Terminal 9

By Patricia H. Rushford and Harrison James

Two dead bodies. A web of conspiracies and cover-ups. A young detective, searching for answers to the case . . . and to his heart.

The body of a retired, wheelchair-bound rail yard worker has been discovered on the tracks near his home. A tragic accident--or murder?

Detective Antonio "Mac" McAllister and his new partner, attractive rookie Dana Bennett, suspect the worst. And their suspicions are confirmed when they encounter the complicated web of conspiracies and cover-ups that surround the cast, including burglary, arson, and yet another murder. Now Mac and Dana need to find the killer before he can destroy more evidence--or take anyone else's life.

Mac also needs answers to a personal life that is just as complicated. He still has feelings for Dana, but after a pleasant dinner with the eccentric medical examiner, he's more confused than ever. Though as his former partner and mentor reminds him, God has the answer that Mac doesn't--for this case, for Mac's doubts . . . and for the longings of his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Release date: Feb 27, 2005
• ISBN: 9781418569174

Book preview

1

PATRICIA H. RUSHFORD

HARRISON JAMES

2Terminal9_0003_001

TERMINAL 9

Copyright © 2005 Integrity Publishers.

Published by Integrity Publishers, a division of Integrity Media, Inc., 5250 Virginia Way, Suite 110, Brentwood, TN 37027.

HELPING PEOPLE WORLDWIDE EXPERIENCE the MANIFEST PRESENCE of GOD.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

Cover Design: Brand Navigation, LLC | www.brandnavigation.com

Interior: Inside Out Design & Typesetting

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rushford, Patricia H.

Terminal nine / by Patricia H. Rushford and Harrison James.

p. cm.

Summary: Book Three of the McAllister Files fiction series. Mac McAllister with new partner, Dana Bennett, investigate murder of an elderly retired railroad worker—Provided by publisher.

ISBN 1-59145-212-0

1. McAllister, Mac (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Older people—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Retirees—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Railroads— Employees—Fiction. 5. Police—Oregon—Fiction. 6. Oregon—Fiction.

I. Title: Terminal 9. II. James, Harrison. III. Title.

PS3568.U7274T47 2005

813'.54—dc22

2004025540

Printed in the United States of America

05 06 07 08 09 DELTA 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Dedicated to our families and friends

who unfailingly give support and encouragement

in our writing endeavors

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

ONE

GOT TO GET HELP. Call 9-1-1.

Clay had been feeling poorly all day. He should have called earlier, but being the stubborn old man he was, he thought the pain would pass. It had only grown worse. Never had he experienced such agony. Clay had no idea what had caused the pain or the spikes in his blood sugar despite his regular doses of insulin.

His vision blurred and dimming, eighty-nine-year-old Clay Mullins clutched the back of the kitchen chair and arched his back in an effort to ease the sharp spasms in his side. His breaths came in gasps. Using the chair for a modicum of stability, he scooted it forward on the linoleum floor and shuffled the final steps to the kitchen phone.

Clay gripped the chair more tightly with his left hand while he reached for the cordless phone with his right. His fingers, now numb and paralytic, refused to punch in the numbers he so desperately needed to press. Still he stabbed at them, hoping to depress the three life-saving numbers.

Come on. Ring.

What was wrong? His mind raced with possibilities. Was he having a stroke? He could think of no other reason for his fingers to go numb and refuse to cooperate with the dictates of his mind. His diabetes? Clay glanced at his medical kit on the kitchen counter. He had been testing his blood sugar and administering his insulin as he always did. His blood sugar was too high, but . . . no, this was something else.

His legs gave way and crumpled beneath him, propelling him to the unforgiving linoleum floor. The phone fell inches from his face, though it might as well have been miles away with his useless fingers clenched and buried in the palms of his hands.

Help me! Clay yelled into the silent phone, hoping his clumsy attempt at dialing had been successful. This is Clay Mullins. I live in the house by the river at Terminal 9. I think I’m having a stroke. His words sounded garbled and incoherent.

