Saving Farley's Bog (6 page)

“C..come back? To Mapleton?”

“Yeah. This afternoon. Right now. I can protect you while you're with me. Make sure you get into the safety of police custody. Right now you're a sitting duck. Especially if they know I've found you. Is there anyone else here?”

“No.”

“Good. Are you ready? Go back and face the music. Maybe you can rebuild your family. Maybe not. But if you don't go back, you're in hiding for the rest of your life. Pretending to be someone else. Always afraid they will decide to shut you up permanently. Wondering if that guy walking toward you in the black hoody has a gun in his pocket. A gun aimed at you. And what happens when the money dries up? What do you do then?”

Maxwell shook his head despondently. “Between a rock and a hard place,” he muttered.

Stitch reached over the table. He pulled the photo from Maxwell's pocket. “Look at this, Bob.” Maxwell lifted his head. “These look like great kids. They deserve a future. A future with a father.”

Tears welled in Maxwell's eyes again. He sat silent for several seconds. “OK,” he whispered at last. “I'll go back.”

Stitch breathed deeply and sat up straight.

“But,” Maxwell went on. “Not until tomorrow morning.”

Stitch's face tensed. “That's a bad idea. You don't know if they are watching you. If you leave now, we can be back in Canada tonight. You'll be safe. When we get to Mapleton I'll arrange protection.”

Maxwell shook his head slowly. “You don't understand, Stitch. I love her. Didi. Maybe for the first time, I'm in love. I can't just run out on her.” He looked up. “Give me one more night. I know you're wrong about her. But I promise I'll say nothing just in case.”

Stitch considered grabbing the man and wrestling him into the Rav. But he'd yell. That would bring Didi. Who knew what would happen then? Anyway, he could hardly get Maxwell across the border tied up and gagged.

Stitch sighed. “I think this is a bad idea. I don't believe you'll run. You know I'll find you. And you know you can't live forever on the lam. But if the word gets out I've been here, you may not be alive tomorrow morning.”

“I'll take that chance. That's the deal.”

Stitch shrugged. He didn't like it. But he had no choice. “OK. I will be here at 7:00 in the morning. Sharp. What are you going to tell Didi?”

“That the real estate agent contacted me. He wanted to take me fishing on the river. I'll walk out only with the clothes I'm wearing. She'll have no reason to be suspicious.”

Stitch leaned back and looked high in the sky. “I hope not, Mr. Maxwell. For your sake.”

He got up off the seat and walked slowly back to the car. “Seven sharp,” he repeated. He got into the Rav and drove quietly back up the long sandy drive to the road above.

CHAPTER 8

Conversation with Daffy

Stitch got a room at a Holiday Inn out on the highway. When he got into his room he checked his BlackBerry for Daffy's message.
Hate these things
, it started out.
These stupid little keys drive me crazy
. Stitch thought about Daffy's huge hands and thick fingers. He laughed aloud as he imagined Daffy trying to punch out a message. It's a wonder, Stitch thought, the phone hadn't been thrown across the room.

We're desperately trying to hold them off. 40 or 50 high school kids came this pm. They pitched tents in the road for the night. Gotta love these kids, eh? Young. Not afraid to stand up for what they believe. Like we used to be.

Also using all my sources to see if there is a legal loophole. Found something odd. Venam's account suddenly showed a $4.5m deposit a few months ago. Can't seem to find out where it came from. Very hush hush. I got it from inside the bank. Might be money ludri, oh damn these things, laundering. Have you got anything for me?

Beatrice

Stitch smiled and hit Daffy's number on his BlackBerry.

“Stitch!” Daffy yelled. Stitch could hear exhaustion and hope in Daffy's voice. “Cripes, I thought you were never going to call. What the hell's up?”

“I've been on the go all day. Just opened your message.” Stitch paused for a moment to let Daffy calm down. “I've got a bit of good news. Bit of bad. Which do you want first?”

Stitch heard Daffy sigh at the other end. “After a day like this, give me the good first.”

“I found Maxwell. Talked to him. He's agreed to return to Mapleton.”

“That's great!” Daffy roared at the other end. “Is he willing to talk?”

“Yeah, he says he is. They really did a number on him. Set him up with a broad. Then they got pictures of them in bed.”

“Blackmail.”

“Yeah, but then they sweetened the pot. They said they'd give him $100,000 to keep quiet.”

Duffy whistled quietly. “Wow. The old carrot and stick trick, eh? But that's great, Stitch. With his statement, I can get an interim injunction. I can show he changed his vote because of bribery. That's a criminal offence. In court we'll have to prove bribery. But right now all we need is his word. That will stop the bulldozers. That's the main thing.”

“Then there's the bad news.”

“What could be bad about this?”

“Maxwell's not with me. He refused to return today. Said he wanted one more night with his girlfriend.”

