Authors: John McEvoy
The day after the news of Tony Rourke's suicide, another smooth and timely Aer Lingus flight enabled Doyle to get to O'Hare Airport, then his Chicago condo just before eight p.m. He unpacked, fired up the microwave on a pair of frozen beef enchiladas, cracked open a beer, and read his e-mail. There wasn't much. He sent a message to Nora that he was back home safe and sound and copied it to Moe Kellman, Karen Engel, and Ralph Tenuta's wife Rosa. She was in charge of the trainer's at-home communications. He asked her how things were going at the stable. Rosa answered right back. “Jack, glad you're back. Ralph would like you to come to the track tomorrow. He has some very good news to share.”
Doyle replied that he would like to, but said he couldn't “make it tomorrow. Tell Ralph I'll see him out there Wednesday afternoon.”
***
In his Kansas apartment, all of these messages were captured and memorized by W.D. Wiems as he continued to access Doyle's computer. Wiems felt himself getting pumped. He quickly packed his small backpack, tucked his Glock .44 in the shoulder holster under his black jacket, and hurried out to his Harley to begin his lengthy trip north. He'd been eagerly looking forward to this new challenge. He was glad to see not a hint of rain clouds in the early evening Kansas sky.
In the years since he had murderously dispatched his despised mother and step-father, Wiems considered himself to be a very lucky young man. And that luck, all of his own making, as far as he was concerned, continued in the course of the next ten and a half hours that saw him cover the five hundred and sixty miles close to his next day's destination: Heartland Downs and the parking lot near Ralph Tenuta's barn to which he had trailed Jack Doyle weeks earlier.
Wiems cycled I-70 from Lawrence to Kansas City where he picked up 1-35 to Des Moines. The weather was still clear, the traveling easy. He occasionally amused himself during the long night by veering sharply in front of one of the several hundred trucks he passed. He smiled at every horn blast from each indignant trucker.
He stopped for gas at a Shell station on 1-80 just inside the Illinois border. Filled his tank, emptied his bladder, and bought a half-dozen power bars and two bottles of water, paying with a credit card in one of his fake names. That whole stop consumed less than twelve minutes. Three and a half hours later he switched to 1-88 near Rock Falls. Took that to 1-355N, then 1-290 toward Rockford after which he exited onto IL-53 only a few miles from Heartland Downs. He pulled into a Marathon station to buy gas and more water, paying with yet another phony credit card.
Wiems had been on the road for nearly ten hours, the last two driving into the early morning sun. He wasn't tired. He never was on such occasions that involved the thrill of a hunt. But he knew he should rest. He could not permit even a hint of fatigue to compromise his expertise.
Nearing Kirchoff Road in Palatine, he pulled into a forest preserve parking lot that was empty of vehicles this early in the day. He slowly rolled through it and drove his bike gently up over the curb and across the dewy grass where he parked beneath the shade of a towering oak tree. A pair of grackles on a limb overhead loudly protested his arrival. Wiems hurled one of his half-empty water bottles up at them and they flew off, complaining further.
He removed his helmet and folded his jacket and placed it on the grass at the base of the tree for use as a headrest. He tucked the Glock underneath the jacket and lay down, head on the jacket, gloved hands folded across his chest. Wiems was asleep in less than three minutes.
Well-rested, ignoring jet lag, Doyle was up early for his morning run. He was surprised at his energy level when he returned to his condo and ripped off one hundred sit-ups followed by one hundred pushups. Breathing heavily as he got up off the floor to go for a bottle of water out of his fridge, Doyle said to himself, “Travel obviously agrees with me.”
Showered and dressed, he checked in with Damon Tirabassi. “I can easily tell you're relieved and delighted that I am back on native soil, right?”
“No comment. If you're calling to ask if we've made any progress in the horse killer case, Doyle, the answer is no. Karen is out of the office this morning, trying to track down a lead. After that Ness woman put up the fifty grand reward offer, we've been inundated with calls. And, as always, most of them worthless, just two or three worth following up. Karen is working on those. What are you doing? Now that you're finally back, I mean.”
“Do I detect a note of criticism there, Damon? The kind of snide aside you're too often given to? âFinally back'? Do you think I was on vacation over in Ireland? Bouncing about from Dublin pubs to Connemara pony rides? I had serious business there. Jesus, man! Can you ever be capable of looking past your bureaucratic nose at other people's lives?” He turned off the phone. “What a sorry fucking way to start the day.”
