basketball coach, team with blue uniforms.”

“Got ya. Jim and I will head over there. You and Iver wait for us, hear?”

“Roger. Over and out.”

“You ain’t fooling me,” said Iver. “You think Coach has something to do with the murders or with Ingrid being missing, don’t you?”

“Call it crime writer’s intuition, but yes, I don’t like what I’ve been told about Whittler. Ingrid once mentioned he sometimes goes ‘postal’.”

Iver reached under his seat and pulled out a revolver and checked the barrel.

Chip was astonished. “Why in the world do you have a gun?”

“Use it for killing snakes. Last fall I got a six-foot bull snake, and once in a while I see a timber rattler.”

Iver stuck it in the waistband of his jeans. “Not waiting. You with me or not?”Adrenalin rushed through Chip’s body as they drove down the road, slowing as they approached the Swanson farm. Iver parked on the highway and got out of the cab, flashlight in hand. Chip followed.

The house was dark, except for light that outlined the edges of the blinds in the side window. The moon came out from behind a cloud giving them enough light to see. They crouched down and slowly made their way up the road and slipped into the barn. Once inside they turned on their flashlights and looked around, checking stalls.

Chip whispered. “Did Hal’s father have dairy cows?”

“Yes, he had a small herd. The milk parlor is over there.”

Chip went into a small side room. It was filled with old tin buckets and wooden stools and what he guessed to be milking machines. On the counter was a ledger book. He opened it and saw something all too familiar. Then he heard a scream echoing through the still night air. It was coming from the house.

Iver drew his gun. “You go around the front. I’ll go to the back. Here, take this shovel.” Iver handed an old manure shovel to Chip, and both men ran from the barn toward the house.

Chip reached the front of the house and slid along with his back to the wall until he reached a window. The blind obscured his view, but he could hear a man’s voice yelling. “Shut up or I’ll kill you just like all the other girls. Stupid FBI wants to pin this on my Elizabeth. I can’t let them do that. I did all of this for her.”

That was enough for Chip. Rage overtook him. He wielded the shovel at the window; the glass shattered, making a tinkling sound. He caught a glimpse of Ingrid tied to a straight chair and a man standing with a gun in his hand. He moved to the front door and bashed it in, repeatedly striking it with more power and vengeance then he had ever felt in his life. He stumbled through the splintered door.

He heard a click and then a blast. A searing pain tore through his upper chest. As he fell backward he heard another shot. Then all went black.

* * *

Chip could not move, could not open his eyes. His sense of smell was the first to return. He could smell a strong disinfectant, reminding him of someplace, but he couldn’t quite place it. A cloying perfume invaded him. Was it the Chanel No. 5 his mother lavished upon herself? It was replaced by a clean smell. Irish Spring soap. Then flowers, roses, maybe.

Time seemed to float. He tried to remember what day it was, but couldn’t. Was it day or night? He couldn’t tell.

Then he began to discern sounds. A beeper like an alarm sounded and then ceased. He heard squeaky wheels, they needed oil. Whispers and hushed sounds, words he could not make out, most of them soft and soothing. One voice loud and commanding. Was it his father? What would he be doing here? Where was “here”?

Someone was moving him and every part of his body hurt. Was that his voice crying out in pain? His mouth was dry, his tongue felt swollen and fuzzy. He finally got out one word, “Water.” A cool sponge was run across his lips and inserted in his mouth. He sucked its wetness.

“Chip, it’s me. Jane. Don’t try to talk, darling. You’ve been shot, a through and through, in your right shoulder and out your back. You also have lots of cuts from broken glass. I know you’re in lots of pain, but the doctors say you are going to be fine. It’s just going to take some time to recover. Your father’s here at Mercy Medical Center in Des Moines, seeing that you have the best care possible.”

He opened his eyes, but could not focus. He saw two Janes, then one, than two again. He couldn’t keep his eyelids open. She gave him more water.

“Ingrid,” he managed to utter hoarsely.

“Ingrid is safe. She’s had quite an ordeal. No physical harm, but emotionally she’s very fragile right now. She’s going to need lots of comfort and support from us. She been up on Pediatrics, but I’m taking her home today.”

He wanted to stay with Jane, but he could feel himself fading off to a dark place. He always liked it when she said the word “us.” He wanted to take care of Ingrid with Jane … us, together taking care of both a daughter and a son.

* * *

Chip, this is your father. They are reducing the sedation. You will feel some discomfort. Don’t try to move; just open your eyes. Your mother is here, too.”

He was able to open his eyes and focus on his father’s face. He turned his head slowly and saw his mother sitting in a chair by his bed. She was holding his left hand.

“Charles, it’s Mother. We’re so proud of you. You saved Ingrid and helped catch the Iowa serial killer. You’ve been so brave. Your father says you are going to be better in a few days. Jane is taking care of Callie and Runt, so don’t worry about them. Just try to rest now.”