The Big Thaw

27

If Adams and I were right, we had Gabriel either on the boat or in the bank. Fifty-fifty chance, I suppose, but I'd been picturing him on the boat all this time. I tried to remember, and thought it was something he'd said…

"Anybody… didn't Gabriel say something that led us to believe he was on the boat rather than in the bank?"

"He said he'd 'tell the crew to hand out the jackets' when he implied that they would sink the boat," said Hester. "At least, that's the way I took it."

"Me too," said George.

Apparently, everybody agreed. "Maybe we could call the boat and ask to speak with him?" Why not?

"We tried the boat while you were talking to the van people," said Hester.

"The land lines disconnected when she was cut adrift. They'd do that," said James.

Hmm. "Well, then, let's call the bank again. Ask to speak to him."

"Let me," said Art. "I'm good at that. Anybody got any name I could use to get 'em to talk to me?"

"How about Roger Bushnell?" Sally blushed as everybody stared at her. "Should work."

"How so?" asked George.

"The first uniformed cop that drove up to the stretch van ran the plate. It's just what they do. Comes back to a Roger Bushnell" – she looked at her notes – "of Eden, Wisconsin. Plate expired three years ago. No other vehicles registered to him. Should be, if he registered cars anymore. I'll bet he doesn't because he doesn't believe in the vehicle laws." It all came out in a burst.

"Where," asked Volont, "did you find her, and why were you so lucky?"

Excellent question.

Art dialed the bank. He was on the speaker phone. It rang twice, and the gruff voice answered with "Hello."

"Hey," said Art, in a slightly deeper voice, flatter in tone than normal. "It's Roger. You hear from Gabriel yet?"

"No. Roger who?"

"Bushnell." He pronounced in without inflection or emphasis on a particular syllable. I would have said, "Bush NELL." He was apparently right.

"Okay, Roger. What's the password? You better give me the password."

He had him there. Art, though, really was good at this. Rather than make some lame excuse, or sound like a cop caught in the act, he just said, very loudly, and slightly away from the mouthpiece, "Look out! Cops!" and pressed the disconnect. He grinned, also pleased with his performance.

We were impressed. He'd not blown his cover, and left them worried and concerned, most likely. Good deal. And the icing on the cake was that we now could place Gabriel on the boat.

Unfortunately, knowing and arresting were two different things. I mean, it was surely a simple problem. Basically, all we had to do was figure how to get to a boat 100 feet from a dock. Well, maybe just a bit more complex. We had to figure how to do it with a stretch van filled with armed men between us and the boat. With people on the boat who would certainly, in the spirit of Sally's "pirates," repel boarders. Not to mention possibly sink it, or blow it up.

"Just what kind of fuel does she burn, Mr. James?" asked Volont.

"Diesel. No real fire hazard."

"Gabe tends to like explosives," I said. "If memory serves."

"Not under his own butt." Volont seemed sure. I wondered.

"If he starts her sinking," said Captain Olinger, "I'd suggest running cable, hook them to a couple of large wreckers, and pull her to shore."

We explained the method he'd used to blow off the cleats.

"No problem. There are structural members that would be accessible, and would bear the load. Do you want me to start rounding up the materials?"

We did. He got right on it.

Moments later, the phone rang. It was Gabriel. It was for me, at least at first.

"Deputy, did you enjoy your little chat with my people?" Confirmed he wasn't in the van, I thought. Well, given the fact that he would lie whenever necessary, maybe a 90 percent chance.

"The one is just a kid," I said. "Way too young for this shit."

"You're never too young, Deputy. Go to Fort Bragg and check IDs sometime."

"This one's been brainwashed."

"Welcome to the real world. But I digress. I want you to know I've talked with them, and I've given instructions to shoot on sight if anybody even tries to approach their position again."

"Don't you think 'predicament' would be a better choice than 'position'? These guys make Custer look safe," I said.

