WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (61 - 65)

61

Ty Hamilton

I proceeded to the section and row indicated on the back of the parking stub and began looking for vehicles with Illinois plates, which I assumed Mulligan would have been driving. With Illinois being right next door to Indiana, it figured that there might be several.  The first one I saw was a beat-up white Ford F-150. A couple of dents on the bed, scrapes on the doors. Nothing major. Looked like it had been well-used, if not well cared for.  I did a walk around, looking for any obvious place where a key might have been stashed. In the process, I bumped my knee on the trailer hitch receiver because I wasn’t paying enough attention. I found nothing.

Right next to it was another one from Illinois, a black Nissan. Same as before, with the same results. No key. I was worried that I might draw attention—I was acting rather suspiciously.

The third Illinois vehicle was maybe another hundred feet or so away, another Nissan. Silver, or maybe grey. I can’t tell the difference. Again, nothing. I was debating whether to move on in search of another likely vehicle, or just give up on it when another truck, newer, with one of those full-size crew cabs, pulled into a space in the row across from me. The driver got out, grabbed a rolling suitcase from the back seat, and then hustled around to the back of the truck. He glanced around, making sure no one was watching, but somehow didn’t notice me. He removed a rectangular cover from his trailer hitch receiver and placed something inside, then replaced the cover.

I made my way back to the F-150 I’d checked earlier. Checked the trailer hitch receiver, where I’d bumped my knee. Yup, it had a cover. I removed it, and sure enough, there was a key. “Hope it’s the right truck,” I said aloud as I hopped in. Just to be on the safe side, I checked the registration in the glove box. Michael Welch, Messerton, Illinois. Bingo. I cranked it up and made for the exit, stopping to pay the cashier on the way out.

62

Sheriff Mike Bridges set the unmarked Ford Crown Victoria’s cruise control at eighty miles per hour and flipped open his cell phone.

Perry Winters answered on the first ring. “Hello.”

“Perry. Mike here.”

“Still haven’t heard from your friend?”

“Not yet. And, I told you, he’s not my friend.”

“What do you think? I would have thought he’d have wanted to be paid by now.”

“Me too,” the sheriff said. “My guess is he’s laying low, until the other job is done.”

“Probably right,” Winters agreed.

“All the same, my gut tells me I should maybe run over, scope things out at his place. I’m doing a prisoner transfer in Terre Haute, so it’s not that far out of the way. Plus I can expense the trip.”

“Our tax dollars at work,” Winters quipped.

“I’ll let you know what I learn.”

Two hours later, Sheriff Bridges found the house, and parked about a half block up the street, near the corner. He’d been here before. Not as a guest, but rather on a fact-finding mission. It always pays to know as much as possible about the people you do business with.

For example, on his previous visit, when Mulligan was not at home, he had learned that Mulligan’s real name was Michael Welch. It made sense. A killer for hire would not want anyone knowing who he really was. Tonight, though, the sheriff had a different mission objective. Mulligan worked with a partner. Tonight, he wanted to find out who that was. This job, or rather, these jobs—plural—would be the last for Mulligan. Too closely connected. The sheriff and Coroner Winters both agreed. It was time to terminate the terminator. And if they were going to do that, they also had to terminate his partner.

63

Ty Hamilton

As I came around a curve in the road, a sign welcomed me to the town of Messerton, population 6,042. A couple hundred yards further, a banner stretched overhead across the street, letting everyone know that the annual Polecat Festival would be taking place the following weekend.

Shortly after getting on I-70, I had set Home on the GPS, and it took me to the address listed on Mulligan’s driver’s license. I did a drive-by inspection. Looking for what, I didn’t exactly know.

It was a small ranch style house, white vinyl siding, on about a half- acre lot. The yard was freshly mowed, landscaped with a variety of trees. A flowerbed of petunias lined the sidewalk.

I drove around the block, scoping out the entire neighborhood. There wasn’t much going on. A young couple walking hand in hand. One runner. An older fellow, about my age. More like a trotter, really. I should talk. At least he’s doing it.

Most everyone parked in their driveways. The only exceptions being a black Ford Crown Victoria near the corner and a lawn service truck and trailer one house down from Mulligan’s place. I found it reassuring to see that the owners felt comfortable leaving his equipment outside. I wondered if they bothered locking their doors at night. Small town America.

I parked a few blocks away, in a parking lot that served a pizza parlor across from a high school and from there I hoofed it back to the house.

64

Sheriff Mike Bridges, in plain clothes and wearing night vision goggles, had been observing the Mulligan house for twenty minutes. A light was on, but there was no sign of activity from within. The neighborhood was quiet. Nothing more than the occasional runner or dog walker. Satisfied that it was safe to proceed, he began to move from his hiding spot behind a neighbor’s potting shed to the house, where he would wait for Mulligan’s return. And at that moment, there was movement, someone approaching quickly in a crouched position. The sheriff slowly retreated to his position behind the shed without drawing attention.

He watched as the lone figure came to a stop, watching the house from behind the trunk of a tree. The sheriff knew that this new arrival was an amateur, evidenced by his maintaining position behind the tree for barely a minute before moving from the tree to the woodpile behind the house.

As the amateur moved toward the woodpile, the neighbor whose shed the sheriff was hiding behind, stepped out into the yard with her dog.

65

Ty Hamilton

Rather than walk up to the front of the house from the well-lit street, I chose to make my way across a vacant lot that sat behind and diagonal to it. A small creek, lined with tall oak trees crisscrossed property lines. Someone had built a footbridge across it, which meant I could stay dry.

I hustled past a potting shed on the next-door property, electing to take position behind the trunk of an oak. From there, I watched the house for any sign of activity, all the while maintaining vigilance so as not to be spotted by a neighbor or a cop patrolling the neighborhood.

After a while, with no activity in the house, I decided to move in for a closer look. There was a screened-in deck on the back side of the house, and fifty feet or so prior to the deck, a woodpile. I moved toward it just as the next door neighbor stepped out the backdoor with her cocker spaniel.

I suppose it is possible that the dog might not have noticed me if I had remained still, but my instinct made me sprint toward the woodpile. I kneeled and peeked through an opening between the stacked firewood.  The dog barked and immediately bolted toward me, yanking the leash out of its owner’s hand.

“Shadow!” the neighbor yelled. Not really yelled—it was more like a loud, scolding whisper, intended to get the dog’s attention but not disturb the neighbors. “Get back over here!” The dog paid her no attention, and was within a few yards of me, barking ferociously, not daring to close the distance. “Shadow!” the owner tentatively walked a few steps toward her dog. Toward me. I had to think of something.