Clay waited for a response, hoping to hear sirens in the background as he used what little strength he had left in his thick arms to drag himself to his knees. The pain in his stomach seemed to worsen by the second, and the numbness in his hands had spread to his wrists and forearms.

Instead of sirens Clay heard only the alarming beep-beep-beep from the phone, indicating it had been off the hook too long.

The phone was useless to him now. Even if he could manage to dial, they wouldn’t understand him. But there was another way. If he could get to his motorized chair . . .

Clay took a long, shuddering breath, looking at his four-wheeled scooter in the corner of the kitchen. It was still plugged in to recharge its batteries, but there would be plenty of juice to get him to the rail yard. All he had to do was get himself over to the gall darn thing. C’mon, you old gandy dancer. It’s either get to that chair or die onthe kitchen floor.

Old as he was, he had no intention of dying, at least not yet. There were still too many things to accomplish. With a grimace and yelp of pain, Clay lurched forward, nearly passing out from the pain. He lurched again, and again. Finally reaching the chair, he somehow managed to crawl up into the seat. The motorized scooter sat facing the front door, set in forward gear the way he always left it—ready to head out at a moment’s notice.

Breathing a prayer of thanks and offering up a plea for help, Clay leaned over the handlebars and snapped the toggle switch to the on position. Not needing throttle assistance to move, the machine lurched forward on idle. With its four rubber tires, sporting aggressive tread, the scooter easily navigated the kitchen floor and the carpeted living room. Using his clenched fist, Clay punched the automated door opener on the wall by the front door.

The scooter, now working on its own accord, seemed impatient as it rammed into the doorframe before the door had fully opened. It bumped over the threshold and rumbled down the handicap ramp extending from Clay’s front porch. A harsh east wind tore into his shirt. His breaths turned to clouds of smoke on the chilly March night.

With Clay unable to squeeze the hand brake, the machine picked up speed as it hummed over the wooden ramp onto the packed gravel path. Clay wasn’t concerned about the speed though, as he’d taken this same route hundreds of times from his riverfront home near the train yard in St. Helens, Oregon, to Terminal 9. Having worked at the Western Pacific Rail Head at Terminal 9 for more than forty years, he instinctively aimed his vehicle at the twenty-four-hour hub, hoping to find someone there who would call for an ambulance.

Clay heaved his body forward, pressing his forearms against the handlebars to steer the scooter away from the path that led down to the Columbia River and onto the trail leading to the rail yard. The glaring lights and deafening sound of the train brakes guided him more surely than his fading sight. His neck muscles collapsed and his head drooped and bobbed around like that of an unstrung puppet.

A convulsion tore through him. Warm vomit erupted from his stomach and dribbled out of his open mouth, down his chin, and onto his shirt.

Almost there. Clay crossed the footbridge at the first rail crossing that marked the edge of his private acreage and bordered the rail yard property. The right front tire caught in the second rail groove and flipped the scooter on its side, efficiently dumping Clay onto the track.

No. Not now. Please, not now. Tires spun and the chair whirred in protest. Cries for help died in his throat. His tongue felt thick and dry. He saw no one in the hazy dusk, but then he hadn’t really expected to. He was lying on a deadhead track—a diversion rail that stored empty boxcars waiting to be placed into service. Clay pulled his knees to his chest as the wicked pain in his abdomen and chest worsened. Two quick blasts on a distant air horn and the vibration in the track told him the deadheads were being moved to the terminal on the very track on which he lay. The yard goat would not see his darkened shadow—and even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop an engine pushing thirty deadheads.

Soon the old gandy dancer would be crushed beneath the wheels of the train. Ironic, in a way. He’d been born a railroad man—hung around the rail yards all his life. Now he would die here.

The lonely horn from the diesel engine and the vibration on the tracks from the train’s rumble would startle most people—terrify them if they lay in its path as Clay did. But the sounds and vibrations only served to comfort him as he ceased his struggle and gave in to the inevitable.