"Modern weapons… no. Never mind. But I wouldn't try them. They have a long reach." He sounded kind of mysterious. Rocket launcher? We knew he'd stolen a bunch a few years back. Good God, if they were to just step out of the van and fire a couple of LAWS rockets at the General Beauregard…

"Let me speak with Volont."

"I'm here."

"Stop playing with my people," he said. "In a short while, we'll be leaving. Stay out of the way," and he terminated the conversation.

"I think," said George, "we're definitely getting to him…"

About a minute later, the phone rang. Nancy, for me.

"Houseman," she whispered, "how are you coming with getting us off here? These people are starting to act kind of squirrelly."

"The bad guys or the passengers?"

"Don't be silly," she said. I thought it had been a pretty reasonable question.

"We're getting there," I said, trying to be a comfort.

"No progress, huh? You're gonna have to do better than that. One of the passengers is a little tipsy, and went over to one of the ski masks and asked him for a light. The ski mask knocked him down with his gun, and threatened to kill him."

"No shit?" We must be getting to the ones on the boat, too. I couldn't figure that out. They were the ones who cast off, apparently stranding themselves in the river. With explosive charges that had obviously been placed by them. Planned. With Gabriel there for leadership. So, what was screwing up their program? Something to do with the stretch van?

"No shit. This isn't a good situation here, Houseman. Not at all."

"Who's in charge? Can you tell?"

"It's supposed," she said, testily, "to be you."

"No, but in charge of the bad guys. Where's the leader? Where on the boat, I mean."

"I don't have the faintest. I didn't even know they had one."

Hester signaled me. "The suspects in the your little van seem to want to talk…"

"Gotta go. Hey, talk to Hester, will you?" I handed Hester the phone, and headed for the elevator.

When Adams and I got to the van, the young male I'd talked to was standing in the middle of the street, with his coat still on and his hands in his pockets. He was making everybody very nervous.

Adams and I approached him, and stopped when we got to the curb on our side of the street. "Put your hands where we can see them, would you?" I shouted. "We'll keep ours out in plain view, too."

That seemed to work. He took his hands out of his pockets, and kept standing there. We approached.

"What do you want to tell us?" Adams was a lot better trained than I.

"We been talking. We don't think you can do this, but we… we know we have rights under your laws. Right?"

"Sure. Same as anybody else. Isn't that right, Deputy?"

"Absolutely."

He nodded. "Okay, then. Then we want to surrender under the Geneva convention."

He sounded so damned sincere, and so scared…

"Just tell me your name, and I'll accept your surrender," said Adams. "I'm authorized to do so."

"Oh, good… Timothy Frederick Olson."

"Maybe you better tell your friends that we can accept your surrender. But only if you lay down your arms."

"Oh, oh, sure. Oh. Be right back, okay?"

"Okay."

"This is Alpha Lead," said Adams. "It looks like they might come out. If they do, get a team here to secure them."

Neither of us looked at the other. We didn't want to take our eyes off the van. "Are we going to be this lucky?"

"Well," he said, "if the kid is any indication, we sure are."

"I agree. And why else send him? Just to blow away two older cops?"

"Speak for yourself."

About ten seconds later, they began to emerge from the van. Seven men, still with their ski masks on, but without any visible weapons. They were all dressed in olive green trousers, boots, and patterned rust-brown, gray, black, and green rain smocks. They sure hadn't all been dressed like that when I'd seen them on the dock. They must have put them on while they were waiting. Solidarity?

As they walked toward us, Adams barked, "Hands on your heads, gentlemen, and please roll the ski masks off your faces."

They did. I didn't recognize any of them. As the kid I'd talked to went by, I stopped him for a second.

"Why did you all put on the same clothes?"

"If you catch us out of uniform, you can have us executed as spies," he said, very matter-of-fact. "It's in the Geneva convention."

I shook my head. "Go on with the others."

"Did I hear him right?"

"Afraid so."

"Boy. Twenty-two years in the FBI, and I never heard that one before."

But, now, regardless of anything else, our most direct path to the boat was cleared. The odds were getting better all the time.