***
Doyle decided to shake off his irritation with Damon by going out to Heartland Downs that afternoon as he'd promised Rose Tenuta he would do. His mood was immediately improved by the happy vibe he felt after his arrival at Ralph's barn. Ingrid was there standing beside the trainer in front of stall one. Cheerful greetings exchanged, Doyle said, “Is that who I think it is in there?”
“None other than Mr. Rhinelander, Jack. He was released from quarantine this morning, pronounced virus free,” Ingrid smiled.
“Ready to go back into training,” Ralph added. As Tenuta patted his forehead, the friendly colt nickered in apparent agreement. “We're all glad to have him back, nobody more so than the Burkhardts. Those happy people,” Ralph said, “are going to host a celebration kind of cookout here this evening after the races. They're bringing Wisconsin brats, beer, and cheese for my whole staff. Even fried cheese curds, whatever the hell they are. Of course, Ingrid is invited. She did a terrific job treating this horse. And you're invited, too.”
Doyle glanced at his watch. It was 4:35. He was feeling the first hint of fatigue from his trip back from Ireland and his Chicago workout. “Naw, I don't think so, Ralph. I'm a little worn out. I'll take a pass on this, but be sure to thank the Burkhardts for me. Ingrid, you have my congratulations.”
Ingrid walked with him to the parking lot behind the barn. “Is that right, Jack, that you were back in Ireland? That's what Ralph thought.”
“Indeed I was. Some business, some pleasure. It wound up working out pretty well. How about you, Ingrid? Anything new on the horse killer front?” “
“No, I'm afraid not. But at least there hasn't been a killing since that one in Michigan a couple of weeks back. Maybe this campaign is over.”
Doyle said, “That, I doubt. Once a fanatic gets going, it's hard to stop him. Or her,” he added.
“You're probably right,” Ingrid murmured. She opened her truck door and quickly got behind the wheel. “Take care, Jack,” she said.
With a wave back at Tenuta, Doyle got into his Accord and drove to the track exit he always used. He nodded at the security officer in the booth who was in charge of opening the doors of the tall wire gate. He turned onto Wilke Road heading for Willow Road just a few miles away. Traffic was beginning to thicken. A huge procession of rain clouds had begun moving west from Lake Michigan. He could see them in the darkening distance to his right. Then it began. Moist pellets started to ding across the Accord's roof. Doyle turned on his radio which, as always, was set on 90.09, the Chicago area's major jazz station. He was just in time to hear emcee Bruce Oscar introduce a cut from “young piano star Aaron Diehl's debut CD.” Doyle smiled as he heard the first minute of
“
Bess, You Is My Woman Now.” He caught the light and turned right at Wilke's intersection with Willow, not noticing the black-clad motorcyclist tucked in four cars behind him.
Leon Haukedahl, a fifty-seven-year-old veteran of nearly twenty-one years as a long haul trucker, shook his head, blinked, reached into the truck console for his Dexedrine stash in its folded over plastic baggie. Empty. Goddam. He was one tired son of a bitch, a hungry and thirsty one as well. He'd almost not cleared the yellow light at that last intersection, Willow Road and something. He'd turned off the Prime Country station on his SiriusXM radio a half-hour earlier, its songs serving mainly to make him feel more tired than anything else. He loved country music, but country was best heard long after work was done, the miles behind him, a cold brew or two in hand, not while a guy like Leon was struggling to keep in motion and earn some badly needed money by operating far over his legal limit of daily trucker driving hours.
Leon had started his workday right before four in the darkness of a Nebraska morning in North Platte and hauled a truck load of persistently groaning beef cattle six hours to Des Moines, which was supposed to be it for him that day. But at the Des Moines delivery point, he'd been offered an opportunity to hook up an eighteen-wheel oil tanker to his cab and go another 365 miles to Northbrook, Illinois. Some driver hadn't shown up as scheduled. And there was Leon, a prime candidate for overtime, he and his wife as usual struggling to make this month's mortgage payment for their already vastly undervalued tract house on the outskirts of Kankakee, Illinois. It was a property their lender had notified them had gone “under water.” Which is where Leon liked to think of putting that smooth talking crook who had led them into this shit deal. Leon didn't even live next to the often flood-swollen Kankakee River!
