His Song Silenced

by Michael Arches

  I remembered the surge of panic that’d blasted through me. “Worried me a bit, too. I guess…I survived.”

  We both glanced down the road looking for the truck. In the darkness, I could barely make out an eighteen-wheeler. The front half was definitely in the water.

  I checked to make sure my .45 caliber Glock was still in its shoulder holster. Thank God, it was. “You got a gun handy?”

  “For bears. Locked in the glove compartment.”

  Barney was known for his sharpshooter demonstrations at the dude ranch, so I knew he could handle firearms. “Get it. I’m deputizing you. We’ve got to check that bastard out. I’m sure he’s armed.”

  Barney opened his passenger-side door. Given the terrible visibility, I was worried his vehicle might get hit. “Turn your flashers on and leave the headlights on.”

  He did, then grabbed a big ass revolver, probably a .44 Magnum. We hustled down the road toward the delivery truck. With each step, my right hip ached.

  When we got closer to the truck, I whispered, “Keep your eyes peeled. He could be anywhere.”

  Both of us held our guns at the ready, and I lit the area ahead with my flashlight. The semi’s tractor, the part with the engine and cab, had dropped into the creek. The trailer had detached, and the front end hung off the edge of the road. The back of the trailer had crashed into the trees on the opposite side of the road, blocking it completely.

  I examined the tractor more closely with my light. Its driver-side door hung open, a few feet above a cluster of boulders poking out of the water.

  I pointed the light at them. Someone was sitting on the snowy rocks with one leg tucked under him and the other sticking out at an awkward angle. He wore a heavy coat, and a ski mask covered his face. His right arm moved, holding something black against his right leg. It looked like a pistol, but I couldn’t get a good look at it in the darkness.

  “Police!” I yelled as I aimed at him. “Toss the damned gun away!”

  The bastard was fifty feet away. I could hardly miss from where we were.

  The driver didn’t move. Couldn’t be unconscious because he sat upright. The son of a bitch was stuck out in the creek with nowhere to go. The boulders kept him dry, but a gap twenty feet wide separated him from the streambank. The tractor was just above him, and he could climb across the back to reach the road. Why hadn’t he?

  Barney and I approached as close as we could while still staying on the road, which was at least ten feet above the water. Now, only twenty feet away. The guy didn’t move. Must’ve had at least one injured leg. I was ninety percent sure he was hiding a pistol along his right hip.

  In a loud, slow voice, to make sure I could be heard, I said, “Last chance, idiot. Toss the damned gun now, or I’ll blow your head off.”

  He didn’t move. In shock?

  The creek was gurgling, but I was sure I’d spoken loudly enough for him to hear. This situation was too risky. He could raise his weapon within a fraction of a second and fire.

  I couldn’t take that chance. Aiming for his right shoulder, I squeezed off one round.

  The arm holding the pistol flew upwards and back. The gun—now I saw it clearly— spun in the air and landed in the water behind him. He flopped onto his back, writhed, and screamed.

  “Dumb fucker,” my new deputy said in a flat voice. “I would’ve gone for his head. Maybe you did, but your aim was off because he knocked you around pretty hard. No shame in that.”

  “Shut up, Barney. I hit him exactly where I aimed. Hopefully, he won’t bleed out before help arrives. He’ll have to wait, unless you want to scramble out there. I’m too banged up.”

  The water between the boulders and the shore raced under the tractor.

  Barney snorted. “All that metal’s slippery. I could slide off the back of the tractor and into the creek. Water’s ice cold. Without the right protection, hypothermia would set in within seconds.”

  I patted him on the shoulder. “I agree. Listen, if you wouldn’t mind, keep an eye on him. I’ve got to return to my rig and radio in an update. Try and stay in one place. This is a crime scene now, and we don’t want to trample any evidence.”

  “You, betcha, Hank. Happy to help.”

  I hobbled back to my Jeep and updated the dispatcher.

