An uneasy feeling grew as he tilted the sun visor down and followed the trail to the right of the storage barn. The truck easily handled the rough path, although he had to slow to a walking pace.

  A hundred feet of the open meadow bordered a farmer’s field with a hog-wire fence to the south. Across the same distance to the east and north were mixed spruce and cedar woods. Occasional white clusters of birch broke up the varying shades of green and drew his eye.

  As he drove around the corner of the building, a man stepped out in front of the truck. John barely braked in time to avoid hitting him. The county sheriff wore the wide-brimmed hat and tan uniform, with a gold badge above the left breast pocket. The tall man appeared in his mid-forties with a large push-broom style mustache and dark-rimmed glasses. The officer had been standing outside the rear door of the garage on a cigarette break.

  He dropped the smoke from his lips and crushed it out with the heel of his boot.

  One hand gestured for John to stop while the other rested on the pistol grip of his weapon. John’s first instinct was to stomp on the accelerator and peel out of there as his heart pounded in double-time.

  John threw it in park as the officer stepped around to the driver’s side window.

  Chapter 24

  M

  aking sure there were no sudden movements, John turned off the truck and lowered the window. He placed both hands on the steering wheel and tried to smile at the officer.

  “I need to ask what you are doing back here.” He had a serious demeanor, but a southern drawl made it seem like a casual conversation. He stood eight feet back from the truck and turned slightly to the side. One hand remained on his pistol, and John tried not to look down.

  “I was called for a suspected gas leak, but I’m not sure if I have the correct address.” John was proud that he put a little annoyance into his voice, and the tremor in his stomach did not give anything away.

  When the officer took a step forward, John read the nameplate opposite the badge. Potter

  “This is a government facility. I think it’s best you moved along and confirm that address elsewhere.”

  “My apologies, Officer. Have a good day.” John nodded, started the truck, and put the window up. Then, with a half-wave, he continued to follow the dirt path around the steel barn.

  Unfortunately, with the warmer weather and the sun heating the black truck, the decals and lettering on the magnetic sign had peeled and hung down, barely attached. John noticed the man glance down, frowning, and knew it would not end well. Suddenly, the officer drew his pistol and hustled to the side. He yelled. “Stop the vehicle and step outside the truck. Now!”

  The muzzle of the Beretta was three feet away. He could not get out of there fast enough to dodge a 9 mm round. He tried to look confused as he followed the orders. He turned off the Ford and placed his hands in the air.

  “Open the door and step outside. Slowly.”

  The officer took several steps back as he increased the distance between them. The pistol never wavered.

  John followed the instructions and left his hands up in the air. “What’s wrong? Jesus man, put that away.”

  “Identification. Now.”

  He pulled the ID off his bright yellow construction shirt and held it out. “Calm down. Here you go.”

  As the officer shuffled forward, his left hand pointed to the ground. “Throw it down, then step back.”

  The officer’s eyes flicked back and forth between him and the ID. The sheriff stood two inches taller than John, at six feet, and had the tapered look of a swimmer. Potter’s eyes followed the laminated plastic when he tossed it down, and John stepped to the side and shrugged.

  “There you go. Is this a Terry stop? What’s going on?”

  The only thought that ran through his mind: Ava doesn’t have a chance if I get caught.

  When the officer crouched for the ID, John abruptly stepped forward. He brought a hammer fist down on the man’s head with a grunt. The move surprised him, and he acted without thought.

  Potter turned at the last second with the movement, and the blow grazed his ear and thudded off his left shoulder. The wide-brimmed hat cushioned too much of the strike to make it effective before it was knocked off. However, the veteran sheriff had spent over twenty-five years on the job and knew when to drop his weapon. When the Beretta hit the dirt, both hands shot forward and hooked behind John’s left ankle. Then, with a surge of strength, he pulled.

  As his fist came up for a second strike, John lost his balance and landed hard, flat on his back. The officer scrambled to his feet, and instead of picking up the pistol, he grabbed the Taser on his belt.

  John rolled to the side and got to his knees when a loud pop and small pieces of white paper discharged from the yellow-bodied weapon. There was zero chance of avoiding the two small darts as they punctured the shirt and embedded in his chest. The insulated thin copper wires allowed twelve hundred volts to travel from the hand-held unit and paralyzed every muscle in his body. The sound of the electrical discharge was nearly drowned out as John fell to the side, screaming in pain through a clenched jaw.

  Potter held the trigger for the full five seconds, then stepped forward as he reached for his handcuffs.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  Chapter 25

  E

  very muscle contracted and screamed in pain, and John could not fight back. He toppled to the ground on his right side as he screamed in agony. His head narrowly missed the open truck door. When Potter flipped him onto his stomach, he was just beginning to become aware of his surroundings as he struggled to breathe.

  When the last echo of electrical current dissipated, Potter dropped a knee into the middle of his back, driving the air from his lungs. Two hands forced his arm out from the side, and when the handcuff ratcheted closed, John groaned into the dirt. The cool steel dug into the flesh of his right wrist and was controlled by a firm hand on the links.

