Read The Devil's Footprint Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
The Devil's Footprint (21 page)
They now had a
dead woman, murdered for sure, a probable kidnapping, and some guy named Hugo
was involved.
The message slip was from
again.
He did not do any more
searching.
A kidnapping — and a
helicopter being used — was going to mean federal involvement for sure.
And the feds
could be more than difficult if they felt their scene of crime had been screwed
up.
Sergeant
Richardson did not think he had screwed up, but as with most things in life it
was going to be a matter of perception.
He checked his
watch and hoped that the scene-of-crime team would get their ass in gear.
It was going to be dark soon.
*
*
*
*
*
Shelby
Jacklin, sheriff of
put down the phone and thought.
When he
had been younger he had been a great believer in immediate action.
Now he liked to get the flavor of a situation
before moving.
It had taken
just one phone call to identify this "Hugo."
The question now was what to do.
Hugo Fitzduane might be the killer or he
might be entirely innocent.
But the
probability was the either the dead woman or the kidnap victim was closely
connected to him.
And it was a
statistical fact that most murders were carried out by someone you knew and
most probably were close to.
Like married to.
This business
was going to get complicated.
The body
had been discovered by the state police outside his jurisdiction, but this
Fitzduane was staying right in the sheriff's patch.
And before long the feds would be on the
scene.
They could
question Fitzduane immediately or go for a search warrant first.
Then they could search this Irishman's room
with impunity.
It was the safer
route.
A search warrant would not take
long.
Judge Rikel was a hard-liner with
strong views on violent crime.
It would also
be a good idea to check Fitzduane with the FBI.
Sheriff Jacklin was not overly fond of the feds, but he had learned to
sup with the devil if it got the job done.
8
Country and
western music filled the air and a demonstration team of line dancers in yellow
shirts, red kerchiefs, and white Stetsons sashayed and pivoted with drill-team
precision.
Several
hundred exhibitors were gathered around the poolside and the open bar was
having its predictable effect.
Tables
covered in checked tablecloths had been set up and the barbecue
team were
in full action.
After a long
hard day, people drank and ate and networked and relaxed.
There were many more women present that were
actually attending the exhibition.
Wives
and girlfriends who had steered clear while their menfolk played with weaponry
had surfaced.
It was a
festive atmosphere, and the evening had all the makings of a really good
party.
The parachute demonstration would
be the last event that was special operations oriented, and then the focus
would be on nothing more than having fun.
As agreed,
Dana was keeping an eye on Kathleen.
same for her team.
She had considered
attending the party, but that would have turned the whole thing into a social
event, and she was supposed to be working.
So she stood
behind the parapet on the flat roof of the right-hand accommodation block and
watched the festivities below.
From that
location, five stories up, she had the high ground and could actually keep
quite a close eye on her charges through binoculars.
At full power she was visually near enough to
lip-read.
Another reason
she had not gone to the party was Don Shanley.
It had been a perfect night, and that was the way she wanted to remember
it.
If they met again face-to-face it
could get complicated, and she knew she would get hurt.
Shanley was attracted to her, she knew, but
he was a certain kind of man.
He might
stray if she worked hard, but his loyalties lay elsewhere and he would not
change them.
That she knew, and it hurt
because there was something about him that had connected.
Too bad.
The good ones were so often married.
She checked
out her surroundings afresh.
The
courtyard below was pool and party.
To
her left was the main hotel block.
Directly across from her was the other accommodation wing, similar to
where she was standing but two blocks lower.
The fourth side of the rectangle was open.
There was an access road and a car park.
The free-fall parachutists, she had been
told, would float in the open end and land around the pool.
It should be quite spectacular.
She considered
the exhibition security.
At the end of
the day, all weapons on display were locked up by the individual exhibitors and
then kept either on the exhibition hall floor or in the exhibitors' own
rooms.
The corollary of that was that
the organizers' security was relaxed somewhat.
If the weapons were locked up there was no need for so many guards, so
went the argument.
And having full
strength at night was expensive.
The Bastogne
Inn was one location where they really should be safe.
But
She stayed and she
watched, because you never really knew.
In the final analysis, it was all a giant craps game.
Then she saw
Shanley and her heart leaped.
You tried to
stay in control and then your body betrayed you.
*
*
*
*
*
"Hugo,"
said Kilmara patiently.
"Relax and
enjoy yourself.
If Kathleen has gone to
the coast to spend the day sight-seeing, which is my understanding, there is no
way she will be back before late this evening.