TWO

OREGON STATE POLICE DETEC TIVE Antonio Mac McAllister had just finished a ten-hour shift and was looking forward to an evening watching basketball in his easy chair with Lucy, his eight-year-old golden retriever. Buried in reports, he’d spent the bulk of Tuesday’s shift inside his detective cubicle within the agency’s Portland patrol office.

What do we have here, Lucy? Mac patted the friendly dog on the forehead and scratched her ears as he thumbed through the mail. Junk mail, junk mail, and what’s this? He turned the envelope over and sighed. Junk mail. Mac tossed the pile of advertisements and credit card offers into the recycling bin under his kitchen sink.

Lucy, determined not to let her master break contact, followed him through the small apartment as he flipped on lights and turned the thermostat up to seventy degrees. Although the seasons were changing, March in the Pacific Northwest still offered some cool evenings, and tonight was one of them.

The Blazers play the Cavs at six, Lucy. Mac glanced at the clock on the mantel as he pulled off his tie and tossed it over the sofa, next to the sports coat he’d shed as he walked in the door. We’ve still got fifteen minutes. Should we get some takeout or rough it?

Mac slipped out of his shoulder holster, wrapping the leather straps over his .40-caliber Glock before setting the rig on top of his refrigerator. He opened the freezer door wide to look for something worth eating. While rifling through the meager contents, he unclipped his badge from his belt and tossed it on the counter. His spare magazine pouch followed, holding an extra fifteen rounds for his handgun.

Nothing in here, Mac muttered. He really needed to go to the grocery store. He peered inside the refrigerator, knowing it would yield the same results. Besides a door full of condiments, he had nothing but pop and a bag of prepackaged, wilting salad mix inside the crisper drawer.

Hmm. Think I’ll call Leong’s and order a little Chinese tonight. Mac pulled the pager off his belt, setting the alarm mode from vibrate to audible before putting it on the counter next to his phone. A magnet on the refrigerator door held a takeout menu for his favorite Asian restaurant, but Mac ignored that as he picked up the phone. He had the restaurant’s number on speed dial and always ordered the same thing: hot and sour soup, Kung Pao chicken, fried rice, sweet and sour spare ribs, and broccoli beef. Mac placed his order with the woman who always answered. There was no need to give his address; the delivery person knew exactly where Mac lived.

After hanging up, Mac yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. Using the remote that lay on the coffee table, he clicked on the television set and walked back into the bedroom.

Lucy dutifully followed, her thick tail tapping the hallway wall. The answering machine next to his bed blinked its red eye, and the digital screen indicated he had two messages. He’d been meaning to get a wider notepad to place next to his bed, to document the details of those late-night calls from work. The two-inch square Post-it notes sitting there now barely had enough space to write a phone number, let alone detailed scribbles from a sleepy hand. Come on, Lucy, let’s get a new notepad while I’m thinking about it.

Lucy backed down the hallway as Mac turned on his heels and headed toward the kitchen.

While looking through the kitchen junk drawer by the phone, Mac’s department pager went off with the all-too-familiar beep. Mac stopped searching and slammed the drawer closed. Oh, no. Not now. You know what that means, girl. Work.

The dog wagged her tail, raised her nose in the air, and pushed her head against Mac’s hand for a pat. Mac complied as he pulled the digital pager from the black plastic belt clip and read the display. Call 11-50 at the office for an assignment.

Sergeant Evans. Why is he still at the office?

Lucy tilted her head and looked at Mac as though she wondered the same thing.

Looks like I’m definitely going back to work.

Mac dialed his office to speak to his supervisor, Detective Sergeant Frank Evans. The old workhorse was always the first one to arrive at the patrol office and the last to leave. Frank ran the small squad of Oregon State Police detectives who were assigned to investigate violent person crimes, primarily death investigations. Mac was one of five detectives assigned to Sergeant Evans. However, one of those officers, Mac’s ex-partner and mentor, Kevin Bledsoe, was working modified duty while he battled prostate cancer.

