Блейк Пирс
Once Hunted
CHAPTER SIX
As the FBI jet hit the runway at Syracuse Hancock International Airport, Riley remembered something her father had told her in last night’s dream.
“You’re no good to anybody unless they’re dead.”
Riley was struck by the irony. This was perhaps the first case she’d ever been assigned where somebody hadn’t been murdered already.
But that’s likely to change soon, she thought.
She was especially worried about Kelsey Sprigge. She wanted to meet the woman face to face and see that she was all right. Then it would be up to Riley and Bill to keep her that way, and that would mean tracking down Shane Hatcher and putting him back in prison.
As the plane taxied toward the terminal, Riley saw that they had traveled into a true winter world. Although the landing strip was clear, huge mountains of snow showed how much work the plows had put in recently.
It was a change of scenery from Virginia – and a welcome one. Now Riley realized how much she needed a new challenge. She had called Gabriela from Quantico to explain that she was on her way to work on a case. Gabriela had been happy for her and assured her that she’d take care of April.
When the plane came to a stop, Riley and Bill grabbed their gear and climbed down the stairs onto the icy tarmac. When she felt the shock of deep cold on her face, she was glad that she’d been issued a heavy hooded jacket at Quantico.
Two men scurried toward them and introduced themselves as Agents McGill and Newton of the FBI field office in Syracuse.
“We’re here to help any way we can,” McGill told Bill and Riley as they all hurried into the terminal.
Riley asked the first question that came to her mind.
“Have you got people watching Kelsey Sprigge? Are you sure she’s safe?”
“Some local cops are posted outside her house in Searcy,” Newton said. “We’re sure she’s fine.”
Riley wished she felt as certain.
Bill said, “Okay then. Right now we just need something to drive to Searcy.”
McGill said, “Searcy’s not far from Syracuse, and the roads are all clear. We’ve brought an SUV you can use, but … uh, are you used to driving in northern winters?”
“You know, Syracuse always wins the Golden Snowball Award,” Newton added with impish pride.
“Golden Snowball?” Riley asked.
“That’s New York state’s prize for the most snow,” McGill said. “We’re the champs. Got a trophy to prove it.”
“Maybe one of us should drive you,” Newton said.
Bill chuckled. “Thanks, but I think we can handle it. I had a winter assignment in North Dakota a few years ago. I got a good dose of winter driving there.”
Although she didn’t say so, Riley also felt seasoned for this kind of driving. She’d learned to drive in the Virginia mountains. The snow there was never as deep as it was here, but the back roads were never cleared very quickly. She’d probably put in as much time on icy roads as anybody here.
But she was happy to have Bill drive. Right now she was preoccupied with Kelsey Sprigge’s safety. Bill took the keys and they were on their way.
“I’ve got to say, it feels good to be working together again,” Bill said as he drove. “It’s selfish of me, I guess. I like working with Lucy, but it’s not the same.”
Riley smiled. She also felt good to be working with Bill again.
“Still, part of me wishes you weren’t coming back to this case,” Bill added.
“Why not?” Riley asked with surprise.
Bill shook his head.
“I’ve just got a bad feeling,” he said. “Remember, I met Hatcher too. It takes a lot to scare me, but … well, he’s in a class by himself.”
Riley didn’t reply, but she couldn’t disagree. She knew that Hatcher had pushed Bill’s buttons during that visit. With uncanny instinct, the longtime prisoner had made shrewd observations about Bill’s personal life.
Riley remembered how Hatcher had pointed to Bill’s wedding band and said:
“Forget about trying to fix things with your wife. It can’t be done.”
Hatcher had been right, and Bill was now in the middle of an ugly divorce.
At the end of the same visit, he’d said something to Riley that still haunted her.
“Stop fighting it.”
To this day, she didn’t know what Hatcher had meant she should stop fighting. But she felt an inexplicable dread that one day she was going to find out.
*
A little while later, Bill parked alongside a huge pile of plowed snow outside Kelsey Sprigge’s house in Searcy. Riley saw a police car parked nearby with a couple of uniformed cops inside. But two cops in a car didn’t inspire her with a whole lot of confidence. The vicious and brilliant criminal who had broken out of Sing Sing could make short work of them if he put his mind to it.
Bill and Riley got out of the car and flashed their badges at the cops. Then they walked up the shoveled sidewalk toward the house. It was a traditional two-story home with a practical pitched roof and enclosed front porch, and it was covered with Christmas lights. Riley rang the doorbell.