  As Potter reached for his left wrist, John knew what would happen next. With the size of his chest and arms, he could not twist a hand onto his lower back. The muscles and frame of his torso would not physically allow it to happen without dislocating his shoulders.

  When a hand clamped on his left wrist and struggled to pull it into the center of his back, John acted. His forearm twisted, and he grabbed Potter’s wrist. With a burst of energy, fueled by fear, John rolled at the same time as he pulled sharply on the officer’s arm.

  Potter suddenly found himself airborne and whipped in a tight arc. Unable to get his hands up in time, his head collided with the rear passenger door on the Ford. While he was stunned, John acted. “Fuck! Sorry about this.”

  This time a meaty fist connected behind the officer’s left ear, knocking him out cold. After gaining his feet, John ran a hand through his hair as he spun about in a circle and scanned for anyone that may have viewed the altercation or cameras. It was suddenly hard to breathe, and he stood there panting.

  Nothing. No cameras and he was alone.

  After he ripped the probes out of his shirt, the flashing steel of the dangling cuff prompted John to roll the officer over gently. The four-inch key had a black polymer coating, diamond grip, and a metal loop over the end. It was clipped on the right hip, in front of the empty holster on the belt.

  “Come on.” John struggled, but soon the cuffs dangled open, and he threw the key out into the field. He rolled the officer onto his stomach and locked the man’s wrists behind his back. He found a roll of silver duct tape inside the truck and secured his ankles with a piece over the mouth.

  John looked around and debated where to hide the officer. Next to the rear door of the storage barn was a rusted metal chair that creaked as the dead weight settled.

  It was then he noticed the thick steel door was propped open with a blue plastic cigarette lighter above the handle.

  There was no better chance to look inside. Before he could think, John caught the lighter as it fell when the door opened. With a quick look over his shoulder, he slipped inside the building.

  The massive building had four rows of vehicles—two along the outside edges and a line through the middle, with cars facing outward on each side. There did not appear to be any rhyme or reason for the order layout. A station wagon was parked next to a pop-up tent trailer, and a crushed 4x4 Jeep rested on a platform beside three Harley Davidson soft-tail bikes. John wrinkled his nose just inside the door when he caught a whiff of the burnt-out Dodge minivan five feet away. It reminded him of a rotting wet towel doused in sulfur.

  The floor was crushed gravel, and hanging above his head, banks of fluorescent lighting stretched the length of the building. A series of massive ceiling fans circulated the stale air, but they did nothing to cool the inside. The temperature was easily ninety-five and sweat beaded on his forehead within seconds.

  John thought back to the original instructions to burn the place down, but there did not seem any way to accomplish the task. Almost everything inside was either metal or stone—except the plastic on the vehicles or the cloth interiors.

  The hushed conversation between two men at the far end of the building carried, and he crouched low to avoid being spotted. When a small engine started, he peeked through the dusty windshield of a four-door sedan. A small green forklift moved a covered utility trailer into the aisle, and the backup alarm beep echoed throughout the building.

  John shook his head and knew it was time to get out of there. He had pushed his luck as it was. But when he stood to leave, the covered trailer cleared the parking space, and the worker pulled it to the front of the garage.

  John’s fists clenched, and the knuckles cracked as he struggled to find his breath once again.

  His head rose above the car to confirm. A light blue step-van with a sliding window on the passenger side was now visible. The large decals of an ice-cream cone and popsicles were faded but still recognizable. A stainless-steel loudspeaker hung down from the roof in front of the cracked windshield on thin wires.

  An ice cream truck.

  Chapter 26

  R

  eading the email from the tip line, Special Agent Taylor shook her head in disbelief. A picture from a cell phone showed the profile of a man in blue coveralls, floppy hat with a thick beard, running across the street with a pistol held down the side of the leg. It was hard to make out the finer facial details. The photo was snapped from inside a vehicle at the crosswalk, and the windshield distorted the image. The anonymous tipster thought the man was John Weland, father of Ava Weland—the missing child in the case.

  Debra pulled up the DOT file with a flurry of clicks and compared John’s driver’s license photo with the shooter. The beard could have been the same, but there was no certainty. However, it was the pistol that drew her attention. The tan-colored 9mm pistol looked familiar, but she was not an expert, and they all looked the same. Luckily, there was such a person down the hall.

  When she knocked on the open door of the corner office, Special Agent in Charge, Douglas Reynolds, looked up from his laptop. His hair was cut in a military brush-cut that had turned white while still in his thirties. At sixty years old, he was close to retirement and counting down the days until he could golf daily. He already had the tan and fine lines around the eyes that gave away his sport of choice.

  “Doug, can you identify this gun for me?” Taylor held out the tablet.

  “If I can.” His fingertips increased the image size. “Coyote tan, Sig Sauer M18 with a Red Dot and optic mods. Looks like a twenty-one-round magazine, but I can’t be sure.”

  He had an encyclopedia’s knowledge of handguns and a dedicated room at home displaying his collection.

