Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Senator Patrick Lehman turned up the volume on the television in his hotel room.
The press conference from Nova Scotia was live, interrupting the usual Sunday morning news shows.
The assistant commissioner and commanding officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—Canada’s national law enforcement equivalent to the United States FBI—was speaking from a podium.
“Fuck,” Rick mumbled under his breath. The scrolling words on the bottom of the screen read—Breaking News, Timothy Wells found alive. Yacht seized. People of interest in custody. Ongoing investigation.
He mumbled the expletive again. If the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were involved, then so were the FBI.
How had this gotten out of control?
It was the alarm in Iron Falls. Rick knew at the time that the alarm was bad.
He’d taken care of the problem. Perkins admitted they got the right guy.
Upon further investigation there was a shed on the property.
The door was locked and sturdier than it appeared.
The sheriff broke one of the blackened windows and found the interior transformed, equipped with top-notch technology.
Of course, when the incompetent sheriff went back to collect the equipment with his deputies, the shed was cleaned out.
That meant Holdcraft wasn’t working alone.
Thanks to some damn true-crime podcast, the two separate fires at two homes a thousand miles apart were getting national attention. He couldn’t figure out why Perkins’s man caused such a scene. That wasn’t what Rick wanted. It sure as hell wasn’t what the investors wanted.
To top it all off, yesterday, Indiana’s attorney general announced she was calling for a grand jury to assess evidence that Holdcraft’s daughter was responsible for her father’s death and the explosion in Indianapolis.
Perkins let this situation get out of control.
One problem solved wasn’t supposed to create ten more.
The investors had a lucrative operation trafficking children around the world.
The primary customers were in Russia, where people paid exceptionally well.
Russia’s birth rate had reached an unsustainable replacement level.
While the world wasn’t privy to the actual statistic, a recent report from National Bureau of Asian Research stated that the fertility rate was down to 1.
4 from the 2.1 needed for population stability.
In other words, wealthy oligarchs wanted children of all ages. Anglo-Saxon children were in high demand, the younger the better. There were on average two children shipped overseas per day. It was the high-profile kidnappings that were to blame for part of this disaster.
Rick sat on the edge of the king-sized mattress and listened to the broadcast. The assistant commissioner was speaking.
“…believe that Timothy Wells wasn’t an isolated case. Our investigation is underway.”
A reporter shouted a question. “Do you think other disappearances can be connected to the Wells case?”
The commanding officer gripped the sides of the podium. “We do.”
“What proof do you have?” another reporter asked.
“Due to the status of the investigation—”
“Fuck,” Rick mumbled. He’d be hearing from the people higher up, the people who supplied the money, planes, yachts, and more.
Rick didn’t have that kind of money, but this operation was increasing his wealth a hell of a lot faster than his congressional paycheck.
Rick was only a cog in the operation. His job was to provide cover in the New England area.
He had counterparts throughout the country.
Rick scoured New England for the right people.
Utilizing the state’s resources, Rick acquired demographic statistics.
Income-to-debt ratio was particularly helpful.
Take Ralph Perkins, for instance. He lost his wife about five years back after her bout with cancer.
The wife’s treatment drained their savings and put them underwater in debt.
A man in that position was usually willing to make money on the side.
Rick had both law enforcement and laypeople throughout New England on his payroll.
If the Timothy Wells case or whoever Holdcraft was working with brought more attention to the operation, Rick knew the damn liberal governor would call it terrorism. Then he’d get the feds involved. Rick needed to stop the bleeding before it became terminal.
He sent a text message to his man in charge of quotas.
“Quotas still present. Let this news cycle die. Concentrate on plan B. No plan A until further notice.”
Plan B was the most sustainable. No taking children from families with resources for the time being.
Instead, his people would concentrate on homeless camps, socially and economically challenged neighborhoods, and Title One schools.
Those children could go missing without the fanfare surrounding the Wells boy and the other girl…
Jensen or Janson. Rick couldn’t remember the name.
He preferred not to know names. Give him numbers.
Numbers paid.
Rick sent a text to Ralph Perkins.
“What am I seeing on TV? Call me.”
He looked at his phone as if wanting and willing it to ring. Rick’s patience with the good sheriff of Iron Falls was running thin. It might be time to do something about him.
Yes, if Rick took care of the Iron Falls problem completely, it would ensure the investors that the problem was solved. There were five more people out there for every one person on his payroll.
He looked up at the headline again. A particular part caught his attention. Yacht seized.
Shit, that was a problem.
Rick turned down the volume at the ring of his personal phone. The name Perkins was on the screen.
Rick hit the green icon and began speaking without a greeting. “The news out of your town continues to hit the national cycle.”
“Listen, we’re in good shape. They’re framing Shelly for what happened up here.
We’re downplaying the damn shed. In a few days, the country will be talking about the serial arsonist who killed her parents.
They’ll probably make up a song. You know, like Lizzy Borden.
” He half sang, half spoke the Lizzy Borden tune. “Shelly Holdcraft struck a match.”
“Fuck, Perkins, are you drunk?” Rick looked at the clock. It wasn’t even ten in the morning.
“I’m not drunk. I’m relieved. The attention will be on Shelly and not on Iron Falls.”
“What about the fucking press conference from Nova Scotia? All the evidence goes to your boy Dennis. I don’t give a fuck what the country is talking about.
Someone cleaned out that shed. Someone who was working with him.
That means that someone else could know about your connection.
” He hated to say the next part. “And my connection.” Rick lowered his voice.
“The thing is, without you, no one can prove we’re connected. ”
Ralph’s tone lowered. “I’m doing my damn best here. I’m getting tired of your threats.”
Rick’s phone beeped in his ear. He pulled the screen away and looked at the name. Rick’s stomach dropped and perspiration formed on his brow and palms. “I’ll let you know when the next transport is coming through. Until then, try to stay off the fucking national news.” He disconnected Ralph’s call.
He answered the incoming one. “Sir?”
“We need to talk.”