After collecting a couple boxes of wooden matches, he sat down to scrape off their heads. He hated the thought of setting his own place on fire, and hoped the fire department would put out the flames before they reached his computer. He’d call in the alarm well in advance of the actual blaze, but the small-town volunteer fire department wasn’t the speediest on earth.
Gathering some of the phosphate he used to fertilize the plants, Melvin added it to the brew. From the smell it gave off, he knew it was the right mixture.
From the darkness of the basement, he checked the position of the deputies and their vehicles. Two men stood in the backyard, one was parked in the driveway, and two out front. If he could get one of the men in back to leave, he could easily distract the other.
Melvin moved his explosive concoction from the back bedroom, then climbed the back stairs, where he collected several old newspapers, along with a metal trash can. Wadding up the paper, he stuffed it in the can. Finally, he attached the bomb to his small mechanical rat. His little spy was about to take his last trip. His weapon ready, he changed into his dark clothing.
Stacey and Barker talked for an hour, sharing information and going over Stacey’s plan. Barker needed to start the old tractor at the precise moment, then cover his friend’s back. Pulling a small radio from his pocket, he handed it to Stacey. They’d use it only if necessary. Then he made a call to his cousin. “Clint? Cousin Paul. What’d you find?” Barker’s eyebrows raised as he listened. “Thanks, I owe you one....”
“I took a cup from Briggs’s house and had Saunders run the prints,” Barker explained once he’d hung up the phone. “He couldn’t come up with anything. On a hunch, I asked my cousin, who works in the immigration office in Nebraska, to check ‘em out.”
“Did he find out anything?”
“The prints belong to a woman named Jau Fei Phelps; her maiden name is Wong. Married an American soldier—a guy named Melvin Elliot Phelps—and came home with him from Nam.
Stacey was quick to offer an assessment. “If her prints are on the cup, she’s got to be living in the house—and ought to be willing to testify against Melvin for their daughter’s murder. She’s probably scared to death of him. I better see if the feds are ready for the fireworks to start.” He made a call to Agent Buseth, not wasting any words when Buseth picked up. “I’ll give you the pen as promised, if I feel comfortable that Bingham will never be a threat again. Are you sure you and your men can apprehend him when he comes?”
“You can bet your life on it, Officer Stacey. If Bingham arrives, we’ll catch him, and he won’t be taken alive. Once he’s dead and the pen is in our hands, you can walk away.”
“What’s so special about the pen?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Dammit! I’ve got my butt hanging out a mile and you won’t tell me why. I just changed my mind— forget the whole thing!” Stacey punched the End button.
“What’s going on, Stace?” Barker asked.
“We’re about to be hunted by a killer that’s sworn a blood oath against me, and the feds won’t tell me what’s going on.” The phone rang.
“Okay, okay! The pen contains a chemical agent called ‘VN twenty dash three-five-two.’ We believe Bingham has already killed with it— and will kill again. I’ll deny its existence or that I even told you about it if you ever quote me. Don’t let Bingham get near you, or he’ll kill you for it.”
Stacey smiled. “I don’t plan on getting killed. You just take care of Bingham.” He hung up the phone. “I can’t trust these federal boys. They’re so concerned about the pen that they don’t care about anything else.”
Danny’s fingers shifted from key to key. He was confident he’d broken two of the six codes required to access the disks. He downloaded another program from the Internet, an old military file. Similar programs had led him to the age and language of the disks. Now, if I can just access it—
Alan stuck his head in the door to inform him he could only work until midnight. “Yeah,” Danny mumbled absentmindedly. Each code was getting easier to break. If things went well, he could be done by eleven. He knew the information on the disk was at least six years old. Still, it was harder to access than anything he’d ever seen.
Christina was enjoying the pampering her cousins were giving her. Kate would pop in occasionally to see how she was doing, but for the most part, the girls took care of all her needs. She had supper in bed, they combed her hair, they laid out her pajamas...
Pauline had been right—it was a houseful. Don and Cecily excused themselves and went to the bedroom to set up the cot. “I hope you won’t be too ill at ease with me here,” Don said. “If you are, I’ll be glad to sleep in the living room with my nieces and nephews.”
“I think it’ll be fine. Besides, from what I’ve seen of them so far you’d never get any sleep.”
“I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
“I know you will.” Cecily paused in thought. “What did Pauline mean by ‘minding’ to sleep in here?”
