Countdown Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Susan Rogers Cooper

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: A Fine Mess

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two: Simultaneous Investigations

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Susan Rogers Cooper

  The E J Pugh Mysteries

  ONE, TWO, WHAT DID DADDY DO?

  HICKORY DICKORY STALK

  HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN

  THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL

  A CROOKED LITTLE HOUSE

  NOT IN MY BACK YARD

  DON’T DRINK THE WATER

  ROMANCED TO DEATH *

  FULL CIRCLE *

  DEAD WEIGHT *

  GONE IN A FLASH *

  The Milt Kovak Series

  THE MAN IN THE GREEN CHEVY

  HOUSTON IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR

  OTHER PEOPLE’S HOUSES

  CHASING AWAY THE DEVIL

  DEAD MOON ON THE RISE

  DOCTORS AND LAWYERS AND SUCH

  LYING WONDERS

  VEGAS NERVE

  SHOTGUN WEDDING *

  RUDE AWAKENING *

  HUSBAND AND WIVES *

  DARK WATERS *

  COUNTDOWN *

  * available from Severn House

  COUNTDOWN

  Susan Rogers Cooper

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2014 by Susan Rogers Cooper.

  The right of Susan Rogers Cooper to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Cooper, Susan Rogers

  Countdown. – (A Milt Kovak mystery)

  1. Kovak, Milton (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Murder–Investigation–Fiction. 3. Hostage negotiations–Fiction. 4. Sheriffs–Oklahoma–Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  813.6-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8395-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-543-7 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  For Evin, Tristan, Marian and Josey, with all my love

  PROLOGUE

  Eunice Blanton was not a happy woman. In fact, if push came to shove, she would have to admit that she hadn’t been happy since Pa and her brothers beat the crap out of her boyfriend and made her marry her cousin, Bruce. Bruce was a stupid man, and because of that, and maybe because of a little bit of inbreeding, she gave birth to three children, most of whom were as dumb as posts. Although, like many a mother before her, she became quite enamored of her youngest, Darrell, the blue-eyed baby-wonder. Darrell was a happy baby, a happy child, and a funny and mostly happy young man. And he made Eunice happy. Well, as happy as Eunice could possibly be, considering the fact that she was little more than a slave, sold off to her stupid cousin. At least he’d had the decency to die.

  Eunice’s marriage to her cousin was just the way things were in the township of Blantonville, in the far northeast corner of Prophesy County, Oklahoma. Her sister was married to their uncle, her cousin Ruth was married to Bruce’s brother, who was even stupider than Bruce, and, truth be told, every woman born a Blanton in Blantonville was married to some relative or other. It was their way of keeping only the Blanton name in the town. It had started as a whim with Eunice’s great-great-grandfather, and had become an obsession as time wore on. Boys were allowed to go outside of Blantonville to find a wife, as that would not weaken the Blanton name, not to mention the need for a little fresh DNA added to the mix. But girls were forced, most times, to marry within the family. Her own daughter, Marge, was married to a second cousin, and had produced only one living child, Chandra, now seventeen and pregnant. Chandra had not disclosed the name of the person who’d impregnated her, but Eunice figured it wasn’t a Blanton, which made Eunice a little jealous. And in Eunice’s world, jealousy became hate, which made Eunice even more surly than usual.

  PART ONE

  A Fine Mess

  ONE

  I was sound asleep when the call came in at a little after midnight on a Friday night, or should I say Saturday morning. Personally, I don’t consider it the next day until I have a cup of coffee and it’s light outside. The call was from my second-in-command, Emmett Hopkins, who was on phone duty tonight/this morning. Seems Joynell Blanton had called her parents, claiming her husband Darrell was fixing to shoot her, and they, of course, had called us. I sighed hard when I heard that, because it meant I’d have to go to Blantonville. I wasn’t the only one in the department who had qualms about going to Blantonville, a little township on my side of the county, home to more than a few people who were a few tacos shy of a combination plate. In fact, I hadn’t met a Blanton yet who appeared to be playing with all their marbles. And in Blantonville, a Blanton is all you got. They were like British royalty back in the olden days – way too much inbreeding. And since my house was closest to Blantonville – and Emmett was a chicken shit – he thought he should call me to take care of it.

  I left a note on my pillow, kissed my still-sleeping wife goodbye, pulled on my pants and a shirt, grabbed a jacket in case it was chilly, and headed to my car. Early fall in my part of Oklahoma is an iffy thing – you never knew if it was gonna be hot or cold, warm or cool, or blowing rain and hail. Luckily it was a nice night – excuse me, morning – no moon, but a million stars shining in the firmament, no breeze to speak of, and just a slight nip in the air. I pulled on the jacket and fired up my Jeep.

  The trip to Blantonville would usually take upwards of half an hour, but at this time of night – sorry, morning – with no other vehicles in sight, I was able to make it in little more than fifteen minutes. Of course, as a peace officer, I should have stopped myself and given myself a ticket for speeding, but I chose to give myself a break.

