ONCE BOUND Read online

  A break in the case? she wondered.

  The cop who had yelled out was standing just beyond the barrier among the reporters. Next to him stood a middle-aged woman who was wringing her hands anxiously.

  Chief Buchanan said to Riley, “That’s Ila Lawrence. Her son Axel is one of my cops. She’s a little bit annoying, but she wouldn’t come around here if she didn’t think she really knew something. Come on, let’s check it out.”

  As Riley trotted alongside Chief Buchanan toward the barrier, the cop escorted Ila Lawrence inside the blocked-off area.

  “Is it true?” the woman asked when they got near her.

  “Is what true?” Chief Buchanan said.

  “That Sally Diehl got killed here? That’s what Axel said on the phone. That’s why I came over here.”

  Chief Buchanan gave Riley an awkward glance. Riley understood. The chief was embarrassed that one of her own cops was blabbing crime scene information to his mother.

  Chief Buchanan said, “Ila, I’d rather not get into that right now.”

  Ila’s eyes widened.

  “It was Sally! I’m sure it was! I warned her to stay away from those people!”

  Riley’s attention sharpened.

  She asked, “What people are you talking about?”

  “Bums. Hobos. They hang around the train station from time to time, panhandling. They get chased off, but they show up again. They’re not really pushy and most folks know well enough to stay clear of them. But Sally kept giving them money—and worse, she kept talking to them.”

  Ila shook her head.

  She said, “That woman was just too friendly for her own good. But I kept wondering—what did she talk to them about? I mean, what did she have in common with them? She taught third grade, for goodness’ sake! I worried that maybe she was into something dangerous—drugs or something worse. Well, I must have been right. Whatever it was got her killed. I knew those bums were dangerous!”

  Chief Buchanan shuffled her feet irritably.

  “Ila, thanks for stopping by,” she said, obviously trying to sound polite. “We’ll keep what you said in mind. We’ve got to get back to work. Meanwhile, I’d really rather you not talk to anybody else about any of this.”

  Chief Buchanan turned away, and the woman looked startled at getting brushed off so abruptly. As Riley and the chief walked back toward the crime scene, the chief called out to one of her cops.

  “Lawrence! Get your ass over here!”

  The young cop came toward them, looking apprehensive.

  Chief Buchanan said to him in a testy tone, “Did you call your mother and tell her what was going on here?”

  The cop stammered, “W-well, no, actually she called me, just to talk, like she usually does around this time of night. When I told her where I was and what I was doing, I guess I—”

  “Oh, I know what you did,” Chief Buchanan interrupted. “You just hauled off and told her the name of the murder victim. What’s the matter with you, Lawrence? You know better than that.”

  The young cop hung his head.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. It was just that, you know, nothing like this ever happens around here, and I didn’t stop to think about what I was saying and …”

  He paused and added, “It won’t happen again, ma’am.”

  “Damn straight, it won’t happen again,” the chief growled. “And when the hell are you going to stop calling me ‘ma’am’?”

  “Sorry—Chief,” the cop said.

  As he started walking away, the chief snapped at him again.

  “Stay here a minute. Maybe we can find a way to make you useful as well as ornamental.”

  The young cop fell quiet and stood there.

  Riley asked the chief, “What hobos was Ila talking about?”

  “Oh, just some transient freight-hoppers, hobos who ride in boxcars. They’ve moved into the area lately, seem to think of Caruthers some kind of hobo train station. They’re a real nuisance. Harder to get rid of than a swarm of flies on a cow’s carcass. Like Ila said, they do some panhandling around the station whenever they can get by with it. I’d seen Sally talking to them too, and giving them money. I told her to stop, but she didn’t listen. Sally was like that—always interested in other people, it didn’t much matter who. She wasn’t what you’d call discriminating in her choices of acquaintances.”

  “Where are they right now?” Riley asked.

  Chief Buchanan looked at Riley with a curious expression.

  She said, “Surely you don’t think those bums had anything to do with Sally’s death.”

  Riley thought for a moment. It didn’t seem at all likely that hobos were going around killing women throughout the region.

  But even so …

  “Sally did talk to them,” she said. “Right now, I’m interested in anyone she may have talked to. Maybe they know something we need to know. I’d like to check them out.”

  Chief Buchanan scratched her chin.

  “Well, they keep moving around, finding different places to stay nights. My boys shoo them away, but they always find someplace else.”

  Chief Buchanan pointed along the tracks.

  “The last I heard, they were camping up that way, under a place where the tracks pass over a ravine. I’d been planning to send some of my boys to clear them out until … well, until this other thing happened.”

  Riley decided that she definitely wanted to talk to the hobos. She looked around for Bill and Jenn and spotted them talking with the coroner who had arrived on the scene. They were intent on helping him examine the body. Riley was glad to see the two of them seemed to be working well together.

  No need to bother them about this, she thought.

  She turned to Officer Lawrence and said, “Do you know this place your chief is talking about?”

  Lawrence nodded, looking more than a little disgusted.

  Riley said to Chief Buchanan, “I’d like to borrow this man for a little while.”