  She told me, “Someone in a black sedan ran the roadblock we set up at the traffic circle where your road intersects Highway 82. The sedan roared past on the shoulder and headed east. A deputy followed through town but gave up the chase at Tagert’s Lake. Perp can’t get far. That road hasn’t been plowed, and the pass is closed.”

  “Ten-four.”

  The deputy had been right to abandon the chase. Once the highway passed Tagert’s Lake, the road climbed steeply into the high country. That was all national forest. No cabins for him to hold up in, or hostages for him to grab. And the snow had to be falling much heavier up higher. In fact, Independence Pass was over twelve thousand feet high and might not open again until Memorial Day. Whoever was in cahoots with the truck driver I shot was thoroughly fucked. There is a God and He’s righteous!

  I tossed several flares onto the road in front of Barney’s pickup to warn anyone coming down from the south. Luckily, most folks seemed to be smart enough to stay home until the weather cleared. This road wouldn’t be open again for hours.

  By the time I returned to the big truck, two sheriffs’ SUVs had arrived. Jason and Randy.

  The chief deputy stared at me for a moment then shook his head. “You must be looking to win the election with the sympathy vote. Your face is bleeding in several places, and it’s bright red everywhere else. Plus, you’ve picked up a limp on your good side. What the hell happened this time?”

  I touched one of my cheeks, and sure enough, it stung like a bad sunburn. The airbag must’ve damaged my face. I’d lived through worse, so I ignored it.

  “I finally get it. Somebody really wants me dead.” I summarized my actions since leaving town.

  When I finished, he sighed. “You better hope Jason can find that damned gun. It could be a half-mile down the river by now.”

  “Barney will back me up.”

  Randy shrugged. “We still want that gun to justify your use of deadly force. You think the asshole out there on the rocks is gonna make it?”

  The driver continued to writhe, which meant he hadn’t died yet. “Hope so. Maybe we can learn something from him, and we also have trapped his partner. That idiot is trying to drive up the snowbound pass. We need the names of the gang leaders causing all this bullshit.”

  Randy interviewed Barney, but our chief deputy didn’t want me near for that. So, I explained to Jason where I’d seen the gun fall into the water. He pulled on his wetsuit and promised to look for it after they’d recovered the truck’s driver. A fire truck arrived and ambulance. I listened in as Jason and the firemen worked out a plan to extract the attempted murderer.

  Skip showed up a few minutes later, and Randy said, “We’ve got this covered, Hank. We won’t be able to interview the driver until morning at the earliest. You and Skip should head east of town to where Aspen PD is waiting for the other vehicle’s driver. Hopefully, he’ll show up soon. If so, get what you can out of him quickly. I’m not sure this asshole’s going to make it.”

  I saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  Skip helped me empty the contents of my Rubicon into the back of his SUV. My vehicle was definitely going to be totaled, so I patted it fondly and said goodbye.

  My buddy drove us to where three Aspen patrol SUVs were waiting with lights flashing. Four officers equipped with AR-15s and body armor stood behind their vehicles and waited for the sedan’s driver to realize he had no chance to escape the long arm of the law.

  I spotted the captain in charge of Aspen PD’s team. “Helluva way to spend Friday night, isn’t it?”

  He laughed. “Looks like you ran into a few problems on your end, too.”

  I told them what’d
happened along Castle Creek, and we commiserated about the depravity of criminals.

  Finally, the captain said, “If you want some, I brought several canisters filled with coffee in the back of my car. Could be here a while.”

  I got myself a cup and sat in Skip’s SUV while I called my neighbor Sally to explain why I wouldn’t be getting home that night after all. By the time this evening’s festivities ended, I’d be lucky to get any sleep.

  Next, I called Willow using her secured chat app to update her and answer her questions. Safe in Montréal, she was sweet enough to fuss over me and admire my latest escape from the jaws of death.

  -o-o-o-

  After hanging up with Willow, I leaned my seat back in Skip’s SUV and closed my eyes.

  An hour later, Skip woke me up.

  “He’s coming.”