“OK,” Daffy said. “That's not so bad. You'll be here tomorrow afternoon if you get an early start. I can hold them off until then. I'll set up a press conference.”

“You're assuming Maxwell makes it back.”

Daffy's voice went flat. “You're afraid he's going to run.”

“I don't think so. He's pretty shaken up. I'm mainly afraid Didi Rose gets wind and calls in the mob.”

“Hit?”

“Possible. I tried to tell him Didi was in on it. Don't think he believed me. But he said he'd be cautious.”

“Lord,” Daffy groaned. “Without him we've got no basis for an injunction.”

“Cripes, Duffy,” Stitch said in irritation. “It's not all about your damned swamp. Without Maxwell, his kids have no father. His wife has no husband!”

“OK, Stitch. Take it easy. You're right. I just get caught up in things. But this is a critical fight. We have to win this one. If we don't, a crucial part of the entire basin ecosystem will be lost forever.”

Stitch took a deep breath. “I know you're just focused. And I'm just tired. It's been a long day.”

“You too, eh? I spent the last 12 hours bailing people out at the courthouse. That was after I got bailed out yesterday, of course.”

“My lawyer the jailbird,” Stitch chuckled. “Listen, if worse comes to worst, would a recording help?”

“A recording?” Daffy asked. “Of what?”

“Of Bob Maxwell admitting he was bribed to change his vote. What else?”

There was silence at the other end. “You mean you have his confession on tape?”

“Yeah. Well, I have our whole conversation recorded. Not on tape. It's one of those dinky little ballpoint pen recorders.”

“For Christ's sake, Stitch!” Daffy yelled. “Why didn't you say so?”

“Well, you never asked. Yeah, I record every interview I have with a client. Or a client's ex. But I didn't know if a recording would stand up in court.”

“It may or may not. But it should be enough to get a judge to grant an interim injunction.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” Stitch said quietly.

“Amen. Listen, couldn't you stake his place out?”

“I thought about it. But if it's a hit, there's nothing I can do. Two guys armed to the teeth drive in. Bang. They're gone. If he runs, which I doubt, I've got no authority to pull him over. I'd just have to watch as he drove off. I'd rather trust his judgment and get a decent night's sleep. Not make anyone nervous by hanging around. We've got a long drive tomorrow.”

“Right. Listen, partner. I really appreciate this.”

“Remember, I'm working for Molly Maxwell. She takes priority here. And none of this gets out until you get the go ahead. Right?”

“Got it. I understand client confidentiality.”

“So you understand that I'm on thin ice here. Could probably lose my licence.”

“OK, champ. My lips are sealed.”

Stitch pushed the red off button and slipped the Blackberry back into its holster on his belt.

Stitch had been starving when he got to the hotel. The only restaurants he had seen were a string of fast food joints lining the highway. He had stopped at the A&W and got a teen burger. The best of a bad lot, he figured. Now he opened up the bag and fished out the burger.

He took a long drink from the giant cup of root beer. He looked idly out the window. Trucks and cars whizzed by. Wonder where they're going in such a hurry? Stitch thought. What for? We're all ending up in the same place. What's the rush?

He finished the burger and wiped his fingers on the napkins provided. He took another pull from the straw. Damn, they sure made good root beer. Had to give them that. Then he phoned Molly Maxwell.

CHAPTER 9

The Cottage

Stitch slept fitfully. He would doze off and then awake with a start. Several times he glanced nervously at the alarm clock, afraid he hadn't set it right. Finally he was jolted out of shallow sleep by the irritating buzz of the clock. He got up quickly. It was 5:30. He wanted to be at the cottage early. Just in case Maxwell got different ideas.

As Stitch drove the back roads toward the cabin, the sun eased above the horizon in the east. The black trees slowly took on colour. The sandy roads gleamed white.

Around 6:15 Stitch reached the driveway to the cabin. He pulled off the road and stood looking down at the house below him. Something was wrong. Then it hit him. The car was gone.

Stitch jumped back into the Rav and roared down the drive. He pulled in front of the log cottage and rushed up to the door. He stopped and closed his eyes. The door was wide open. From the splintered door jamb, it was clear that it had been smashed in. Stitch took a deep breath. Then he walked through the door.

Someone had left in a hurry. A coffee table in the living room had been turned over. Women's clothes were strewn on the floor next to an empty suitcase. Stitch walked cautiously into the living room. At the far end there was a huge picture window facing the river. Through it, he could see the porch. On his right there was a small kitchen. A few dishes were piled in a sink. A cup had been overturned. A pool of coffee covered the linoleum floor.

Beyond the kitchen there were two doorways. Bedrooms, Stitch figured. He slowly walked to the first. He stood with his back against the wall. Then he reached over and turned the round handle. He pushed the door open.