“This is the room where my father slept when he became ill. The bed was his. He and Pauline slept apart the last few months. He insisted on it so she could get some sleep. Otherwise, she usually slept here in the chair.” He gestured toward an old recliner sitting against the wall.
“So this was his bed?” A touch of hesitation colored her words.
Don nodded. “I’ll be glad to sleep in it, if you’d prefer not to.”
She nodded. “I don’t mind the cot.” He completely understood.
Pauline had changed the linens, and the medical supplies that had lined the walls and cluttered the dresser tops were gone. It wouldn’t be much different than when he’d visited them last Thanksgiving, just after they’d found out he was sick. His father had suffered in quiet, thinking it was just another sign of old age and a life of hard work. By the time he went to see the doctor, the cancer was well advanced. That was the last time Don had seen him as a strong and vital man. He was still up and around on Don’s next visit, but not in good shape. He’d rest during the day, killing time watching inane TV programs.
“Goodnight, Aunt Kate.” Christina lay in bed, contemplating the day. The rain had stopped. Crickets chirped out in the yard. Her younger cousins were soon sound asleep. Feeling an overwhelming need to thank God for her blessings, she rolled from her bed and knelt on the floor. “Dear Heavenly Father, I’m glad that grandpa’s with you,” she whispered. “Thank you for letting him come to help me. Bless my dad that he can come to know you now. I’m happy he felt your love today. Help him to feel that love again. I forgive Mr. Briggs for what he’s done and please help him to change, too. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
She climbed back into bed and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Oh, and help me to have good dreams.” She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Stacey powered up Bingham’s phone and waited for its ring. When it came, Stacey pressed ON. “Good evening.”
“I want a chance at you, Stacey,” Bingham threatened. “You’re about to get it. How long will it take to pinpoint my location from this phone?”
“Good. I’ll be waiting for you. Make sure you’re alone or you’ll never see your pen again.”
He’d give him only five minutes.
After staying up late with his siblings, chatting and reminiscing, Don bid them goodnight. “I’ll go change in the bathroom,” he told Cecily, “and you can use the bedroom.”
Several minutes later he went to the kitchen, had a drink of water, bade Pauline goodnight and gave her a gentle hug. His surprise that all the siblings had come was thoughtfully explained by the considerable amount of time his father had spent mending old wounds. He’d hoped everyone could get together before he died. Or at least when he died.
“He will be watching and smiling tomorrow at his family reunion,” Pauline told him.
Don returned to the bedroom and rapped lightly on the door. The light was out and no one answered. He opened the door to find Cecily kneeling in prayer beside the cot. He closed the door most of the way and looked on in silence. Cecily knelt for several minutes, then raised her head and crawled under the covers of the cot. Don waited a few more moments before entering.
“Pauline thinks Dad was planning tomorrow as a family reunion and he’ll be there to see us all together,” he said.
“He probably will be. When was the last time you were all together?”
“I don’t think it’s been since Dad left....many years.”
“Sounds like it’ll be a sad day but also a joyful one. I guess that’s where the term bittersweet came from,” she commented. The room grew quiet. Don was dying to ask another question. He finally mustered up the courage. “How do you pray?” he blurted out.
“Who, me?”
“No. If someone doesn’t know how to pray and wants to, how do they do it? How do they start?”
She smiled in the semi-darkness and said, “Well, first, that person needs to call on God and thank Him for their gifts and blessings. Then he might ask for the desires of his heart—the things he needs most. When he’s finished he would end in the name of Jesus Christ.”
“Thanks. Goodnight,” he whispered.
“Goodnight. Thank you for letting me come and share this time with you. Sweet dreams.” She turned her head and closed her eyes.
Minutes later, Don closed his eyes. In the darkness he began, “Dear God...”
“They’ve moved out in your direction.” Melvin’s squeaky, highpitched complaint sounded almost desperate. He cupped the phone’s mouthpiece up to his lips. “She’s not here—I haven’t seen her in days. I need some help....probably after the girl. She’s gone completely nuts. She even killed my cat....I know you’ve got your hands full; so do I. Listen!” The pitch of his voice raised a half octave as his temper bubbled up—then boiled over. “If you don’t shake a couple of men loose to help me right now, it’ll be too late!...screw you!...then I’ll take care of her myself!” He slammed down the phone. Agent Buseth tucked his phone away, too.
Using his computer skills, Melvin electronically patched lines. When he reported the fire, dispatch would think the phone call was coming from across the street. Returning to the basement with his rat—he opened the window and directed the device down the driveway.