  The bastard who’d followed me was smarter than I’d expected. He walked down the highway toward us with his hands up. He was wearing a jacket and long pants, but no hat or gloves. Had to be damned cold. He’d already figured out that he might as well get to a warm jail cell sooner rather than later.

  When I got a good look at him in the light of a flashlight, I recognized the powerfully built black man. He was one of the drivers of the black SUVs that had tailed me to Georgetown, Jazz Booker. Because he was shivering and depressed, he didn’t look nearly as tough as he did in the photo.

  And a realization hit me. It hadn’t taken long for the Crips to regroup and send their punks after me a second time. Their boss in Denver really wanted me dead.

  When the cuffs went on, Booker yelled at us. “What the fuck? We just came over that road twelve hours ago. It was summer.”

  I couldn’t resist laughing. “You obviously don’t spend much time in the mountains. Conditions change quickly in the high country.”

  We all drove to the town jail, and Aspen PD was kind enough to let me have first crack at Booker. I’d taken my case file home in my Jeep, and I’d moved it from there to Skip’s SUV.

  I pulled out the file. Skip, the captain, and I huddled to plot a strategy to break a stone-cold killer.

  Chapter 21

  Henry “Jazz” Booker had a long rap sheet, first in Oakland and now Denver. Most recently, he’d done six years for aggravated battery. An incredibly light sentence for pistol-whipping a little old lady. He caught a break because a key witness who identified him in a lineup had died of a heart attack shortly before Booker’s trial. The DA had pled the case down out of a fear they’d lose without that key witness.

  This time, Booker had to know he was in much deeper shit. We had plenty of evidence to prove he’d helped the truck driver try to murder me, and as soon as we found Booker’s car, we’d get even more evidence.

  The only way Booker was going to see the outside of a jail again in this lifetime would be to cut a deal with me, the woman he tried to kill.

  In a tiny interrogation room, I sat alone with the asshole. The others watched from behind a one-way glass mirror. I read his Miranda warning, and before I could ask if he understood it, he said, “Lawyer. Need a lawyer.”

  I worried that would slow things down considerably, but he’d invoked his right to counsel. I wanted to change his mind. “Listen, Jazz, you don’t have to a say word, but I want you to understand one thing. We’re more than a little interested in finding out who in Denver and LA want me dead. We’ll deal with whoever tells us first. I assume that’s Irving, but I didn’t actually see his face yet.”

  I paused to let Booker respond, but nada.

  “Your buddy’s in the hospital at the moment. Don’t worry, his doctors are sure he’ll survive. So, if you don’t talk to us now, were going to make the same pitch to him, first thing in the morning. One of you can get a deal. The other gets a needle, and I really don’t care who that turns out to be.”

  “How I know you ain’t lyin’?” he asked me.

  I pulled out my phone and showed him a couple pictures I’d taken of the delivery truck and the son of a bitch out in the creek. The pics weren’t very good, but I figured Booker would recognize his partner in crime, even with the mask on his face.

  After he flipped through the pictures, I felt a vibration that told me I had a text.

  I checked. Skip had written, We got a public defender coming in. The chief wants everything done by the book.

  Worked for me. To Booker, I said, “They tell me a public defender will be here soon. You can talk to him before deciding whether you want to see the outside of a prison again someday.”

  He nodded. I got up and left the room.

  The lawyer arrived a few minutes later, a young local attorney in private practice. He was accepting public defender cases while he was building up his client list. As lawyers went, he was easier to deal with than a lot of them.

  He talked to his client in the interrogation room, and we turned the microphone off. While they did their thing, I chatted with one of our younger assistant district attorneys, Sarah Abraham. Aspen’s chief of police had asked the district attorney to assign a prosecutor to the case in during the middle of the night, too.

  Sarah was sharp and ambitious. One of the sisterhood. A blonde with a wicked sense of humor.

  When I first saw her, she shook her head. “Hank, I’m not crazy about your campaign style. As best I can tell, you let every crook in the county beat the hell out of you. Stop that.”

