“Well find out soon enough,” Heather answered.
The truck pulled up to the corner, and the chief and Lyman jumped out. Without a word, Burton slid the door closed. The truck pulled away down Washington Street and turned right on Kellogg Boulevard, heading out of sight.
Lyman and the chief walked up onto the corner. The chief scanned Rice Park, a park shaded by mature trees. The park took up the entire block, with benches lining walkways running diagonally from the outside of the block to the large marble fountain in the middle. The park was empty.
“What next?” Lyman asked.
Just then a ringing sound came from the garbage can sitting on the corner.
“That,” Flanagan answered as he looked down and then reached into the can, pulling out a duffel bag. A cell phone with a traditional telephone ring tone was inside. The chief answered.
“Flanagan.”
Paddy McRyan stood in the empty St. Paul Grill restaurant, inside the St. Paul Hotel, peering out the large picture window that looked out across market Street and into Rice Park. He watched the chief grab a bag out of the garbage can, pull the cell phone out, and start walking toward the water fountain in the center of the park. “Captain, they’re getting into the fountain, they’re going underwater,” Paddy said as calmly as he could, knowing what would happen to the body mics.
“Copy that,” Peters replied into Paddy’s earpiece. And then, his captain confirmed his worst fears. “We’ve lost audio contact.”
“We need to keep an eyeball,” Paddy said urgently into his radio, moving to his right to improve his viewing angle.
“Copy that,” Peters answered, taking charge. “What are they doing now?”
“They’re out of the fountain.” Paddy put his binoculars to his eyes, focusing the view. “The chief is on a cell phone. Do we have audio back?”
“Negative. We are not getting that feed.”
Paddy watched as Hisle and the chief knelt down to the ground, just out of his view. He couldn’t see what they were doing. After a minute, they slung the nylon bags over their shoulders. “They’re on the move, south, hold on…” The detective moved to his left, to the far edge of the picture window. “The chief and Hisle are walking out of Rice Park, south, back along Washington Street over to Kellogg.”
“Are you sure?” Peters asked. “The tracking devices in the bags show them stationary.”
That explained why they had knelt down. “They transferred the ransom into different bags. They are now out of my line of sight.”
I’m on the west side of the Xcel Center,” Riles said into a radio. “They’ll have to come out onto Kellogg Boulevard, and we have a good viewpoint.”
“Copy that,” Burton replied. “But keep your distance. Hang on… I’m looking at the map…”
“We’ll hold along West Seventh and Kellogg,” Riley responded. “We should have an eyeball if they walk our way.”
“Do that, but hold to the corner,” Burton ordered.
Rock pulled his truck up to the corner of West Seventh and Kellogg, holding in the left hand turn lane, his hazard lights on in case anyone pulled up from behind. Riley was looking east as Kellogg gently curved away like a half-moon. Flanagan and Hisle came into view, walking across the street to the sidewalk on the south side of Kellogg. They turned west, walking toward Riles and Rock. Three hundred yards away, a half-dozen people waited at a bus stop in front of the pedestrian tunnel entrance to the RiverCentre parking ramp, an underground ramp built into the bluff over the Mississippi River. You could enter the ramp with your car from Kellogg Boulevard on top or from Eagle Street, which ran eighty feet below Kellogg at the bottom of the bluff.
“We have them in view. They are walking in our direction.” Riley reported into the radio.
“They’re stopping,” Rock added. “They’re stopping.”
“Be advised the chief and Hisle have approached a group of people waiting at a bus stop at the RiverCentre parking ramp,” Riles said. “Are they going to put them on a bus?” he asked Rock.
“Looks like it,” Rock answered. Just then a bus approached from the south on West Seventh. It had its turn signal to take a right.
“We have a MTC Bus, an articulated bus, approaching our position from West Seventh. It’s turning east on Kellogg.” Riles gave the bus number and read the digital board over the windshield. “Be advised. The digital board on the bus says it is going to the Taste of Minnesota.” The Taste of Minnesota was a large food and music festival taking place on Harriet Island on the south side of the Mississippi River, opposite downtown. The culmination of the Taste was the big Fourth of July fireworks show. There were thousands of people on the island taking in the concerts and food.
“Those buses must be thirty, maybe forty feet long,” Rock said.
“If not longer,” Riles responded and then to Burton he said, “They’re going to run the chief and Lyman through the crowds at the Taste and try to lose us.”
Burton’s voice came over the radio. “We’re flooding the Taste of Minnesota. I want units converging on that location now.”
“That’ll help,” Rock said, relieved.
“About fuckin’ time we got after it,” Riles added.
The bus pulled up to the stop. The chief and Hisle were out of their view now, hidden behind the bus.
“Do I turn?” Rock asked, anxious.
“Hold here,” Riles responded coolly. “We have temporarily lost visual,” he reported. “We are blocked by the bus.” They didn’t have enough assets in the area at the right spots. “If they get on, we’ll follow.”
“Copy that,” Burton answered.
Twenty seconds later, the bus’s brake lights went off and it pulled east down Kellogg boulevard. There was nobody remaining at the bus stop.
“Be advised, Flanagan and Hisle are on the bus,” Riley reported.
Rock turned left and followed.
Lich accelerated along the path, which had started to smooth out. The sheriff and his deputies followed behind them. The tall grass was halfway up the doors on the Explorer at points as the trail snaked its way towards the tree line. A green metal stake appeared to their left, just as the sheriff said.
“That’s the property line for the park,” Mac explained. The trees were getting ever closer.
The tire tracks turned in a slow arc to the left until they ran parallel with the tree-line, now two hundred yards to the right.
“God, I wish I had the laptop with me,” Mac muttered as he closed his eyes again, pulling up the video in his memory bank. He recalled the van turning to run parallel to the tree line and then abruptly turning right, into the high grass, directly to the woods. Opening his eyes, he saw it, fifty feet ahead, a right turn into the high grass. “Turn right.”
“I got it, partner. I remember this from yesterday,” Lich said, slowing the Explorer and turning right to follow the fresh tire tracks. “These aren’t too old Mac. A day or two at the most.”
Mac nodded. The adrenaline was rushing through him now as Lich closed in on the edge of the trees. “Where is it?” Mac said. “Where is it?” He peered at the line of trees, looking for it.
“What? What are you lookin’ for?”
“That!” Mac pointed at a tree with orange tape tied around it. “That orange tie. That was on the video. They’re here. They’re here.” He grabbed a flashlight out of the glove compartment and jumped out of the truck before it had even stopped and ran frantically along the tree line, looking for the next sign. Where had they gone in? Mac worked his way down the edge of the tree line to the right of the orange tape. That felt like the right way. The box was wide. It would have been natural to slide it out of the van and walk straight back. The opening needed to be wider to allow them to operate in the dense trees.
He found it forty feet back from where they were parked, an opening with a jagged path that angled further
