Wellspring (Paskagankee, Book 3) (25 page)

He
simply had to work up the courage to descend into the death chamber one last time
and search until he uncovered the disk. Then he would have all the money he
would ever need. He knew he could do it, too. When cash was involved, Jackson
Healy was capable of just about anything. He had proven that many times over.

Now
that he had developed the beginnings of a plan, Jackson found himself getting
excited. His exhaustion melted away, and even his fear began to recede. He
continued strategizing. Once he had the disk in his possession, he would turn
his attention to leaving Paskagankee behind forever and finally – a
century and a half later – slipping across the border into Canada. He would
sell the disk and then settle down in some tiny, isolated village not unlike
this one.

Now
that he really stopped and thought about it, there was one very distinct
advantage to waking up in the year 2013 as opposed to 1858: he would finally be
free of the damned Krupp brothers, who must have died off and been shoveled
into their graves at least a hundred years ago. No Krupps meant his days of endless
running were finally over.

Jackson
leaned against a tree and allowed himself the luxury of a momentary smile. His
plan to escape the dogged pair of brothers, who chased him for years and across
two continents, had worked! Not in the way he had expected it to, of course –
it had taken far too long and involved untold misery – but still, he was
finally free of his pursuers.

Now he
just needed to locate that disk and slip out of town.

25

FBI Special Agent Ward Cooper
munched methodically on potato chips, one after the other, working his way
through the bag. Alton Ferriss knew his partner wouldn’t stop until he had pulverized
every last chip, and it was driving him crazy. Crunch, crunch, crunch, swallow.
Wipe hands on seat. Reach into bag and begin again.

Cooper
was bored and impatient, and Ferriss knew it was impossible to try to have a
conversation with the man when he was in such a black mood. So he sat across
the front seat quietly, idly picking his teeth with a well-worn toothpick and
keeping a close eye on the construction site behind the Ridge Runner, glancing over
every few seconds to see if there was any activity, then looking away.

Cooper’s
gaze, however, was focused on the site like a laser beam. An ant wouldn’t be
able to climb out of the hole without Ward Cooper spotting it. He stared
through the windshield with the single-minded intensity of a peeping tom with
his face pressed against a pretty girl’s bedroom window.

The pair
had parked diagonally across from the Ridge Runner, and as far down the road as
was possible without losing sight of the stakeout area. The agents had left the
black bureau Suburban in the lot at their Portland hotel, reasoning it was a
little too conspicuous, and instead had rented the most invisible car they
could find under short notice: a white, late-model Honda Civic.

Cooper,
predictably, had disagreed with the decision, arguing that they had no idea how
long the stakeout would last and that the Suburban would be a hell of a lot
more comfortable than a tiny econobox car.

Ferriss
didn’t care. He didn’t think Jackson Healy would notice the black Suburban with
the smoked windows – a vehicle that practically screamed “U.S.
Government” to most people – any more than any other vehicle, given how
terrified and confused he must be by now, but there was no reason to take
chances when they were this close to achieving their goal. So on the off chance
Healy
would
get spooked by the big
SUV, he had overruled his partner and insisted on the rental.

Cooper
had pissed and moaned and grumbled – had been himself, in other words
– and finally dropped the subject after being steadfastly ignored by
Ferriss.

Funny thing is,
Ferriss
thought,
he’s right. This damned clown
car is about as comfortable as an amusement park roller coaster.
His back
was stiff, his ass hurt, and every so often his right leg would cramp up,
sending shooting pains through his calf and halfway up the back of his thigh. He
refused to give Cooper the satisfaction of hearing him complain, though, or
even of opening the door and stepping out to stretch his legs unless he had to
take a leak.

Ferriss
glanced around the interior of the car as if he hadn’t already done so a
hundred times before looking over at Cooper. He expected to see the same thing
he had been forced to look at all day: the constant chewing of chips and the
repetitive motion of hand into bag and then up to mouth.

But this
time, when Ferriss gazed dully across the front seat, Special Agent Cooper was
sitting bolt upright with his nose pressed almost into the windshield. The nearly
empty bag of chips sat forgotten in his lap. He said, “Hooooly shit, there he
is,” his voice tinged with a note of awe and perhaps even a little trepidation
as well.

Ferriss’
gaze lingered for another split-second on his partner. To say he was surprised
would be a gross understatement. Ward Cooper was a hard man, stoic, not given
to displays of fear.

After a
moment he followed Cooper’s sightline and immediately spotted a man with long,
scraggly hair dressed in filthy clothing slipping hesitantly out of the thick
underbrush behind the Ridge Runner. The man walked five feet into the open
field and then stopped, as if only now realizing how exposed he was. He looked
around wildly, his head on a swivel, and then continued, ducking under the
yellow crime scene tape ringing the construction and walking swiftly toward the
big hole in the ground.

The
figure was too far away to tell with the naked eye whether it was actually Healy,
but Ferriss had no real doubts as to the man’s identity. Just to be sure, he
reached into the back seat for a pair of binoculars and raised them to his
eyes, spinning the wheel between the two eyepieces to bring the image into
focus.

His
breath caught in his throat. It was Jackson Healy.

Cooper
had already exited the car, closing the door gently to avoid alerting their
quarry to their presence, although Ferriss doubted Healy would have heard the
sound from this distance. Even if he did, it seemed unlikely he would
understand its significance.

Nevertheless,
as he climbed out of the Honda, Alton Ferriss took the extra second to ease his
own door closed quietly. Then he hurried across the empty road and trotted
after his partner, who was already advancing stealthily toward the filthy man,
gun drawn.

26

Sharon Dupont was operating on
autopilot mode as she drove her cruiser toward the Ridge Runner, lost in
thought, navigating mostly by reflex on the quiet roads.