Melvin then ran to the back bedroom and ignited the tightly wrapped wad of paper. It should only take a minute for the officers in the backyard to see the flames through the open curtain. Scrambling back upstairs, he snatched up the remote control and, pressing his face to the front window, guided his beloved rat to a spot just behind the deputy’s Bronco. Bumping it up against the tire, it made enough noise to get the officers’ attention. Turning a dial, Melvin caused the little rat to then roll onto the sidewalk toward the vehicle’s open window.
“ What’s that?” the puzzled deputy asked, pointing. Just then central dispatch reported a fire in the vicinity. The deputy told her to hold on for a moment as the mechanical package rolled past. Both officers in the rear looked up to see smoke pouring from the basement window. Then the rat exploded out front.
Both men in the Bronco instinctively ducked. They glanced at each other, bewildered, slightly dazed, their ears ringing, but neither hurt. One of the officers from the rear ran to the front to investigate the blast. The other, having run over to the house to peer through the basement window, called in the fire from his radio.
Seizing the moment, Melvin slipped out the window. The deputy reached for his gun, but Melvin was quicker—and better prepared. The end of one of the straws in his mouth, he blew its contents straight into the face of the stunned deputy. Blinking his burning eyes and struggling in vain to keep his feet under him, the officer crumpled to the ground. Melvin limped away into the night.
Bingham drove up the dirt road, parked at the gate, and slipped on his headgear. A silenced automatic weapon in his hands, the bullets in its chamber would not be used to kill Stacey, they were for the dog- the one thing Stacey loved and the thing he, Bingham, most despised. He needed Stacey alive if he wanted the pen back.
In no hurry now, he carefully surveyed the area, aware that Stacey had taken several hours to make ready for his visit.Olsen fielded the call from dispatch. Listening, the hair on his arms stood on end. He was in trouble.
He punched in a call to Mr. White. “We’ve got a problem....”
“I’m sending over the bomb squad and the sheriff,” snapped White. “Be extremely careful. I’ll meet you there.”
The deputies found their fellow officer, staggering and hallucinating in the backyard. When he heard them coming, he drew his weapon and began firing wildly in the air. His bullets spent, two officers tried to subdue him; two others joined in before he was restrained. Neighbors on both sides and from across the street peeked out from their windows, not daring to venture from the safety of their homes. They’d seen more going on at the once-quiet home than they cared to know about.
The fire truck pulled up in time to see the last of the flames in the bedroom flicker and die. White and Olsen arrived. The county attorney was beside himself when he learned Barker had taken the night off. Several additional units arrived to back up the confused deputies. They began evacuating the surrounding houses in case there was a second, larger explosion.
Danny had managed to break all but the last code. Twenty minutes remained before he promised his father he’d call it quits. Desperately he tapped at the keyboard. From behind the glow of the computer screen, Danny couldn’t see the black-clad figure lurking in the darkness across the street.
Bingham sensed he was not in any immediate danger as he crawled on his belly through tall spring grass. Though tedious, it was a mode of travel with which he was well acquainted. Through the years he’d seen almost every kind of man-trap imaginable, and had conquered every one. This small-town cop is no match for me!
Fifty yards away, Barker, not moving a muscle, crouched behind the cover of some wooden pallets, stacked six-deep on each side. From his position there was enough room for him to get a good view of the orchard. He directed his gaze down the moonlit row to where the geese lay sleeping, heads tucked under their wings, grouped together, looking like a bevy of harmless gray pillows tucked into a grassy bed. The tractor was parked close by, its steering wheel tightly chained in place for the direction it needed to travel.
Stacey lay low behind three rows of old salamander stoves, once used by fruit growers to keep the blossoms from freezing during cold spells. Sig had been commanded to lie still, 20 rows to the west.
Mr. White, Olsen and the County Sheriff stood talking several houses away from Melvin’s apartment. The sheriff was experiencing a “temper problem.” Upset that his men were put in such a dangerous position, he’d taken control of the operation. It took less than 15 minutes to assemble his SWAT team. They were equipped to make a quick break-in. No more second chances.
Calling Melvin out on the bull horn brought no response. The dazed deputy, still disoriented and mumbling incoherently, couldn’t remember a thing. Although the men who’d been on the scene didn’t believe Melvin was still in the house, they needed to take precautions. They could be entering a booby trap. Tear gas was fired into both the front and back upper windows; the basement was also gassed. Still no response from inside the house.
