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

always exaggerates and that he couldn’t stay in the hospital any longer with a killer on the loose. Not if he wanted to keep his job. “What am I supposed to say when Mary calls?” Bonnie demanded. “Her son may be dying, but he won’t leave the office? I’m angry, Tom. No, I’m frightened. And I can’t keep doing this. I won’t keep doing it.”

Tom held out a bandaged hand. “Where is he?”

“The station. Where else?”

A half hour and a fist full of Tylenol later, Tom found Joe propped behind his desk in the basement of Town Hall. MadDog’s stuffed fish and game heads still decorated the wall behind the desk and the big iron ring of jail cell keys still hung on the ten penny nail on the wall. Nothing seemed to have changed since he and Joe had played marbles on the cement floor and peeked in at the Saturday night drunks while their dad caught up on paper work. The only addition was a rack of electronics in what used to be the mop closet. Tom assumed that was how Joe stayed connected to the state trooper barracks in DuBois. The only thing missing was the bottle of Jim Beam that used to sit on the shelf above the water cooler.

“What the hell happened to you?” Joe’s voice was an old man’s wheeze and his face stretched lines of pain from chin to hairline.

“Frankie Heller.”

“Still can’t handle him by yourself, huh?”

“He’s dead.”

Joe eased his head into the cradle of his hands.

“I didn’t kill him, Joe. But I was there when someone did. I thought at first it might be you. But whoever it was started shooting at me, too.” He paused.

“What?”

“It wasn’t you, right?”

“Don’t be funny. Sit. Spill.”

“You need to call this number first.” Tom threw a scrap of paper on the cluttered desk. “He’s a toxologist with the Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease. He says you’ve been poisoned.”

“Feels like it.”

“And he’s threatening to call out the National Guard to find you if you don’t get back to the hospital pronto.”

Joe lifted his head from his hands. “Agency for what? State or Fed?”

“Does it matter? Something in Billy’s autopsy report scared the shit out of him. The report you didn’t want me to read.”

Joe grunted. “I told you why.”

“This guy seems to know what you have and what to do about it. He was pretty convincing that you’d better do it quick, or he’ll be looking at your autopsy report next. From what I can see, he may not be exaggerating.”

Joe wheezed. “Can’t, Tommy. Leutenant Grogan of the State Trooper Border Security Task Force called a few minutes ago. Ordered me not to leave, if you can believe that. Little prick.”

“Sorry for your troubles, brother. But this is more serious than the state troopers poaching your turf. The Toxic Substances doc says, ‘think anthrax only worse. ’”

“Bullshit. I’d be dead.”

“If you breathed it. You only ate it, he says, and maybe got it in those cuts.”

Joe dropped his head into his hands again. “How am I supposed to stay holed up in a hospital with Paulie Grogan’s nose up my ass, dead bodies piling up all over town and no friggin’ idea of how they got that way?”

“Don’t be stupid, Joe. Go back to the hospital and let them do what they have to. You’re not going to solve anything if you croak.”

Joe moved his head in obvious pain. “All right. But tell me first how Frankie got dead and where you put the body.”

Tom didn’t laugh. “Then you go back to the hospital.”

“Fine. As soon as Grogan and his new best friends get through with me.” Joe stared at Tom’s bandaged hands and lacerated scalp. “Looks like both of us could use a pretty nurse. Frankie do that?”

“Indirectly. We’ll leave that for last.”

Tom recounted his trip to Montreal, Hassad’s explanation of the NeuroGene connection and his claim not to recognize Billy’s photograph while referring to the man in the photo in the past tense, his uneventful visit with Billy’s friend Bonnefesse and his eventful one with the now deceased Frankie Heller. Then he started to connect the dots.

“Start with means,” said Joe.

“All right. Somebody’s got to have a boat and get Billy into it. You remember when we visited Heller’s junkyard the first day I was here—the day the Dooley twins dragged Billy’s body out of the lake? Do you remember what was sitting in front of the garage?

“A boat on a trailer.”

“That’s right. Fishing season’s been over for weeks, but the boat’s not inside yet or pulled around back or anything. It’s not even covered. It’s just sitting there like it’s going out or just come back.”

“Go on.”

“Billy wasn’t big. But someone still had to get him into a boat. If he went willingly, then anyone could have done it. But if not, Frankie could have handled Billy easily.”

“Motive?”

“I think Billy ran errands for Frankie… harvest deliveries and such. Susan heard them arguing about something, so there was some sort of connection. I don’t think they were just buddies. But Billy branched out and started carrying stuff for this Hassad character, too. Maybe he combined trips—used Frankie’s cars. Maybe he left something behind one day. In any event, Frankie must have found out. He would have seen Billy’s sideline as a risk to his business. Or maybe it wasn’t even that logical. Maybe he and Billy just got into it. Frankie’s got a temper, and Billy had a knack for pissing people off. Maybe he just lost it.”

“Needs work. What about opportunity?”

“According to Susan, Billy was as sick as a dog the night he was killed. She says he was holed up in the boathouse. Frankie could have tied his boat alongside, talked or dragged Billy into the boat and then gotten rid of him out on the lake. Only he never got out of Wilson Cove because he heard you coming in the patrol boat when you thought you were after some poachers.