  “Be my guest,” the chief said.

  Riley and the cop made their way along the tracks, shining their flashlights ahead of them.

  “Hobos,” the cop said, spitting with annoyance as they walked along. “I hate hobos. And freight-hoppers are the worst. The filthy bastards. It had better be worth it—going anywhere near them, I mean. I’ll want to take a long shower later on.”

  Riley fought down a sigh of impatience.

  The guy definitely wasn’t much of a cop—first blabbing to his mother about the murder, and now getting all squeamish about a bunch of homeless transients.

  I’d better not count on him for much, she thought.

  They’d walked a short distance when Riley noticed a weird glow up ahead. It seemed to be coming up from beneath the railroad ties. They came to a place where the tracks were raised on trestles over a ravine.

  Lawrence said, “That’s the place right there.”

  Riley stepped off the tracks and looked down the hillside. She could see a small campfire burning. About eight grubby men with makeshift bedrolls were huddled around the fire talking in quiet voices. Riley guessed that the fire wasn’t for warmth, not on a summer night like this. It had to be for cooking and for light.

  Riley knew that if she and the cop made their presence known too quickly, the hobos were liable to scatter.

  She whispered to the cop, “Let’s turn off our flashlights. Keep quiet.”

  Signaling for the young cop to follow her, she began to make her way down the steep slope into the ravine. They had almost gotten to the bottom without attracting the hobos’ attention when the cop tripped and stumbled.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled.

  One of the hobos called out, “Who’s there?”

  “Just relax,” Riley replied. “We’re not here to make trouble.”

  She turned her flashlight back on and shined it on her badge.

  “I’m Special Agent Riley Paige, FBI. I just want to talk a little, that’s all.”

  Se
veral of the hobos laughed coarsely.

  “The FBI!” one said.

  “Holy shit!” said another. “What the hell do you want with a bunch of bums like us?”

  Another said, “Does this have something to do with whatever’s going on down yonder? We’ve been hearing sirens for a good while now.”

  The young cop said, “A woman was killed. Murdered. Run over by a train.”

  Riley darted a disapproving glance at Officer Lawrence. She wanted to do the talking here. With his lack of basic cop skills, he was sure to make a mess of things.

  She said, “The victim’s name was Sally Diehl. Is that name familiar to any of you?”

  An uneasy murmur passed among the men.

  One said, “Not the nice Sally, I hope. Not the Sally we see around the train station from time to time.”

  “I believe that was her,” Riley said.

  Several of the men moaned sadly.

  “That stinks,” said one. “Who’d want to kill a nice girl like that?”

  Lawrence said, “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

  Riley nudged him with her elbow, hoping he’d get the message to shut up.

  She was starting to really wish she’d brought Jenn or Bill with her after all.

  Meanwhile, she noticed that one of the men was sitting a short distance off from the others, facing away from everybody.

  Why? she wondered.

  His effort to go unnoticed was only making him more conspicuous.

  She said to the men, “I understand that Sally would sometimes stop and talk with you guys.”

  There was a low murmur of agreement.

  Riley said, “Did she ever tell you about someone she’d met who worried her? On a train, maybe, or anywhere else? Someone who might have frightened her?”

  “Not Sally,” one of the men said. “She wasn’t the type to talk about her own problems.”

  “That’s right,” another said. “She was actually interested in us, hearing our stories, offering to help with a little money now and then.”

  Lawrence stepped forward and said, “You guys had better not hold out on us. Start talking, right now. I’ve got half a mind to haul all of you into the station.”

  Riley grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “Lawrence, knock it off,” she said.

  But the damage was done. She could feel a wave of anxiety pass among the men. Gone was any level of trust she’d hoped to establish with them.

  “We’re not here to make trouble,” she’d said.

  “I just want to talk,” she’d said.

  They didn’t believe that anymore. She’d never get any meaningful information out of them now.

  Even as she tried to think how to get the hobos more comfortable with them again, she saw a movement at the far side of the group.

  The man who’d been off by himself was on his feet.

  He was running away!

  “Stop right there!” Lawrence yelled at the man.

  The man was scrambling up the slope, on his way out of the ravine.

  With another bellow, Officer Lawrence took off after him.

  Riley stifled a groan and started after Lawrence. But she suddenly fell to the ground and her flashlight flew from her hand.

  She realized that someone had tripped her.

  As she tried to get to her feet, a heavy boot pushed her down. She rolled over and looked up.

  Riley saw that the group of men had formed a threatening circle around her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Riley moved slowly to get back on her feet, watching for any attack from the men who had surrounded her. She more than half expected to get kicked back to the ground before she could stand up.

  Instead, the circle of men withdrew a couple of steps.

  Their retreat wasn’t out of fear—she felt none of that in the air.

  They just want to give me a fighting chance, she realized.

  It wasn’t really an encouraging thought. In the dim firelight, these guys looked a lot bigger now than they had when they’d been sitting huddled around their little fire. She remembered that a large percentage of today’s hobos were ex-convicts. They would be strong, and they’d learned to be violent in the nation’s prisons.

  She quickly assessed whether to draw her weapon.