Kevin had taught Mac nearly everything he knew about homicide investigations. Then at the first of the year, Kevin had learned about the cancer and began chemotherapy. Having no intention of taking early retirement, Kevin opted to work various light-duty assignments at the office when he could—primarily administrative backgrounds and evidence.

When the automated attendant answered, Mac punched in Frank’s extension. He heaved a huge sigh as he looked over at the basketball game that was just starting. Mac hurried over to the coffee table, picked up the remote, and muted the set as Frank’s extension rang.

Sergeant Evans, the gruff voice answered after five rings.

Yeah, Sarge, this is Mac. I got a page from dispatch to call you.

Yeah, Mac, sorry about the delay. I’ve had this phone screwed in my ear for half an hour. I need you to head out to Columbia County on a twelve-forty-nine. Some old guy got clipped by a train, and the district attorney wants us to take a look at it. It was probably an accident, but there are some loose ends that need to be tied up before we can clear the case. You able to respond? The sergeant asked the question as a formality, fully expecting an affirmative answer.

Mac looked longingly at the television set and then down at his canine companion. Sure. I had plans, but I can take off if you need me.

What’s that? Frank said. I was putting you on speakerphone and missed what you said.

Nothing, Mac sighed. Just wondering where we’re staging.

He clipped his pager back on his belt.

That’s what I’m looking for. I wrote it down here somewhere.

Mac could picture Frank pacing around his office. He wondered why the sergeant even had a chair.

"Here it is. You need to meet the D.A. down at Terminal 9 in St.

Helens. It’s between Highway 30 and the river. I’ve got the address here somewhere."

That’s okay, Sarge. I know the place. It lights up the area like a football stadium at night, so I won’t have any trouble. We’re going to be on the big clock. Do you want Dana on overtime too? Mac asked, knowing the sergeant was as tight with agency money as he was his own checkbook.

Yeah, he said after a long moment. Better take her along for the experience. Don’t go making a fuss on this one, Mac. If nothing’s there, hang it up. If it looks like an accident, then call it and get out of there. Let the local P.D. clean this fish. We’re only involved because the D.A. wants us to take a look at it.

Got it. I’ll give Dana a call and we’ll get going.

Good. Leave me a voice mail on your progress if you aren’t going to be in the office on time tomorrow morning—in case you pull an all-nighter.

Yes sir. Mac heard a click on the other end, indicating Frank had ended the call. He set down the phone and hunkered down to rub Lucy’s head. C’mon, girl. Back to your kennel. Mac made his way back to the utility room and opened the door. Lucy walked in without complaint and, after rounding and adjusting her thick pad, settled inside the oversized kennel.

Mac hated to keep her in there, but she scratched at the front door when he was away. His neighbor, Carl, had a key to the apartment in case Mac worked overtime and needed someone to let Lucy out. Carl was a doting dog lover, often coming in to let Lucy free just so he could spend time with her. I’ll see you later, girl. Mac shut the door to the room, walked back to the kitchen phone, and dialed Dana’s home phone.

He got the machine. Come on, Dana; it’s Mac. If you’re there, pick up. She didn’t answer.

He frowned.Wonder where she is. We left work at the same time.

Dana, Mac’s new partner and old friend, lived in the Fairview Apartments on his side of the river in Vancouver,Washington. She should have been home by now. He dialed her pager with 9-1-1 at the end of his number.

Fresh out of patrol and still on probation, Dana had been partnered with Mac after Kevin went on light duty in February. Although Mac enjoyed working with Dana, he hoped Kevin would be back in the saddle soon. Mac was a fairly new detective to the homicide division too, and he had hoped to spend a few more years working with the veteran, instead of a rookie detective. Not that she didn’t have experience. She’d spent the last year on patrol and had studied and worked hard to get into the department. Mac wasn’t exactly a newcomer either, having worked for several years on patrol and as a detective in property crimes, as well as the Child Abuse Unit.