A woman answered the door with a charming smile. She was lean and fit and wearing a jogging suit. Her expression was bright and cheerful.
“Why, you must be Agents Jeffreys and Paige,” she said. “I’m Kelsey Sprigge. Come on in. Get out of this awful cold.”
Kelsey Sprigge led Riley and Bill to a cozy living room with a roaring fire.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked. “Of course, you’re on duty. I’ll get some coffee.”
She went into the kitchen, and Bill and Riley sat down. Riley looked around at the Christmas decorations and at the dozens of framed photographs hanging from the walls and resting on the furniture. They were taken of Kelsey Sprigge at various times of her adult life, with children and grandchildren all around her. In many of the pictures, a smiling man stood at her side.
Riley remembered that Flores had said she was a widow. From the photos Riley guessed that it had been a long, happy marriage. Somehow, Kelsey Sprigge had managed to accomplish something that had always defeated Riley. She had lived a full, loving family life while working as an FBI agent.
Riley more than half wanted to ask her how she’d managed that. But of course, now was not the time.
The woman quickly returned carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, cream and sugar, and – to Riley’s surprise – a scotch on the rocks for herself.
Riley was in awe of Kelsey. For a woman of seventy, she was extremely spry and full of life, and tougher than most women she’d met. In some ways, Riley felt it was like looking at a sneak preview of the woman she might become.
“Well, now,” Kelsey said, sitting down and smiling. “I wish our weather was more welcoming.”
Riley was startled by her easy hospitality. Under the circumstances, she thought that the woman should be truly alarmed.
“Ms. Sprigge – ” Bill began.
“Kelsey, please,” the woman interrupted. “And I know why you’re here. You’re worried that Shane Hatcher might be coming after me, that I might be his first target. You think he wants to murder me.”
Riley and Bill looked at each other, not sure what to say.
“And of course, that’s why those police are outside,” Kelsey said, still smiling sweetly. “I asked them to come in and warm up, but they wouldn’t do it. They wouldn’t even let me go out for my afternoon jog! Such a shame, I just love getting out for a run in this brisk weather. Well, I’m not worried about being murdered, and I don’t think you should worry either. I really don’t think that Shane Hatcher intends to do any such thing.”
Riley almost blurted, “Why not?”
Instead, she said cautiously, “Kelsey, you captured him. You brought him to justice. He was spending his life in prison because of you. You might be the whole reason he got out.”
Kelsey didn’t say anything for a moment. She was eyeing the pistol in Riley’s holster.
“What weapon do you carry, dear?” she asked.
“A forty-caliber Glock,” Riley said.
“Nice!” Kelsey said. “May I have a look at it?”
Riley handed Kelsey her weapon. Kelsey took out the magazine and examined the gun. She handled it with the appreciation of a connoisseur.
“Glocks came along a little too late for me to use in the field,” she said. “I like them, though. The polymer frame has a good feel to it – very light, excellent balance. I love the sighting arrangement.”
She put the magazine back in and handed the gun back to Riley. Then she walked over to a desk. She took out a semiautomatic pistol of her own.
“I took Shane Hatcher down with this baby,” she said, smiling. She handed the gun to Riley, then sat back down. “Smith and Wesson Model 459. I wounded and disarmed him. My partner wanted to kill him on the spot – revenge for the cop he’d killed. Well, I wouldn’t have it. I told him if he did kill Hatcher, there’d be more than one corpse to bury.”
Kelsey blushed a little.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I’d rather that story didn’t get around. Please don’t tell anybody.”
Riley handed the weapon back to her.
“Anyway, I could tell that I met with Hatcher’s approval,” Kelsey said. “You know, he had a strict code, even as a gangbanger. He knew that I was just doing my job. I think he respected that. And he was grateful, too. Anyway, he’s never shown any interest in me. I even wrote him a few letters, but he never wrote back. He probably doesn’t even remember my name. No, I’m all but positive he doesn’t want to kill me.”
Kelsey peered at Riley with interest.
“But Riley – is it OK for me to call you Riley? – you told me on the phone that you’d actually visited him, that you’d gotten to know him. He must be quite fascinating.”
Riley thought she actually detected a note of envy in the woman’s voice.
Kelsey rose from her chair.
“But listen to me babble, while you’ve got a bad guy to catch! And who knows what he might be up to, even as we speak. I’ve got some information that might help. Come on, I’ll show you everything I’ve got.”
She led Riley and Bill through a hallway to a basement door. Riley’s nerves quickened.
Why does it have to be in a basement? she thought.