  No, she thought.

  That wouldn’t be a good idea—not in a circle of potential assailants. One might grab her from behind, causing her to lose control of her weapon. She could easily wind up dead.

  She fleetingly worried about Officer Lawrence. The aggressive young cop had disappeared out of the ravine in pursuit of the escaping hobo.

  Had Lawrence drawn his gun? Did he have the sense not to fire on the fleeing man?

  But she didn’t have time to worry about that now.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Riley said.

  “Neither do we,” the largest of the hobos said. “That’s why we want to know—why are you guys after our pal Spider?”

  “We didn’t come here after anybody,” Riley said.

  “You got an arrest warrant?” another hobo asked.

  “No. We just want to talk, that’s all.”

  The largest guy broke into a sinister grin.

  “Talk!” he said with a rough laugh. “We might just get around to that,” he said. “Or we might not. Or maybe you and me need to communicate first.”

  Riley heard a murmur from the others in the circle, but couldn’t tell whether it was in support or protest of the big man’s attitude.

  Then he barked out orders. “Tater, put out the fire. Weasel, grab her flashlight.”

  “Right away, Dutch,” said one of the men.

  The two hobos he’d addressed quickly followed their orders. One dumped a cup of water on the campfire. As the fire hissed and smoked, he threw a heavy cover over it.

  The other hobo snatched up Riley’s flashlight and turned it off.

  Suddenly, the darkness was total, and the sound was only that of shuffling feet. No ambient light penetrated into the deep ravine.

  Riley knew Dutch was still there, somewhere in front of her. The rest of the men seemed to have stepped back.

  Giving us space, she realized.

  Riley deliberately slowed her breathing and considered her tactics. Although the hobo called Dutch was a lot bigger and stronger than she was, he was overconfident. His mistake was being determined to fight with her one-on-one. She knew that the darkness didn’t give him any particular advantage. She’d fought in total darkness before. She knew what to do.

  Riley began to move about randomly—stepping lightly forward, backward, to the sides, ducking and dodging even though no blows were coming just yet.

  She couldn’t see where her opponent was, but he couldn’t see her either. He would hear her moving about, but if she kept moving, he couldn’t predict where she’d be next. And he was likely to make more noise than she did.

  Soon she heard a heavy step and felt a rush of air as his arm sliced by, then a grunt of discouragement that the blow didn’t connect. Another quick swing also missed her widely, and she heard him stumble past her.

  Riley knew that she was depending on luck as well as stealth, and that luck wasn’t likely to hold out for long. But maybe it wouldn’t have to. The guy’s very size meant that he was already using more effort and energy than she was, just by flailing about. If she could just evade his blows long enough to tire him, he’d become markedly less dangerous.

  She kept her feet moving until a backward step brought her into contact with a body. She’d almost forgotten—the circle of men was still tight around her. Whoever she’d bumped into gave her a sharp push back toward Dutch, who was still swinging at her.

  Another blow came, and this time she felt his knuckles graze her cheek.

  She heard curses as the big man blundered past her and into his companions. Then for a long moment, she couldn’t tell exactly where he was.

  Riley began to worry …

&
nbsp; Is he tiring fast enough?

  She stood still, and she heard a welcome sound.

  Dutch was breathing heavily now.

  Those sounds were all she needed to locate the position of his head. She drew back her right arm and let fly with her fist.

  She felt a sharp pain in her knuckles that shot all the way into her wrist as her fist connected with the man’s skull.

  Dutch let out an outcry of pain. But Riley could tell by his voice that he was still on his feet.

  She fought down a surge of discouragement.

  There was a disadvantage to fighting blind that she hadn’t reckoned on.

  If she’d been able to see, she’d have been able to aim her punch somewhere softer and yet more vulnerable, like her assailant’s throat.

  Now it was going to take more than one strike to bring him down.

  Dutch was groaning and gasping audibly now. She listened carefully, then launched another punch—this time with her left arm.

  This hit didn’t hurt her hand nearly as much as the last one, and she could both hear and feel something cracking against her knuckles.

  Teeth, she realized.

  She must have smashed him on the side of his mouth. He was cursing and howling with pain.

  The fight was over.

  Now Riley drew her weapon. Her hand was hurting, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to fire it. She doubted that she would, but she knew that she could fire with her left hand if she absolutely had to.

  Dutch yelled, “Light, damn it! I need some light.”

  The hobo named Weasel snapped Riley’s flashlight back on. Another hobo yanked the cover off the campfire and squirted kerosene onto the coals.

  Flames leaped up again.

  The light revealed Riley standing there, pointing her gun at Dutch. Blood was pouring from the big man’s mouth.

  “Nobody move,” she said sharply. “Dutch, put your hands up on your head.”

  Dutch looked cowed.

  “OK, OK,” he said, obeying her order. As he raised his hands, he leaned forward to spit out a couple of broken teeth.

  Despite the pain in her right hand and wrist, Riley managed to smile.

  She said, “All right, let’s pick up where we left off. Like I said, I just want to ask you guys a few questions. Just sit down and make yourselves comfortable. Let’s get to know each other.”