  The ME’s vehicle was sitting at the end of Darrell Blanton’s long driveway, which ran up a hill and out of sight. I pulled up beside it. I knew there was a double-wide up there beyond the trees. The ME’s assistant was standing next to her vehicle, flanked by a man and woman who seemed real distraught. I got out
and went to greet them. The man was tall and lean, the woman short and hefty. They appeared to be my age or thereabouts – fifty-something – and the woman looked like she’d been crying. They were, of course, Joynell Blanton’s parents.

  ‘Our daughter Joynell called us saying her husband was gonna kill her, but this lady won’t let us go up there—’

  I nodded. ‘She’s right. This is a job for police personnel,’ I said. If Darrell Blanton was threatening to shoot his wife then he was probably armed, and an armed Blanton was not a good thing. I was the one being paid the big bucks to put my life on the line, not these civilians. So I went to the back of the Jeep, got out the shotgun (I’d left my service revolver back at the house – not my best move, but then again I was sleep deprived), loaded it, put it on the passenger seat of the Jeep then crawled in, cranked it up and headed toward the double-wide.

  I don’t dwell on things like feelings. It’s just not manly. But I’ve got to admit that I’m pretty much a happy son-of-a-bitch – at least, in the last half of my life. I mean, I was raised OK; my mama and daddy were good people, although they didn’t go in for sparing the rod. And I was in high school before my little sister, Jewel, was born, so that didn’t impact me too much, except for the embarrassment factor – you know, proof that my mama and daddy still ‘did it.’ I just got less attention which, when you’re a teenager, is always a good thing. I had lots of friends, played a good game of football for my school and had a virgin girlfriend, and after high school and a stint in the air force, I married and deflowered her, which began the not-so-happy part of my life. We both wanted kids, but it didn’t happen for us, which put a damper on the marriage. After twenty-something years, she left me. It took me a while to notice that she was gone. But a couple of years after that, I met Jean McDonnell.

  A beautiful woman, a psychiatrist and victim of childhood polio, she’s the love of my life. It didn’t take the people of Longbranch much time to get over the fact that the hospital’s new chief shrink walked with braced legs and crutches. We hadn’t known each other long before we discovered she was pregnant. So we got married and had our son, John McDonnell Kovak. She calls him John; I call him Johnny Mac. Now that he’s eleven it doesn’t seem to confuse him so much.

  All this is to say that I’m happy. But I don’t think I could ever be as happy as Darrell Blanton was when I found him sitting on the aluminum steps of his double-wide, shotgun over his knees, dead wife at his feet and sporting a big old grin. Like I said, the Blanton elevator doesn’t go to the top floor.

  ‘Well, hey, Sheriff!’ he greeted me, the grin getting bigger. ‘I done kilt Joynell! And boy was she asking for it! Know what she did?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me after you put that shotgun down on the ground, Darrell?’ I said, holding my own shotgun barrel down so as not to be too aggressive. Blantons don’t deal well with aggression. Or much of anything else.

  ‘Oh, hell, Sheriff, I ain’t gonna shoot you! You didn’t sneak off and do the horizontal mambo with somebody else, now, did you?’ Darrell said, and laughed.

  ‘Put the shotgun down, Darrell. I don’t wanna have to hurt you,’ I said.

  The smile left his face and he sighed. ‘Well, OK then,’ he said. ‘Although I don’t know what all the fuss is about. She up and messed around on me, Sheriff! Ain’t there a law?’ Darrell dropped the shotgun on the ground, barely missing his wife’s body.

  I walked up and kicked the gun away with my foot, then asked Darrell to stand up. He did, the grin thankfully gone, and I cuffed him and read him his rights.

  ‘But why do I need a lawyer?’ he whined as I led him to my Jeep. ‘She’s the one done the nasty, not me! I ain’t messed with nobody but her since the day of our weddin’!’ A wide grin spread across his face. ‘Nailed the maid of honor in the baptismal font of the church! What a rush, know what I mean?’

  ‘Darrell,’ I said, ‘you just need to stop talking.’

  When Dr Jean McDonnell awoke that Saturday morning, she saw the note on her husband’s pillow. She was quite familiar with this type of communication from him, knowing that a call must have come in during the middle of the night for a county emergency. She’d gotten to the point where she could sleep through the phone ringing in the middle of the night, knowing it was almost never for her. The only time it had been for her was when a severely depressed patient had called to say she had just taken twenty Ativan, washed down with Scotch, and figured she should croak in about thirty minutes or so. Since she was calling from her home number, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where she was and get an ambulance there. That had been more than a year ago and the woman had been stabilized on anti-depressants, but the late-night calls for Milt kept coming in at least once every two weeks or so.