This was a full tanker of oil riding behind him. Leon hadn't before hauled a load this heavy, his previous trips over the more than two decades of his trucker career involving dry goods, furniture, livestock, sand, street salt, wholesale grocery, and some wide-load trailer homes. This tanker job meant premium pay. He blinked again. Reached down to the small cooler on the floor for a caffeine-infused Mountain Dew. The cooler rattled with those empty cans.
Two blocks from the intersection of Willow and Forest, Leon tightened his grip on the steering wheel as a small, red convertible driven by a ponytailed blond woman wearing sunglasses threatened to cross the center line directly in front of him and veer over into his lane. He blared his big truck horn as he stomped the brake pedal. That shook her up. She dropped her cell phone and momentarily lost control of her steering.
Leon yanked his steering wheel to the right to avoid the convertible. At once, he felt the heavy oil tanker begin to start swinging behind him. He heard one of any trucker's greatest fears, the
bang
sound of a tire blowing as one of the large left tanker tires smashed against the lane median. The tanker and the cab pulling it started to tilt over rapidly to the right side of Willow.
It was getting away from Leon, the whole deal. Panicked now, Leon felt the entire fucking trucking apparatus, cab and tanker, tipping slowly, inexorably, to the right before slamming down sideways and covering almost all of these two lanes. Stunned, lying sideways in his battered cab, head ringing from where it had hit the console beside him, Leon struggled to kick open the driver's door. He smelled the oil that was beginning to spurt from the ruptured tanker. Leon managed to pull himself up and out of the overturned cab. He landed shakily on his feet and, horrified, watched as oil spillage spread across Willow Road East.
***
Ninety-four seconds earlier, two miles back, W. D. Wiems revved up his Harley Iron 883 and quickly passed the three cars between him and Doyle's Accord. He was smirking behind the plastic tinted shield of his full-face cyclist's helmet. The hunt was not only
on
, it was about to
start
. And
finish
. Closing in on the Accord, Wiems approached what he had chosen to be the killing ground. He moved up to get just behind and to the left of the gray Accord. The closest car in the left lane before him was at least three blocks ahead. Perfect. The rain had even stopped.
***
Wiems' computer research had led him to conclude that the best way to hit the Target was in the half-mile stretch on Willow Road leading to Elmhurst Road. That intersection would be perfect for his escape. The two miles north on Elmhurst Road could be covered quickly in case anyone had observed him leaving the scene. Then a westward turn onto Dundee Road toward his carefully calculated escape route. Minutes later, a quick change of clothes in the Bixby Forest Preserve from the black jacket into a tan windbreaker with Lake County Bikers emblazoned in red letters on its back. All part of his brilliantly detailed planning. After that, Westward Ho, Kansas City here he comes, ready to collect the rest of his money.
***
Doyle's Accord was the third car approaching the Willow-Elmhurst Intersection light. Two blocks before it, Doyle glanced in his left mirror. A black-clad and helmeted motorcyclist had pulled out from behind trailing right lane cars, its driver jerking it into the left lane to zoom forward. “Idiot,” Doyle said to himself. “Another cycle cowboy.”
***
Wiems figured he had sixty quick yards to go. Beautiful. He reached his left hand into his jacket holster and extracted the Glock. Steered the cycle slightly closer to the Accord's lane. His rearview mirror showed no trailing vehicle within three blocks. His silenced shots would take just seconds before the Glock went back into his jacket. He mentally congratulated himself on preparing for just this situation where he'd have to control his cycle speed with his right hand and shoot across his body with his left. Deft, was what he had become at that as a result of many nighttime Kansas practice sessions.
Doyle cleared the small rise leading to the upcoming intersection and slowed, leaning slightly forward over the steering wheel, foot poised above the brake pedal. Looked to him like some kind of vehicular chaos a few blocks ahead. Several cars had pulled over to the right shoulder. What the hell was this? Carefully driving forward, Doyle could see that his two lanes were blocked by an overturned tanker, its oil a thick menace spreading across the roadway. What the hell?
***
“Concentrate. Concentrate
.” Wiems' mantra. Tunnel vision aimed only at the Target's Accord. Wiems sped closer to Doyle's car, then braked sharply to keep his Target in focus. For a second, he looked in the driver's window at Doyle's startled face and smiled. He pointed the Glock at Doyle's head. Doyle, too occupied in slamming on his brakes to avoid the mess ahead, didn't turn and see Wiems.
Wiems pulled the Glock's trigger just as his bike's front tire crossed the border of the oil spill.
