Free Dead River by Fredric M. Ham Page A

him.”
    They were prepared to find the caller, but instead found the receiver off the hook, still swinging in pendulum arcs. The phone booth sat on the edge of an empty parking lot adjacent to a small office building with a blue and white sign out front: Taggert Insurance Agency.
    The four deputies holstered their handguns and gathered under the brightest light at the back of the lot. Night offered additional challenges, but the deputies settled quickly on the proper perimeter to set. Roadblocks were to be set up on U.S. One and at the two streets connecting to Oakland Drive.
    “He may be on foot!” one of the deputies shouted. He was pointing to a path cut into some thick woods behind where they stood, the entrance barely visible.
    Not more than eighty yards from the lot, across the fenced-in woods, was Washburn Road, running north and south. It was nothing more than a dirt byway with abandoned shacks and tall weeds along both sides.
    Two deputies stepped over a broken section of the fence where the path began and drew their handguns and flashlights. They bolted down the trail, scanning from side-to-side as they ran, clutching pistols in one hand and the flashlights in the other.
    As they flew down the trail, a car’s engine raced ahead of them. They finally reached the side of the road and pointed their flashlights down the narrow byway. Only a cloud of dust could be seen dancing in the two beams of light. It was so thick that the car wasn’t visible, but the roar of its engine could still be heard.
    “Son-of-a-bitch!”
    “Shit!” the other deputy yelled. “We didn’t set up a road block on this one! I’ll call it in.”
    Carillo answered his cell phone on the first ring.
    “Carillo.”
    It was one of the deputies at the scene. “We missed him.”
    “What? Goddamn it! No trace of him at all?”
    “Only a dust cloud on a dirt road that runs parallel to U.S. One. Had to be him.”
    Adam’s glimmer of hope faded instantly. He turned toward the couch and kicked the center cushion, sending it high in the air.
    Carillo glanced up in time to watch the cushion topple the end-table lamp. “Didn’t you set up road blocks?” he continued.
    “Hey, give me a break. Hell yes, we did, but not on Washburn Road. It’s barely a goddamn road—there’s nothing on it.”
    “What about prints on the phone?”
    “Probably nothing useful.”
    “What the fuck you talking about?”
    “We only found prints on the front stainless steel plate and a few keys. The receiver was wiped clean.”
    “You think he was wearing gloves?”
    “Yup. But we did find something resting on top of the phone.”
    “What.”
    “An empty syringe. Looks like it’s been used.”
    Insulin! How much more does she have? “Shit!”
    “What?”
    Carillo’s eyes darted in Adam’s direction. “Nothing,” he said quietly. “Let me know if anything else turns up.”
    “What happened?” Adam shouted, as he marched toward Carillo who was sitting at the equipment table.
    “They missed him.”
    “How?”
    “Look, it’s one thing to trace a call, quite another to catch who made it. Especially this one.”
    “Why?”
    Carillo stroked his mustache reflectively. “This guy knows what he’s doing.”
    Adam stared down at Carillo. “I heard something about road blocks. Did they have any set up?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then why haven’t they caught him?”
    “Because he was parked on a dirt road that no one uses. They didn’t think of it in time.”
    “Jesus Christ!”
    Carillo leaned forward in his chair. “We’ll get him.”
    “You’d better hope and pray it’s in time.”

 18
    ADAM SHOT UP in bed. Was that the phone? He checked the time. It was five-thirty. He’d been drifting in and out of sleep for less than an hour. His temples throbbed. Another ring didn’t come. It had to be a dream.
    The hot, steamy shower was invigorating. He dressed and went downstairs to make a pot of coffee. Cup in hand, he opened the front door quietly and