Deadly Stillwater

“Burton held the handshake and pointed, “He was a hell of a cop son, a hell of a cop. You worked that PTA case with the CIA guys, right?”

“With these three,” Mac answered, gesturing to Riley, Rock, and Lich. Burton turned to the chief.

“Damn right I want to work with these guys.” There was noticeable approval in the FBI man’s voice. Then he looked to Riley, the senior officer.

“What do we know?” Riley gave the run down for what seemed like the tenth time. It didn’t sound any better no matter how many times he told it, Mac thought.

“Well, probably not a nut then,” Burton said.

“No,” Mac replied, “it was a well-orchestrated attack. These guys knew exactly what they were doing.”

It was dark now, approaching 10:00 PM, but the temperature was still in the mid-seventies. It if weren’t for the fact he had just completed a kidnapping, it would have been a lovely night to be out for a drive, Smith thought. Apparently, many Minnesotans agreed. During the summer, Minnesota cabin owners tended to stay up north at their lake places as long as possible before trekking home for another week grinding away at their jobs. As a consequence, even at this late hour, an endless stream of headlights glowed for miles in the distance, coming in the opposite direction on Interstate 94. The mass of traffic heading back into the Twin Cities would be of assistance to him soon enough.

Smith approached the Clearwater exit, which was forty-five miles from the Twin Cities and eleven miles southeast of St. Cloud. He took the exit ramp up, turned right, and drove a quarter mile before turning right into the parking lot of an abandoned fast-food restaurant. The lot was full of weeds, plastic soda bottles, and discarded fast-food bags. He pulled his car up to the single pay phone on the side of the building, the back of the car facing the road.

He stepped out of the car with a duffel bag. At the phone, he reached into the bag and pulled out a plastic bag with ten dollars’ worth of quarters, a Dictaphone, and a portable voice changer. He attached the acoustic coupler to the handset and adjusted the selector switch for a low voice. He then reached with his gloved hand for the pay phone and put in enough quarters to cover his call back to the Twin Cities. He dialed the number and put the receiver to his head with his left hand and held the Dictaphone in his right hand.

“Here we go,” Burton said, jumping into action as the phone rang. Waving Lyman over, he put an arm around his shoulder, directing him. “Try to keep him on as long as you can,” Burton said to Lyman. “Keep him talking and maybe we get a fix on his position. Keep him going a little longer and maybe we can get somebody there. Get your daughter back! That’s your job, your mission here. Get her back. Keep him talking.”

On the third ring, Lyman picked up, “Lyman Hisle.”

The voice came over the intercom, obviously disguised.

“We have your daughter.”

“How do I know that? How do I know she’s alive?”

There was a muffled sound followed by a click and then the slow, quivering voice that made Lyman cringe.

“Daddy, I am okay. I have not been hurt. Please do as these men say, and I won’t be harmed. I love you…”

The tape cut off. There was another muffled sound, and a few seconds later the voice was back. “Satisfied?”

No, I want to speak with her,” Lyman answered.

“That is all for now,” the voice answered.

“Wait,” Lyman pleaded, “I need to tell you something. Shannon is a diabetic.”

“Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

“Are you hearing me?” Lyman implored, stringing it out as best he could. “She’s a Type I diabetic. She requires daily injections of insulin. If she doesn’t get it, she can get very, sick. She could go into a coma without it; she could die. What good is she to you if she’s dead? You have to help her with that.”

“Then you better do as we say,” the kidnapper replied.

“I won’t do that until I speak with her, so I can hear her voice, so I know that she’s okay.”

“We’ll be in touch.”

“Wait, wait… Her insulin! She needs her insulin!” Lyman yelped, but the line was already dead. He looked helplessly to Burton as he slowly set the receiver back into the cradle. The chief went to his friend, putting an arm around him.

Burton looked to the agent working a laptop.

“Anything?”

The agent held his hand up while watching the screen.

“It’s coming… wait… Bingo! A landline… payphone, in… Clearwater.”

“Where’s that?” Burton asked.

“An hour northwest, up Interstate 94, toward St. Cloud,” the chief said, turning back to the group. “I take that exit going north to my cabin.”

4 “ He’s got options from here.”

The Explorer sped north, engine roaring, the siren and lights moving traffic out of the left lane as the needle on the speedometer passed one hundred. Mac worked the wheel, with Lich scanning a Minnesota map, checking out Clearwater. Riley and Rock were trailing in an unmarked sedan, alternately on the phone with the Clearwater Police, the State Patrol, Mac and Lich, as well as Burton and Peters.