She may even stay there overnight.
There is a lot of driving involved.
So take it easy.
She is a grown
woman, Dana is keeping an eye on her, and Kathleen is pregnant, which does
things to your hormones and moods.
She
wants some space.
It's normal."
Fitzduane
looked at his friend.
He wanted to
believe him with every fiber of his being.
Yet his instincts told him something was wrong, and, unfortunately, his
instincts rarely let him down.
He struggled
for the middle ground.
The music was
infectious and people were having fun.
He did not want to cast around doom and gloom.
"I'd be
happier if she had telephoned," he said quietly.
"She almost always phones."
Kilmara looked
at him sharply.
Privately, he was as
concerned as Fitzduane, but he could not see what they could do right now that
would be of any practical advantage.
"Hugo,"
he said firmly.
"You had a
row.
Kathleen wants to keep her distance
for a few hours.
Accept it and stop
behaving like an old woman."
Fitzduane
smiled.
Shane was right.
He was overreacting.
It was time to change the subject.
He gestured at
the line dancers.
"You know, I've
never danced or made love wearing a hat and cowboy boots."
"You
don't know what you're missing," said Shanley.
"Where's Maury?"
Kilmara
laughed.
"Maury can make it one to
one with difficulty.
He can't handle
large gatherings.
He's in his trailer
working."
"And
roof," said Fitzduane conversationally.
"The beautiful blonde with the binoculars on the
skyline.
She's our guardian
angel."
Shanley looked
up and straight into
eyes.
"I know," he said
quietly.
*
*
*
*
*
Sheriff
Jacklin went through the FBI report once again.
Hugo Fitzduane
was indeed known to the bureau, only no criminal record was involved.
The Irishman was on the side of the good guys
and he was connected.
There were a
series of reference numbers that could be called.
Most were inside the Beltway.
One was
The Hill was well represented.
And the man was a colonel in some
counterterrorist outfit.
This thing had
all kinds of nasty ramifications.
"Holy
shit!" he said to himself.
"I
was mindful to arrest you for murder."
Mike Erdman, a
sheriff's department investigator, poked his head through the door.
"Sheriff," he said.
"We've got the warrant to search
Fitzduane's room."
The sheriff
looked up.
"Wait awhile.
I've a hunch this thing is a mite more
complicated," he said.
He
thought.
There was a conjunction of
elements here that had ramifications way outside his normal daily
concerns.
This was not about drunken
airborne troopers smashing up a bar or some cuckolded husband back from a
foreign tour blowing the brains out of his wife or lover.
This smacked
of another battlefield.
Murder, a kidnapping, a helicopter, counterterrorism.
The mysterious Hugo
Fitzduane.
A
special-operations exhibition.
Connections in
Too many connections in
The feds — all kinds of
feds.
This could become downright
horrible.
Feds were like a social
disease — intrusive and hard to shake.
He looked up
at Mike Erdman.
"Mike," he
said.
"Phone the MPs at Bragg and
tell them."
"What?"
said
Erdman.
"Something
is going down," said the sheriff.
"What?"
said
Erdman.
"You know, Sheriff, underneath their fatigues they are cops up
there.
They ask questions like
that.
Who?
What?
Why?
Motive?
Means?
Sheriff
Jacklin took a flier, which was something he never did.
But something screamed inside him.
"Tell
them we have reason to believe there are
terrorists in the
area and that something big is
going down."
Erdman gaped
at him.
"Mike,"
said the sheriff.
"You're a fine
detective.
But sometimes you're an
asshole."
He smiled.
"Nothing personal.
Now, MOVE!"
Erdman went
back to his desk.
He was lifting
the phone when they heard the explosion and felt the tremor.
"Bragg?"
he said out loud.
Sheriff
Jacklin stood in the doorway.
"No," he said.
"Much closer."
They did not
have long to wait.
The first call came
in within thirty seconds.
"Sheriff?"
Jacklin raised
his head.
He felt unbelievably tired.
"Sheriff,
they've bombed the
Dozens dead.
Hundreds injured.
Lots of military families hit, by the looks
of it."
The thought
that Jacklin had considered yet suppressed in the past came through.
You don't have to hit Bragg to hit
Bragg.
All you have to do is kill lots
of soldiers and their
families is
to strike at the
nearby shopping centers.
No MPs and
minimal security.
Child's
play for a dedicated terrorist.
Child's play for any psycho.