Coldwater Revenge by James Ross (best e reader for android .txt) 📕

to get him to carry an extra one now and then. My guess is Frankie didn’t know about Billy’s sideline with Hassad… at least not at first. He was probably mad as hell when he found out. Especially if Billy was carrying both Frankie’s and Hassad’s stuff at the same time, or in any of the cars Billy took in and out of Frankie’s junkyard.”

“That could have been what I heard them arguing about.”

“I don’t have all the pieces yet. But I think Frankie may have seen Billy’s sideline as something that exposed the bread and butter business he had going through his garage, and that when he couldn’t get Billy to stop, he got pissed and killed him. Or Hassad found out the same thing and had the same problem. His little vial-in-pocket operation could have gone undetected forever, but not if it got connected to a regular commercial dope run. In any event. Hassad learned the game was busted when I showed up today and started asking questions. I think he may have come across the border tonight to clean up his tracks.”

“What do you mean?”

Tom looked at her closely. “What did you see at the junkyard after you climbed out of the ditch?”

“Nothing.”

He tried to catch her eye, but she turned her head and spoke to the wall. “I passed a car before I got there.” Her voice was a whisper. “I thought at first it might be you. Then, like I said, I turned off the headlights and tried to coast down the gravel drive and instead slid into that ditch. A few minutes later, you came shuffling out of the woods looking like Lon Chaney’s ghost.”

“Did you notice anything about the car that passed you, or anyone in it?”

She looked up and away. “Dark sedan. I didn’t see the driver. Are you sure about all this, Tom? About any of it?”

He looked at her eyes. “Frankie’s dead, Susan. Whoever was in that car killed him. My guess is Hassad/Suliman.”

“Guess? You mean you’re making this up?”

He held out his bandaged hands. “I’m not making these up. Or Frankie being dead. The person in that car you passed killed him and tried to kill me. The only guess is who it was. Hassad fits.”

Her voice was quiet, almost a prayer. “What are you going to do?”

“Tell Super Trooper. Someone who knows what he’s doing needs to take it from here. Joe or someone else.”

Her hand reached for Tom’s thigh. “Are you sure that’s the right thing to do, Tom?”

His heart leapt and his throat contracted. “I’m way out over my skis, Susan. Confronting Hassad without a plan for what he might do next was amateurish. So was walking into Frankie Heller’s junkyard. Another mistake like that…” He looked at her pale hand on his paler thigh. “And we don’t get to finish this.” The throb in his ears was deafening.

“But what about NeuroGene and the people who work there?” It wasn’t a question, it was a plea. “I can’t stay here either, if what you say about my brother is true and gets out.”

“There’s a killer on the loose, Susan.”

“And my parents? Am I the only one who doesn’t believe that cockamamie story that they crashed and drowned trying to race a forty-foot boat through Wilson Cove in the dark? My father?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that maybe Frankie and my brother were both killers. And that whatever happened to them, good riddance.”

From somewhere across the water came a murmur of voices: early morning fishermen… late night lovers? “It’s not that easy, Susan. Whoever killed Frankie isn’t finished. I barely got away. Do you think he’ll leave it at that?”

Susan pulled her hand away. Tom felt suddenly cold. “NeuroGene is doing important science, Tom. We’re close to some real breakthroughs. The company won’t survive a scandal like this. If you call your testosterone-fueled brother, all that meaningful work and the people who do it are finished. What purpose will that serve?”

Tom looked toward the light that was beginning to whiten the boathouse windows. He and Susan were talking past each other now, no longer connected. It was a familiar feeling. “There’s a cell phone in the glove compartment of the truck.” His voice flagged with exhaustion.

“Don’t Tom. No good will come of it.”

“I know that, Susan. But worse will come if I don’t.” When she didn’t respond, he prompted, “Would you bring the phone, please?”

* * *

Tom needed Susan’s help to dial the hospital, and when she reluctantly gave it, he let the phone ring until the sound eventually roused a night nurse. “I’m sorry,” he said, to the woman who finally answered, “I know it’s late, but I need to talk to my brother, Sheriff Morgan. He’s in room 318.”

“He was, dear,” said the nurse. “He’s gone now.”

“You released him? He’s better?”

“I don’t believe so, dear. It says here on his chart ‘left against medical advice.”

“When did he go?”

“It must have been before 11:00 pm. That’s when I come on. There’s a note here asking any relative who might call to contact a Dr. Dyer. “He’s not one of ours,” she added yawning and then gave Tom the number.

He handed the phone to Susan and recited the number. She dialed it and put the phone back in his hand. The voice that came on sounded as tired as Tom felt. “Dyer.”

“Tom Morgan. You left a message at the hospital for any relative of a patient who checked out a few hours ago.”

“Thank god. Are you the brother?”

“That’s right. Who are you?”

“Bill Dyer. A toxologist with the Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry. We’re part of the Center for Disease Control.”

“Is Joe with you?”

“I wish he were. I was hoping that you could help us find him.”

Whatever reserves Tom had started with that morning were long gone, and this was a draft on an empty well. “Have you tried his office, his home or our mother’s apartment?”

“Repeatedly. Frankly I’m astonished your brother made it to the