Besides, he didn’t like the idea of having Dana as his partner in another way. He had been hoping to date her again, but anything other than a working relationship at this point was not a good idea. They had dated for a while in college until they went their separate ways. He’d run into her a few months ago while working on another case, and their friendship had solidified again.

Mac was slipping his shoulder holster back on when the phone rang. He checked his weapon out of habit to ensure it was loaded before stuffing the handgun back in the holster under his left arm. Mac reached over the counter and grabbed the phone.

This is Mac.

Mac, hey. Dana here. Got your page.

"We have a death out in St. Helens. It sounds like there might be some odd circumstances, since the D.A. wants us to check it out.

Sarge is sending us out to work the scene."

What happened?

Guy got hit by a train. Are you available?

Sure. I need to run by the house and grab my gear and my work car. I can be at the office in thirty.

Want me to pick you up at your place? It’s on my way.

No—uh, the office is fine. I’ll see you there.

Mac set the receiver back in the cradle. Why not your house? he grumbled to himself as he walked back to the bedroom to exchange his dress shoes for a pair of hiking shoes. He left the coat and tie on the sofa, selecting a rain jacket with a fleece liner from the hall closet. Mac then grabbed his keys off the counter and opened the front door, startling himself and the delivery boy who was standing in the entryway.

Your order, Mr. Mac. The young Asian held up a bag to eye level.

Sorry, I almost ran out on you. Got a call to go back to work. Mac pulled a twenty from his wallet and handed it to the teenager. Keep the change. After taking a deep whiff of the tantalizing food, he hurried back to the kitchen and stuffed the bags into the refrigerator. Should make a good breakfast.

As he locked the front door and headed for his duty car, an unmarked white Crown Victoria, Mac’s frustration at missing dinner and the game melted into anticipation. He wondered what they’d find at the scene and why the district attorney felt compelled to call in the State Police detectives. An old guy, Sarge had said, hit by a train. Mac slid in behind the wheel. He couldn’t say why, but something told him this wasn’t going to be as simple as Sergeant Frank Evans made it sound.

THREE

MAC PLLLED IN TO THE BACK LOT of the SE Portland office shortly before 7:00 p.m. The slow security gate opened wide enough for his car, and he parked next to the building’s back entrance. Dana’s unmarked blue Pontiac Grand Am was already in the office lot with its trunk open. Dana leaned inside to collect her gear.

Mac pulled up alongside and rolled down his window. Going my way?

’Fraid so, Dana answered without looking up. She slipped her blue crime scene windbreaker over a white blouse, sweater vest, and suit jacket that went with her black dress slacks and sturdy black shoes.

You don’t have to sound so happy about it, Mac complained, feeling put off.

She rolled her eyes at him. Give me a break. You know what I mean.

I have everything we’ll need. Just grab your notebook and let’s get a move on. Mac glanced over at the dash clock on the car, then back at his watch to press his point.

I’m not worried about the gear. This stupid gun is so uncomfortable with slacks. Dana held up her Glock pistol, which was still tucked inside a black leather holster. They really don’t make comfortable plain clothes duty gear for women.

Sorry. Dana looked great to him, though black and white didn’t suit her near as well as some of the other colors he’d seen her in, like that soft pink cashmere sweater she’d worn when they’d had dinner together a couple of months ago. Unfortunately that dinner had been the end of anything romantic and the beginning of their business-only routine.

Mac wasn’t really into hearing about women’s clothing. And since when did detectives call their guns stupid? Still, he tried to look sympathetic. I don’t think we have time to go shopping for something else right now.

Come on, Mac. Cut me some slack, she grumped. I’m looking for my fanny pack so I can give my ribs a break. The thumb brake on this department-issue holster is killing my ribs.

Mac could empathize. The thumb brake sat at the top of the gun sight, four to six inches above the belt line, and dug into the ribcage. You’ll get used to it. Mac thumbed the steering wheel impatiently with his fingers.

Here it is. Dana waved her black leather fanny pack, then secured her gun inside the large zipper pouch. She closed the trunk and jogged around to the passenger side of Mac’s vehicle.