  “This image was sent through the tip line for the Rothman shooting, but it came to me because someone thought they recognized the man.” She quickly filled him in.

  “Give me a second.” Reynolds turned to his computer screen, and it took him a few minutes to call up the information. “I don’t think Weland would be a subject. He never served. This pistol was service issue. I’ll send this to the task force and have them concentrate on serving or former military. I would think more for special ops with the precision of the hit and escape. Someone had some information on the kidnapping case and tried to tie them together is my best bet. Possibly someone has it out for Weland? Not sure, but regardless good work.”

  “Thanks.”

  They chatted for a few minutes before Debra headed back to the conference room. Her fingernail tapped the back of the tablet with each step, and her brow furrowed as she struggled to recall ... something. When Keith asked about her order for tomorrow’s lunch, Taylor lost her train of thought.

  It would come back to her later. It usually did.

  There was only one reason John was given his latest task. There was something the kidnapper wanted covering up. That evidence had to be inside the building. Pop Goes the Weasel echoed in his thoughts, and there was little doubt the truck had to be a piece of the puzzle.

  With the workers occupied, John made the decision. Keeping low, he ran along the aisle while remaining silent. Slipping behind an old Bronco, he held the wall to his back and one eye toward the goal.

  The ice cream truck was faded blue with decals of cones, bars, and various dishes, around the side-serving window. The accident must have been serious. The front bumper was crumpled inward several inches, and the bent hood was held down with yellow nylon rope—a crack resembling forked-lightning radiated outward from a softball-sized hole in the corner. The loudspeaker dangled in front of the driver’s seat.

  The truck’s rear had a hundred-pound propane tank in brackets next to the back door. A light coating of dust covered the outside. It had been sitting here for months. Instead of blindly following orders, he had to look inside. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

  Slowly, John pressed the thumb latch and the door opened. A strong, musty smell hit him right away, and he had to breathe through his mouth. A stainless-steel bench ran along the driver’s side, with a soft ice cream dispenser in the middle. Cardboard boxes filled with plastic cups, spoons, and napkins littered the floor. Three chest freezers took up the length on the passenger side, under the serving window. No one had thought to empty any products, and they were left to rot.

  “Where to start?” Even whispers seemed loud. He cleared a path through the middle and placed the boxes on the counter. The first freezer was empty, but the second still held eight white tubs with lids. Mould had grown along the bottom and sides of the freezers. It resembled a gray and blue area rug, with white tendrils that reached out.

  A door separated the front seating from the rear, and it squeaked as John slid it to the side. Wincing at the noise, he waited to make sure no one was coming. The officer was still handcuffed outside, and the alarm could be raised any moment. Time was of the essence, something his nerves told him every few seconds.

  “Come on ...”

  The front was as much of a mess as the back. A forced lockbox sat on the driver’s seat. The black tray inside was empty. On the dashboard were stacks of maps marked in red highlighter—sales routes. John didn’t recognize any of the street names. He found several blank receipt books and menus from two dozen Chinese food restaurants scattered over the state in an overhead storage shelf.

  A small plastic bag held birthday candles for a cake, an old Mars bar wrapper, and a scratched lottery ticket.

  Frustrated, John picked up a handful of menus and threw them into the rear.

  Nothing.

  “Fuck!”

  There didn’t seem to be any sense in destroying the building and all the impounded vehicles. Was it just an insane test to see if he were loyal and would follow instructions? John had no idea.

  However, if that were what he had to do to get Ava back, he would make it happen. He’d gone too far now and had to see this through.

  Two steps into the rear of the truck, a piece of paper sticking out of a white and red menu caught his eye—a ticket issued by the Michigan State Police: Uniform Law Citation, in Oakland County. The vehicle was going ten miles per hour over in a school zone and received a hundred and thirty-five dollar fine and two points.

  John’s hands shook as he read the driver’s information.

  He had a name and address.

  Chapter 27

  C

  ameron Moore. John clutched the thin sheet of paper to his chest and closed his eyes. He tried to recall anyone with that name or if they had crossed paths, but nothing came to mind. He gently folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket with a grin. There were no guarantees that this speeding ticket was related, but a feeling in his gut made him want to cheer at the find.

  Now he had another problem. How to follow the kidnapper’s instructions? A glance through the cracked window showed the workers had left the building and closed the large hangar doors behind them. Enough innocent people had been harmed, and John wanted to avoid others if possible.

  Opening the rear door, John tapped the tank. The freezers ran on propane, but when the truck went into storage, someone had turned the valve closed. He loosened the tank in the brackets with two clicks and lifted—it was nearly full.

  Inside, he pushed the boxes aside and got down on hands and knees to pull the stainless-steel grate off, under the chest freezers. The regulator for the gas line was an older model, made of black plastic and steel fittings. The quick-release valve was made of brass and easy to spot. John scraped the back of his hand, trying to fit in the small space, but he pulled down on the ring, and the propane line came free.

  A pocket knife cut through the rubber hose, and he tucked it back under the freezer.

 

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