Riley had harbored a slight but irrational phobia about basements for some time now – vestiges of PTSD from having been held captive in Peterson’s damp crawlspace, and even more recently from having taken out a different killer in a pitch-dark basement.
But as they followed Kelsey down the stairs, Riley saw nothing sinister. The basement was finished as a comfortable rec room. In one corner was a well-lighted office area with a desk covered with manila folders, a bulletin board with old photographs and newspaper clippings, and a couple of filing drawers.
“Here it is – everything you could want to know about ‘Shane the Chain’ and his career and downfall,” Kelsey said. “Help yourself. Ask if you need help making sense out of it all.”
Riley and Bill started looking through folders. Riley was surprised and thrilled. It was a fascinating, even daunting body of information and a lot of it had never been scanned for the FBI database. The folder she was looking through was crammed with seemingly unimportant items, including restaurant napkins with handwritten notes and sketches pertaining to the case.
She opened another folder that held photocopied reports and other documents. Riley was a bit amused to realize that Kelsey surely wasn’t supposed to have copied or kept them. The originals had surely long since been shredded after being scanned.
As Bill and Riley pored over the material, Kelsey remarked, “I guess you’re wondering why I just won’t let this case go. Sometimes I wonder myself.”
She thought for a moment.
“Shane Hatcher was my one brush with real evil,” she said. “During my first fourteen years with the Bureau, I was pretty much window dressing here in the Syracuse office – the token woman. But I worked this case from the ground up, talking to gangbangers in the street, taking charge of the team. Nobody thought I could bring Hatcher down. In fact, nobody was sure that anybody could bring him down. But I did.”
Now Riley was looking through a folder of poor-quality photos that the Bureau probably hadn’t bothered to scan. Kelsey had obviously known better than to throw them away.
One showed a cop sitting in a café talking to a gangbanger. Riley immediately recognized the young man as Shane Hatcher. It took her a moment to recognize the cop.
“That’s the officer that Hatcher killed, isn’t it?” Riley said.
Kelsey nodded.
“Officer Lucien Wayles,” she said. “I took that photograph myself.”
“What’s he doing talking with Hatcher?”
Kelsey smiled knowingly.
“Well, now, that’s rather interesting,” she said. “I suppose you’ve heard that Officer Wayles was an upstanding, decorated policeman. That’s what the local cops still want everybody to think. Actually, he was corrupt to the very bone. In this picture, he was meeting with Hatcher hoping to make a deal with him – a cut of the drug profits for not interfering with Hatcher’s territory. Hatcher said no. That’s when Wayles decided to do Hatcher in.”
Kelsey pulled out a photograph of Wayles’s mangled body.
“As you probably know, that didn’t work out too well for Officer Wayles,” she said.
Riley felt a tingle of understanding. This was exactly the treasure trove of material she’d yearned for. It brought her much, much closer to the mind of the youthful Shane Hatcher.
As she looked at the photo of Hatcher and the cop, Riley probed the young man’s mind. She imagined Hatcher’s thoughts and feelings at the moment the picture was taken. She also remembered something that Kelsey had just said.
“You know, he had a strict code, even as a gangbanger.”
From her own conversations with Hatcher, Riley knew that it was still true today. And now, looking at the photo, Riley could feel Hatcher’s visceral disgust at Wayles’s proposal.
It offended him, Riley thought. It felt like an insult.
Small wonder that Hatcher had made such a gruesome example of Wayles. According to Hatcher’s twisted code, it was the moral thing to do.
Thumbing through more photos, Riley found a mugshot of another gangbanger.
“Who’s this?” Riley asked.
“Smokey Moran,” Kelsey said. “Shane the Chain’s most trusted lieutenant – until I busted him for selling drugs. He faced a long prison sentence, so I had no trouble getting him to turn state’s evidence against Hatcher in return for some leniency. That’s how I finally nailed Hatcher.”
Riley’s skin prickled as she handled the picture.
“What became of Moran?” she asked.
Kelsey shook her head with disapproval.
“He’s still out there,” she said. “I often wish I hadn’t made that deal. For years and years now, he’s been quietly running all kinds of gang activities. The younger gangbangers look up to him and admire him. He’s smart and elusive. The local cops and the Bureau have never been able to bring him to justice.”
That prickling feeling grew. Riley found herself in Hatcher’s mind, brooding in prison for decades over Moran’s betrayal. In Hatcher’s moral universe, such a man didn’t deserve to live. And justice was long overdue.
“Do you have his current address?” Riley asked Kelsey.
“No, but I’m sure the field office does. Why?”