The bomb squad suggested they send in a robot first in case any other explosive devices lay in wait. The sheriff agreed—anything that would protect his men. A few minutes later a police van arrived, and four men hoisted the machine to the back steps. Two shotgun blasts tore open the back door, and the robot, remote camera attached, rolled in.
The men watched on the screen. Smoke cleared as the kitchen table came into view. Rotating 180 degrees, the robot revealed the door leading downstairs. It searched the kitchen, then moved down the hall. As it approached the entrance to the living room, the screen went fuzzy. “Proceed down the hall. We’ll check the front room last,” the sheriff ordered.
The light shone down the hall and into the bathroom, then on to the bedroom, where the ghastly sight of the dead cat dangling from the ceiling came into view. Otherwise, the bedroom was empty.
When the small contraption made its way back down the hall to the living room, again the picture went fuzzy. The interference was too much for the short-wave signal. The technician tried to adjust for the bad reception, but to no avail. The sheriff called his men together for final instructions. Every room upstairs proved clear except the southeast corner of the house.
“Proceed with caution. The man could be armed—and we know he’s dangerous. Use deadly force, if necessary.” A collective murmur went through the SWAT team members as individually they pondered the tacit order to shoot on sight.
Olsen tried to explain that the front door was blocked. Paying no attention, the sheriff ordered the men to their assigned posts. On command, the two-men groups stormed the house. The screen connected to the robot showed the raid—things spraying throughout the living room and being knocked from shelves.
“Upstairs! All clear, sir!” the radio blasted.Feverishly Danny worked at the last code, much harder to break than the rest. Each time he thought he had it, it would elude him. “It must have some sort of time limit to it,” he mumbled to himself. He clicked on to the BIOS set-up and used a command to stop the clock on the computer. Then he returned to the code.
His intensity kept him from noticing the eyes outside the study window. The old family dog raised its head from napping to let out a few half-hearted warning barks as the black figure slipped out of view, around the front porch, up the corner stones on the side of the house and onto the overhanging roof, stealing along the roof valley until standing outside the girls’ upstairs bedroom window. Silently, the screen was cut from its frame.
Downstairs, with the clock off, Danny at last had broken through the code! The program opened with a jolt. Photos of dead or sick people flashed on the screen, frame after frame. Battered black bodies lay in rows, bloated from the hot sun. Bamboo shacks filled the background. The photos of those living, showed them with hopeless eyes and distended bellies. Weeping wounds covered their bodies.
Looking at the grisly images made Danny nauseous. It wasn’t what he’d expected to see. If anything, Melvin would have taken photos of his female victims, or perhaps of women and girls he’d spied on through the bathroom wall or with his intricate monitoring devices. He’d hoped to find information that would lead to Melvin’s victims, buried in remote locations.
He scanned the disk a second time, pleading for answers, but it was all the same. He slumped in his chair. The grandfather clock in the entryway began to chime. Determined to at least keep his promise to his dad, he disappointedly shut down the computer.
The children slept in the glow of the streetlight. On the roof someone waited, listening, watching. Inching the bedroom window open, he slipped in. A straw was brought out from under the jacket and a silent puff of fine dust sprinkled over Christina’s face. She moaned softly, her peaceful face becoming a mask of dread, her pleasant dreams changing to scenes of horror. Her mouth was taped shut; her arms were taped together and her slender, limp body was lifted out onto the roof. Christina’s abductor threaded his neck under her arm, tossed the rest of the body over his shoulder and cautiously climbed down from the roof.
In the hall outside his room, Danny shuddered at what he’d just witnessed. He couldn’t shake the gruesome visions from his mind. Christina had made him promise to tell her what he found. He considered waiting until morning, since his cousin had already been through so much, but he felt too depressed to sleep without telling someone what was on the disks. I’ve got to tell her, he reasoned. She always has a way of making things seem better.
Slowly he opened Christina’s door. The room felt cold. The window was ajar. Stepping to close it, he noticed the screen peeled out onto the roof. Where’d she go? was his first thought. He rushed back to the door to turn on the light. Christina wasn’t in her bed! His younger sisters groaned from the bright light.
“Mom! Dad! Christina’s missing!!!” he yelled down the hall.Alan bolted upright out of bed. Out into the hall and up the stairs he went. Kate was right behind him, fearing that something was terribly wrong.
By the time they reached the bedroom, Danny had hopped out the window onto the roof. In the yard below, the old Rottweiler struggled to break free from her chain, bravely barking at the figure slinking across the backyard. Danny ran east along the roof of the wrap-around porch in time to see Christina’s body being lifted over the wrought-iron fence.