The door slammed open. Then there was silence. Stitch slowly moved around the edge of the door frame. He looked inside. The bedroom was empty. It hadn't been used for a while. The bed was made. A thin film of dust covered a round bedside table.

Stitch made his way to the second door. It was slightly ajar. Again he stood against the wall. He pushed the door open. He listened for any sound inside. There was only silence. He turned from the wall and walked through the door.

The room was a jumble of overturned chairs, bed sheets and clothes. But only one thing caught Stitch's eye. At the end of the bed there was a large rust-coloured splotch of dried blood about five feet up the wall. He couldn't see over the bed's wood footboard. But a man's feet in white running shoes stuck out into the room. Stitch closed his eyes and shook his head. “Damn it,” he swore. “I knew it. Shit. Daffy's right. I am a moron. I should have made him go with me.” But even as he said it, he knew he'd had no choice.

Stitch walked slowly toward the end of the bed. He saw that the red smear wasn't only blood. There was a jagged hole in the middle. Bits of bone and brain stuck to the wall. He mentally noted that the blood had dried. The whole operation had gone smoothly and quickly. Stitch figured there had been two of them. One to kick the door down and cover. The other to find and kill their target. They must have shot Maxwell before he went to bed.

He rounded the footboard and looked at the floor. Bob Maxwell lay face down on the carpet. He was wearing the same clothes he'd had on when Stitch last saw him. A small red hole glared from the back of his head. Stitch took Maxwell's limp wrist. There was no pulse. Then he rolled the body over.

Stitch never understood how they got away with such crap on TV. In the police shows, everyone died such nice, neat deaths. You saw where a bullet went in. But you never saw where it exited. He stared down at Maxwell's face. Half his forehead was gone. His glazed eyes were covered in blood and brain. His shattered head lay in a pool of drying blood. There was a sickly sweet odour of blood and organs. It reminded Stitch of being in a butcher shop.

Stitch bent down and quickly studied the body. He turned the head. The bullet had been small, probably 9mm. Could have been a Luger. Or Glocks were becoming popular with hit men. More rounds if you needed them. He rolled the body back onto its stomach. The left arm was jammed upward, probably broken. They had grabbed Maxwell by the arm and wrenched it upward. Then they had smashed him into the wall. He wasn't a big man. Stitch doubted he could have put up much of a fight. Once against the wall, bang. A quick shot to the back of the head. The body slid down on the floor. And the killers were gone. All in a matter of minutes.

Stitch glanced around the room. The killers were pros. He knew there would be nothing. No fingerprints. No shoe impressions in the mud outside the house. No asthma inhaler that conveniently slipped out of the killer's pocket.

Stitch went through Maxwell's pockets. His wallet was in his back pocket. There were maybe five 100 dollar bills still in the billfold section. These guys were not after his money. He glanced through the rest of the contents. No ID. A few receipts for recent purchases. A picture of his two kids. No last note intended for Stitch.

Stitch turned the body over. There were a few coins in his pants pocket. Stitch pulled a small calculator out of Maxwell's shirt pocket. An accountant to the end, Stitch thought. He ran his hand around the inside of Maxwell's belt. Then around the waist band of his pants. Nothing.

Stitch stood up. No voice from the grave, it seemed. No clue who did it. No ideas about where to go from here.

Stitch was about to turn away when something caught his eye. He looked down at Maxwell's feet. He wore a pair of Adidas running shoes. Stitch cocked his head in thought. One was neatly done up. But the laces of the other were untied. The shoe looked as if it would fall off if Maxwell had tried to walk in it. Could he have been caught before he had a chance to tie it up? Possible, but unlikely. Other than the shoe, Maxwell was perfectly dressed. And he was not the kind of guy to walk around with his shoelaces untied.

Stitch crouched down. He gently pulled the untied shoe off Maxwell's foot. As he did, a small slip of brown paper fell out of the shoe. Stitch looked around. A paper shopping bag lay on the top of the chest of drawers. A chunk had been torn out. On the floor next to the bureau Stitch spotted a red Bic pen.

Stitch picked up the paper and studied it. Red letters and numbers had been written in a shaky scrawl. He wrote this in a hurry, Stitch thought. Maybe he had heard them kicking down the door. He knew they weren't neighbours coming to welcome him into the neighbourhood. He saw the pen and bag on the chest of drawers. He scrawled the message as they smashed in and headed for the bedroom. At the last second, he must have untied his shoe and slipped in the message. Just before the killers entered the bedroom.

What was it he so desperately wanted to say? Stitch returned his attention to the scrap of paper. On it was written: KN6631475. After the last number there was a line. It looked as if he had wanted to write more but ran out of time.

KN6631475. Stitch ran his hand over his hair. A licence plate? Too many digits. Phone number of some sort? A code?

Stitch carefully folded the paper and placed it in his wallet. Then he pulled his cell phone out of its holster and called the Parsons Police department. He had a homicide to report.