Riley took a deep breath.
“Because Shane is going there to kill him.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Riley knew that Smokey Moran was in great danger. But the truth was, Riley’s heart didn’t exactly go out to the vicious career thug.
Shane Hatcher was what really mattered.
Her assignment was to put Hatcher back in prison. If they caught him before he killed Moran for the old betrayal, fine. She and Bill would drive to Moran’s address without giving him any advance warning. They would call the local field office to have backup meet them there.
It was about a half hour drive from Kelsey Sprigge’s home in middle-class Searcy to the much more sinister gang neighborhoods of Syracuse. The sky was overcast, but no snow was falling, and traffic moved normally along the well-cleared roads.
As Bill drove, Riley accessed the FBI database and did some quick research on her cell phone. She saw that the local gang situation was dire. Gangs had grouped and regrouped in this area since the early 1980s. Back in the era of Shane the Chain, they had been mostly locals. Since then national gangs had moved in, bringing with them heightened levels of violence.
The drugs that fueled this violence with their profits had gotten weirder and much more dangerous. They now included cigarettes soaked in embalming fluid and paranoia-inducing crystals called “bath salts.” Who knew what even deadlier substances would turn up next?
As Bill parked in front of the rundown apartment building where Moran lived, Riley saw two men wearing FBI jackets get out of another car – Agents McGill and Newton, who had met them at the airport. She could tell from their bulkiness that they were wearing Kevlar vests under the jackets. Both were carrying Remington sniper rifles.
“Moran’s place is on the third floor,” Riley said.
When the group of agents moved in through the building’s front door, they encountered several gangbanger types standing around in the cold and shabby foyer. They just stood there with their hands shoved into their hoodie pockets and appeared to pay little attention to the armed squad.
Moran’s bodyguards?
She didn’t think they were likely to try to stop her little army of agents, although they might signal Moran that someone was on the way up.
McGill and Newton appeared to know the young guys. The agents patted them down quickly.
“We’re here to see Smokey Moran,” Riley said.
None of the young men said a word. They just stared at the agents with strange, empty expressions. It struck Riley as odd behavior.
“Out,” said Newton, and the guys nodded in compliance and filed out the front door.
With Riley in the lead, the agents stormed up three flights of stairs. The local agents led the way, checking each hallway carefully. On the third floor, they stopped outside Moran’s apartment.
Riley knocked sharply on the door. When no one answered, she called out.
“Smokey Moran, this is FBI Agent Riley Paige. My colleagues and I need to have a word with you. We don’t mean you any harm. We’re not here to arrest you.”
Again came no answer.
“We have reason to believe that your life is in danger,” Riley shouted.
Still no answer.
Riley turned the doorknob. To her surprise, it wasn’t locked, and the door swung open.
The agents stepped into a neatly kept, nondescript apartment with virtually no decor. There was also no TV, no electronic devices, certainly no sign of a computer. Riley realized that Moran managed to wield tremendous influence in the criminal underworld solely by giving face-to-face orders. By never going online or even using a phone, he stayed under law enforcement’s radar.
Definitely a shrewd customer, Riley thought. Sometimes the old-fashioned way works best.
But he was nowhere in sight. The two local agents quickly checked all the rooms and closets. Nobody was in the apartment.
They all made their way back down the stairs. When they reached the foyer, McGill and Newton lifted their rifles, ready for action. The young gangbangers awaited them at the base of the stairs.
Riley looked them over. She realized they’d obviously been under orders to let Riley and her colleagues search the empty apartment. Now it seemed that they had something to say.
“Smokey said he thought you’d come,” one of the gangbangers said.
“He told us to give you a message,” another said.
“He said to look for him over at the old Bushnell Warehouse on Dolliver Street,” a third said.
Then, without another word, the young men stepped aside, leaving the agents plenty of room to leave.
“Was he alone?” Riley asked.
“Was when he left here,” one of the young men replied.
A sort of solemn foreboding hung in the air. Riley didn’t know what to make of it.
McGill and Newton kept their eyes on the young guys as the agents exited. When they got outside, Newton said, “I know where that warehouse is.”
“I do too,” McGill said. “It’s just a few blocks from here. It’s abandoned and up for sale, and there’s been talk of turning it into classy apartments. But I don’t like the sound of this. That place is perfect for an ambush.”
He got on his phone and requested more backup to meet them there.
“We’ll have to be careful,” Riley said. “Lead the way.”
Bill drove, following the local SUV. Both cars parked in front of a decrepit four-story brick building with a crumbling facade and broken windows. As they did, another FBI vehicle pulled up.