Her
assignment was to remove the police crime scene tape from around the construction
pit and the underground room. She had already notified Bo Pellerin that he
would be free to resume construction of his new septic system by this
afternoon, and the news had been greeted by the taciturn businessman with what
Sharon thought was probably as chipper a response as he had ever uttered.
“’Bout time,” he growled. “Gotta go,” he continued before she could say another
word. “I need to get that lazy bastard Melton on the line and tell him to get
over here and finish the goddamn job.” He had hung up without another word.

Sharon
couldn’t contain her uneasiness, or her sense that something was wrong. She was
certain it was too soon to allow the room to be filled in as part of the
construction job.

The
human remains had long since been removed for analysis, the scene had been
thoroughly photographed, and she had dug through the small room with her own
hands. It was empty. The only item of value seemed to have been the strange
golden disk, now tagged and sitting in the police station’s evidence room.

Everything
else at the bottom of that hellhole while Sharon conducted her search yesterday
had been pulled out and carted away earlier by Harley Tanguay. There was a
table, a couple of chairs, and something that looked as though it may have been
a rudimentary bed frame. All of the wooden artifacts were rotted almost
entirely away and would provide little evidentiary value.

So
Sharon understood Mike’s decision. Bo Pellerin was dependent upon the income derived
from the Ridge Runner for his livelihood – not to mention the fact that
the bar represented Paskagankee’s only claim to night life – and it could
be financially devastating to delay the resumption of business without good
reason.

But,
still, the nagging sense of unease she had been feeling since before calling Bo
refused to diminish. She tried to convince herself she was just being silly, that
she was imagining problems where none existed, but the effort went nowhere.
Alone in the cruiser, she shrugged and muttered, “Something’s not right.”

The
Ridge Runner came into view in the distance, the bar set off to the right and
about two-thirds of the way along the Route 28 straightaway. The parking lot
was empty. Not even Bo had arrived yet. She pictured him haranguing poor Dan
Melton about getting his “lazy ass” out here to finish the job that had been
interrupted and couldn’t help smiling.

Then
her attention was drawn by a sense of movement, more felt than seen, in the
open field behind the bar. She took her foot off the accelerator and the
cruiser began to slow as she squinted to get a closer look.

Next to
the open pit containing the underground room stood a man. Approaching from
behind, as-yet unseen, were two other men. Even from this distance, highlighted
against the bright yellow bulk of the still-parked Caterpillar earthmover, Sharon
could tell right away that two of them were the FBI agents who had spent most
of yesterday morning leering at her while she dug through the remains of the
pit.

The first
person, she had no doubt, was the double-murder suspect.

The suspect
was peering intently into the pit as the two Feds stalked him quietly, guns
drawn, making no move to alert him – yet – to their presence.

Sharon’s
uneasiness intensified and she punched the gas. The cruiser responded
immediately, leaping forward toward the parking lot. She wheeled in without
braking and moved to the front of the bar before pulling to a stop and killing
the engine. The Ridge Runner stood between Sharon’s car and the three men
behind it and she hoped the building’s bulk had served to shield the suspect
from the sound of her car’s approach.

She
leapt out of the vehicle and hurried to the corner of the building, drawing her
weapon.

She
eased her head around the corner and was surprised to see the agents had yet to
place the suspect under arrest. They had by now positioned themselves directly
behind the man, who looked as though he hadn’t bathed in weeks.
What the hell are they waiting for?

She
watched in astonishment as Special Agent Cooper drew his weapon to eye level
and held it in a two-handed grip aimed at the back of the suspect’s head. Then
Cooper said, “Turn around, Healy,” his voice gruff and filled with malice.

The suspect
froze, his attention still directed at the bottom of the hole. He hesitated for
a moment as if considering his options, then seemed to realize he didn’t have
any. He turned slowly to face the agents.

For a
moment nothing happened and Sharon waited, wondering why the agents weren’t
placing the man under arrest. Abruptly the suspect’s eyes widened, staring
incredulously at the two law enforcement officials. His jaw dropped and he
gasped and took one quick step backward, nearly tumbling into the pit, before
stammering, “It…it…it’s you. But it can’t be, you’re…”

“Dead?”
Cooper said helpfully. Sharon could see his eyes glittering dangerously even
from her position more than ten feet away.

“It’s
impossible,” the suspect muttered. He was now breathing heavily and appeared to
be on the verge of collapse. “You should be long dead.”

Sharon
furrowed her brow, unable to understand what that was supposed to mean, but
aware things were going south quickly. “Well, guess again,” Cooper spat. “You’re
not the only one to benefit from that funky Peruvian life-juice.”

The
suspect shook his head in disbelief.

“Now,” Cooper
continued, taking one step forward and placing his gun to the side of the man’s
head. “Get on your knees.”

The suspect
hesitated. Then, with obvious reluctance, he did as he was told, dropping to a
kneeling position in the weedy grass. His entire body was shaking with barely
controlled terror.

For maybe
two seconds Sharon froze, unable to comprehend the scene playing out in front
of her. These FBI agents weren’t going to arrest the man at all; they intended
to execute him in cold blood.

Ferriss
took up a position next to Cooper, his gun trained on the kneeling suspect.
Cooper had removed his weapon while the suspect dropped to the ground, and now
he replaced it against the side of the man’s head. In a low voice, he said to
his partner, “You don’t mind if I do the honors, do ya?”

Ferriss
said nothing. He simply stared at the suspect with cold, dead shark eyes. More
than anything else, the look on Ferriss’s face was what forced Sharon out of
her shocked inaction. She took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the
Ridge Runner, lifting her service pistol to eye level and training it directly
on Special Agent Ward Cooper.