  Knowing Milt could be gone for most of the day, Jean called her sister-in-law, Jewel, and asked her if she could drop John off with her for a sleepover later. Jewel, of course, said yes. Since Jewel had a pool, a trampoline and a neighbor boy with whom John liked to play, she knew her son would have no objections to these arrangements.

  Because Jean had plans. Big plans. First, her undergraduate roommate and medical school buddy, Paula Carmichael, was flying in today, and she had to pick her up at three o’clock at the Tulsa airport. After that, she and Milt’s deputy, Jasmine Bodine Hopkins (wife of Milt’s chief deputy and best friend, Emmett Hopkins) were hosting a surprise bachelorette party for Milt’s civilian clerk, Holly Humphries, who would be marrying Milt’s long-time deputy, Dalton Pettigrew, Saturday after next.

  Jean had made reservations at the Longbranch Inn for one of their suites. Since the Longbranch Inn made most of its money off its restaurant, and the rooms upstairs were usually empty, she got a good deal and their biggest suite. Jasmine was in charge of finding a stripper and collecting the booze. Since Prophesy County had recently been voted dry, that meant she had to go halfway to Tulsa to find a liquor store. Where she was going to find a stripper was a mystery to Jean.

  Jean had already bought items to decorate the suite – streamers, balloons and flowers, and had had a banner made that said ‘Holly and Dalton Forever’ that she planned to string up. By noon, with still no word from Milt, Jean took John to the Longbranch Inn, where they had lunch, then went upstairs to check out their suite. John blew up balloons while Jean paid a busboy from the restaurant to hang up the banner over the top of the wet bar. She and John strung the streamers around the room and Jean made two very nice flower arrangements out of the flowers she’d brought. When they were finished they left the suite, turning out the lights and locking the door behind them.

  By this time it was close to half past one in the afternoon, and they would have to hurry to make it to the Tulsa airport by three. Jean and John jumped in her car and headed north. They pulled into the turn-around at the Tulsa airport at about five minutes after three p.m., and had to make the circle twice before Jean spotted her old friend standing outside the baggage claim area.

  Jean exited her vehicle on her crutches, while her friend Paula pulled her luggage down the curb and they met by the back of Jean’s extra-large SUV.

  They hugged, then Paula exclaimed: ‘Oh my God! You look gorgeous! Marriage becomes you!’ She held her friend at arm’s length and admired her.

  ‘And you don’t look a day older!’ Jean lied.

  ‘Ha!’ Paula said. ‘You must have bad vision, girl. My wrinkles have wrinkles!’

  Jean opened the back hatch of the SUV and Paula put her luggage inside. ‘Come on,’ Jean said. ‘I want you to meet my son.’

  ‘Actual proof that the world’s oldest living virgin no longer exists, huh?’ Paula teased.

  Jean elbowed her gently in the ribs. ‘Hush!’ she said as she led Paula to the door of the back seat of the SUV, where her son was strapped in. She opened the door and said, ‘John, I want you to meet my good friend, Doctor Carmichael. Paula, this is my son, John Kovak.’

  Paula stuck her hand in and shook John’s proffered one.
‘Are you sick?’ she asked him.

  John gave her a confused look, then said tentatively, ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Then you don’t have to call me “doctor” anything. The name’s Paula. If you’re not allowed to call me that, try Aunt Paula.’ She turned and grinned at Jean. ‘Unless you feel that’s inappropriate?’

  Jean laughed. ‘Not in the least. Come on,’ she said, opening the passenger-side door for Paula. ‘I’m taking John by his “other” aunt’s house for a sleepover while we party hearty tonight—’

  ‘Can we go see Dad first?’ John asked from the back seat.

  Jean looked at Paula, who shrugged. ‘You’re the boss,’ Paula said.

  ‘Sure, why not?’ Jean said. ‘I want you to meet Milt anyway. Better before the party than after. You’ll be more coherent.’

  ‘Hush!’ Paula said.

  Color me surprised when I heard the side door to the station open and saw my wife and son come sauntering in, followed by a woman I could only assume was Jean’s old college roommate, who had flown down to spend some time with us on her way to a job interview in Houston. Jean had described her to me many times – a party girl with a serious IQ, who rarely studied but always aced her classes, had men falling all over her but never took any of them seriously. So I was surprised by the woman I saw. She had short-cut gray hair, a face devoid of make-up, and was heavily wrinkled for her age, which would have to be early fifties, like my wife. She was so skinny you could actually see her bones, and when she spoke she had a smoker’s raspy voice. Not at all the woman I’d imagined.

  ‘Well, hey there, y’all!’ I said. I stood up and held out my hand for the newcomer. ‘Milt Kovak,’ I said.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. She turned to Jean and said, ‘He is too good-looking! I don’t know what you were talking about!’

  Jean laughed and, after a minute, so did I. OK, Jean hadn’t said I wasn’t good-looking. It was a joke, I guess.

  Jean took her friend’s arm, looked at me and said, ‘As I’m sure you’ve figured out, honey, this is Paula.’