Looking over the building, Riley could see what McGill had meant and why he had wanted more backup. The place was huge and decrepit with three floors of dark and broken windows. Any of those windows could easily hide a shooter with a rifle.
All of the local team was armed with long guns, but she and Bill had only pistols. They might be sitting ducks in a firefight.
Still, an ambush didn’t make sense to her. After shrewdly evading arrest for some three decades, why would a guy as bright as Smokey Moran do something reckless like gun down FBI agents?
Riley called the other agents on her radio.
“You guys still wearing Kevlar?” she asked.
“Yeah,” came the reply.
“Good. Stay put in your car until I tell you to come out.”
Bill had already reached into the back of their well-stocked SUV, where he had found two Kevlar vests. He and Riley quickly slipped into them. Then Riley found a megaphone.
She rolled down the window and called out to the building.
“Smokey Moran, we’re FBI. We got your message. We came to see you. We don’t mean you any harm. Come out of the building with your hands up and let’s talk.”
She waited for a full minute. Nothing happened.
Riley got on the radio again to Newton and McGill.
“Agent Jeffreys and I are getting out of our vehicle. When we’re out, you get out too – with your weapons drawn. We’ll all meet at the front door. Keep your eyes high. If you see any movement anywhere in the building, take immediate cover.”
Riley and Bill got out of the SUV, and Newton and McGill got out of their car. Three more heavily armed FBI agents got out of the newly arrived vehicle and joined them.
The agents moved cautiously toward the building, eyeing the windows with their guns ready. Finally they reached the relative safety of the enormous front doorway.
“What’s the plan?” McGill asked, sounding distinctly nervous.
“To arrest Shane Harris, if he’s in there,” Riley said. “To kill him if necessary. And to find Smokey Moran.”
Bill added, “We’ll have to search the whole building.”
Riley could tell that the local agents didn’t much like this plan. She couldn’t blame them.
“McGill,” she said, “start on the ground floor, working your way up. Jeffreys and I will head to the top floor and work our way down. We’ll meet in the middle.”
McGill nodded. Riley could see a flash of relief on his face. They clearly knew that danger was much less likely in the lower part of the building. Bill and Riley would be putting themselves at considerably greater risk.
Newton said, “I’m going up with you.”
She saw that his expression was firm and made no objection.
Bill pushed the doors open, and all five agents went inside. Icy wind whistled through the windows of the bottom floor, which was mostly an empty space with posts and doors to several adjoining rooms. Leaving McGill and three others to start down here, Riley and Bill headed for the more threatening stairwell. Newton followed closely behind them.
Despite the cold, she could feel sweat in her gloves and on her forehead. She felt her heart pounding and worked hard to keep her breathing under control. No matter how many times she’d do this, she’d never get used to it. Nobody could.
At last they entered the vast, loft-like upper story.
The dead body was the first thing that caught Riley’s eye.
It was duct-taped upright to a post, so mangled that it hardly seemed human anymore. Tire chains were wrapped around its neck.
Hatcher’s weapon of choice, Riley remembered.
“That’s got to be Moran,” Newton said.
Riley and Bill exchanged glances. They knew not to holster their weapons – not yet. The body might well be Hatcher’s ruse to lure them into the open.
As they approached the dead man, Newton hung back, rifle ready.
Freezing pools of blood stuck to the soles of Riley’s shoes as she approached the body. The face was beaten beyond all possibility of recognition, and DNA or dental records would have to be used to identify it. But Riley had no doubt that Newton was right; it must be Smokey Moran. Grotesquely, his eyes were still wide open, and the head was taped to the post so that he seemed to be staring directly at Riley.
Riley looked around again.
“Hatcher’s not here,” she said, holstering her weapon.
Bill did the same and walked up to the body beside Riley. Newton remained watchful, holding his rifle ready and turning to keep check on all directions.
“What’s this?” Bill said, pointing to a folded piece of paper poking out of the victim’s jacket pocket.
Riley took out the piece of paper. Upon it was written:
“A horse is on a 24 foot chain and eats an apple that is 26 feet away. How did the horse get to the apple?”
Riley tensed. It came as no surprise at all that Shane Hatcher had left behind a riddle. She handed the paper to Bill. Bill read it, then looked at Riley with a puzzled expression.
“The chain isn’t attached to anything,” Riley said.
Bill nodded. Riley knew that he understood the riddle’s meaning:
Shane the Chain was now unbound.
And he was just starting to enjoy his freedom.