  “Ha, ha,” I said, too tired to think of a better comeback. “We might not have a lot of time. Here’s what you need to know about the latest bastards who tried to kill me.” I gave her a summary of my drive on the freeway and my second meeting with the two gangbangers earlier in the evening. Friday the thirteenth had turned out worse than I’d expected. Thank God, it was over.

  After I answered her questions about Booker and Irving, the public defender waved us into the interrogation room. He started with, “If my client could identify the top gangster in Denver who ordered the attack on you, what kind of deal can he get?”

  Before Sarah responded to the question, I held up my hand. “First, we need the names of two top dogs—Denver and LA. Actually, LA is more important.”

  The lawyer and his client whispered to each other, then the mouthpiece said, “Neither of the men you have arrested know who in LA arranged for the hit. My client can give most of what you want, including the name of the key ringleader in Denver. My client can also confirm that this same person arranged the murder of Wang Chao, and Dinah White.”

  The lawyer was playing up his client’s value, but I was still disappointed about the lack of an LA connection. Not surprised at the bad news. Thugs involved in murder-for-hire deals usually only shared the details with the thugs who’d carry out the hit. “Does he at least know the neighborhood in LA where the Crips boss there operates? That might be enough for us to pinpoint the guy.”

  Booker shook his head.

  I tried not to let my disappointment show on my face. Half a loaf was better than none, and all that shit. Maybe Irving knew more than Booker, despite what he claimed.

  I whispered to Sarah, “It’s most of what we need.”

  She said to the other side of the table, “Fine, we’re prepared to accept one guilty plea on attempted murder of a police officer with a possibility of parole after thirty years.”

  They haggled for twenty minutes before Booker accepted a deal for a possibility of parole after twenty years. I really wanted the Denver boss locked up.

  “Acceptable,” Sarah finally said. “Who ordered the three murders?”

  “Reggie Samson is the guy,” the lawyer said.

  A sense of satisfaction warmed me. We’d just taken a huge step forward in solving Splendid’s case and White’s.

  From that point onward, Sarah could do her work without me. I whispered to her, “I’ve been up since five a.m., and it’s now one a.m. I’ve got to get some rest. Skip knows most of the facts, and if something comes up that he can’t handle, call me
.”

  She nodded and patted me on the back. Then she handed me a key. “You can sleep on our sofa bed if you want.”

  Sarah and another member of the sisterhood owned a small, old townhouse only a few blocks from the police station. I took the key. “Thanks so much.”

  Before I conked out in Sarah’s apartment, I texted my neighbor Sally and asked her to bring my mutt and a fresh change of clothes to Sarah’s townhouse in the morning. By then, I hoped the road up Castle Creek would be open again and plowed.

  -o-o-o-

  The smell of frying bacon woke me. Sarah’s wife, a real estate agent named Cindy Baker, was cooking breakfast. I rolled out of the sofa bed and folded it back up. With blurry eyes, I stumbled into the kitchen wearing only my underwear and my prosthetic.

  She snickered. “I should take a picture. It’ll be worth thousands in blackmail.”

  “Coffee, black. I just shot someone last night, and I’m happy to do you, too.”

  She laughed and handed me a cup from their fancy coffee machine. It was delicious. “What time?”

  She pointed at her oven’s clock. “Almost eight.”

  “Mind if I use your shower in a few?”

  “I’ll mind if you don’t. You’re not looking your best.”

  I doubted I’d ever been this beat up before. The constant wear and tear was taking a toll on me.

  A knock came at the door. “Might be my clothes and the dog. Do you mind Boomer?”

  “Not if you put anything on the coffee table up high enough so his tail can’t hit it.”

  I dashed to the living room and made sure it was safe for a lunatic bloodhound. Then I checked the peephole on the door. It was my wonderful neighbor.

  Grabbing a coat, I opened the door and hugged her. “Thanks so much for coming early.”

  Boomer bounced and bayed loud enough to wake the dead. I felt sorry for Sarah who hadn’t gotten to bed until three.

  I invited Sally and the mutt inside the door before somebody called the cops.