Shit
. He'd missed the driver's window, his two rapid shots shattering Doyle's left rear passenger window.
Doyle's head snapped forward. He quickly grabbed its left side that had been laced with tiny glass fragments. Sudden pain, sudden panic as he felt the Accord skid across the black liquid layer covering the roadway.
W. D. Wiems, fighting his Harley's slow slide, cried out “Shit” when he saw his first shots had not stopped the Target.
Concentrate.
Once again momentarily able to again pull alongside the Accord's driver's side window, Wiems grinned as he saw the wide-eyed Doyle stare out at him and at his Glock. Eyes riveted on Doyle, Wiems slowed the Harley with his right hand and steadied his gun hand.
Concentrate
.
Wiems did not look ahead east on Willow. Never had the chance to factor in the extent of the slick pool of oil emanating from Leon Haukedahl's overturned tanker. The spreading black pool that had now captured Wiems' Harley's tires. He snapped off another two desperate shots as the Harley surfed the oil slick. Both went over the roof of the Accord.
Doyle didn't hear those shots, just as he hadn't heard the silenced shots that had pierced his backseat window behind him. But he could see a helmeted man on a black cycle first next to him on his left, then in front, pistol waving in the air in his gloved hand as he fought for control of his bike.
“What the fuck is this?” Doyle shouted.
Wiems cursed and dropped the Glock to use both hands as he struggled to control the cycle. He'd never missed a Target before. But he had missed this one. Hadn't nailed the twenty-thousand-dollar prize. He fought to wrench up the Harley's front wheel. No go. He felt his right leg scraping across the concrete road, his jeans tearing as well as the skin underneath. He had no control of the bike. Could do nothing, now, to stop his twenty-eight-foot skid directly toward the tanker's large steel back frame.
The Harley smashed into the bottom of the steel frame head on. As his bike slid underneath it, Wiems tried to duck. No luck. His plastic visor shattered on impact, a sharp piece of it going directly into his right eye and three inches farther into his brain.
***
With traffic now completely blocked on both sides of Willow, Doyle got out of his car and stood on the shoulder, shaken. His head hurt. He began to slowly walk forward toward the tanker and the mangled cycle and its rider whose feet protruded from beneath the tanker's rear section. In only minutes, a stream of Cook County Sheriff's Department vehicles roared up followed by two ambulances. Doyle waved down the second patrol car. Sergeant Wayne Monroe got out and hurried to him.
“My name is Jack Doyle. That crazy cyclist underneath that tanker up there tried to
kill
me. Look, here, at my car. He took some shots that blew out my window before he hit that oil slick. Last I saw of him the son of a bitch was heading straight into the back of that tanker.”
Sergeant Monroe said, “That's the report we got. A motorist west-bound saw the cycle rider pointing a pistol at a gray car. Yours, obviously. You know any reason why that happened?”
Doyle plucked a few more tiny pieces of glass from the back of his head. “No, officer, I do not.”
An excited Sheriff's deputy trotted up to them from where the tanker lay. “Cycle guy's dead and gone, Sergeant,” he said. “You wouldn't want to look at what happened to that poor bastard,” he added, shaking his head. “Even one of the veteran paramedics took a look and threw up.”
“Any ID on the dead man?” Monroe said.
“Yeah, a license anyway. A young guy named Wiems. From Lawrence, Kansas.”
Sergeant Monroe turned to Doyle. “That name mean anything to you?”
“Only in welcome memorium,” Doyle spat. “Bastard tried to kill me.”
***
Nearly two hours later, after leaving the Sheriff's Department, Doyle parked in the garage beneath his condo building. A helpful maintenance man at the Sheriff's Palatine headquarters had helped him vacuum the glass out of the Accord and tape a temporary plastic covering over the empty window frame. This was done after he'd given his statement to Sergeant Monroe and an un-introduced female deputy in charge of the tape recorder.
He felt drained, puzzled, very relieved, and horrified by his nearly fatal Willow Road experience. Finally back in his condo Doyle showered, dressed, poured himself a large Jameson's on the rocks and he picked up his phone.
“Moe, it's me. You and Leah want to have dinner tonight? I know this is short notice. But could you two make it to Dino's at seven?”
“Okay, Jack. Short notice but, okay, fine with us. Something on your mind?”
“Oh, yeah, Moesy. Oh, yeah. Some bastard I never heard of tried to kill me late this afternoon.”