Trying to keep his impatience under wraps, Mac kept his mouth shut while he maneuvered onto the street. Why didn’t you want me to pick you up at your place? Mac finally asked, trying to sound like he was just making light conversation. It was on the way. And wecould have saved at least twenty minutes. He thought it best not to add the last part.

Dana sighed and stared out the windshield. At first Mac thought she wasn’t going to answer. Impressions, Mac. I don’t want anyone thinking I got this job for any reason other than that I was qualified and I deserved it.

Mac shook his head. No one has ever indicated that you didn’t earn your way into the detective slot. I certainly don’t think that.

I know. Dana turned in the seat, her dimples deepening with a smile. At least you better not. Maybe I’m being a little too cautious, but it’s different when you’re a woman. I can’t explain it. I’m trying to fill Kevin’s shoes while he’s out sick, and that’s an uphill battle alone.

I don’t know about that. Mac frowned, choosing his words carefully. I think . . .

I said that wrong. Dana paused. I could never fill Kevin Bledsoe’s shoes. What I meant is that I know I’m getting this chance because he’s sick and is working light duty. I hope Kevin kicks his cancer, but I’m not going to waste the opportunity to prove myself. I’m sure not going to put up with any office gossip, even though it would be totally unfounded.

Mac bit into his lower lip. Unfounded? She was right about that, but her being right didn’t stop him from wishing otherwise.

"That’s why I don’t want to give anyone anything to raise their eyebrows at—like seeing you come or go from my apartment. Can you understand where I’m coming from?"

Sure, I guess so. He doubted there’d be a problem. Still, Mac respected Dana, and if she felt she needed to distance herself from him for appearance’s sake, he could accept that. He just didn’t like it. I feel like there’s a double standard, though. No one would give it a second thought if I picked Kevin up.

Kevin is a man. I’m a woman. There’s a difference, in case you haven’t noticed.

No kidding. Mac chuckled.

And there are double standards—even if there shouldn’t be. Women are still scarce in this agency.

DANA HAD ALMOST C ALLED MAC BACK to pick her up at her apartment instead of the office, knowing it would be faster and closer for them. But she loved her job too much to risk it. Maybe if it had been anyone but Mac, she wouldn’t have given it a thought either.

With Mac, she had to go out of her way to avoid the appearance of anything more than friendship. It would be far too easy to fall back into the kind of relationship she’d had with Mac before. They’d dated back in college, and if she were completely honest with herself, she’d admit her feelings for him were even stronger now than they’d been back then. Sadly, their lives had taken separate paths. She’d been thrilled when they’d met up again some months ago when Mac began his first homicide case as a detective with the Megan Tyson murder.

Maybe someday there would be an opportunity for them, but not now. Not with both of them so new to the detective arena. Not with walls that have eyes and ears and fellow workers who already teased her and Mac about being more than partners.

There are several female detectives in our outfit, Mac said. I’ll bet they wouldn’t worry about whether their male partners picked them up. Take Jan Adams in the arson section. She’s top notch; nobody ever gives her any flak.

Dana nodded. Jan’s been in detectives since you and I were in high school, Mac. I bet she had her share of hurdles too—more than I do. Women are finally being accepted into the good old boys’ group.

I don’t know. I can’t imagine anyone messing with Jan; she’s like your grandmother and Dirty Harry combined. I don’t know how someone so sweet could be so tough at the same time.

Dana laughed. I’ll ask her for you tomorrow and tell her how much you admire her.

What?

Don’t worry, I’ll leave the Dirty Harry reference out. Though personally, I think that’s the best part.

You’re meeting with Jan? Why? Mac glanced over at Dana. His eyes held a hint of concern and hurt. He’d been mentoring her and doing a pretty decent job, but she needed a woman’s perspective.

"Jan and I are meeting for lunch. I wanted to go over a few things. Sergeant Evans suggested it—mainly so we can get to know each other. If nothing else, maybe she can help me shop for some