Sandbagged: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 2)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  He chuckled. “But if they’re stealing sand that means certain parts of the illegal pipeline are still in operation,” Ramage said. “I’ll let Rex know.”

  “You spoke with him today?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We’re all good.” Ramage was constantly reassuring her because she worried Rex could pull the plug on Ramage’s freedom at any moment, and where would that leave their relationship?

  “How are your night terrors?” Anna’s voice was low and bashful, but determined.

  “Do you have to call them that? Makes me sound like I’m ten.”

  “Well if the Spiderman underwear fits…”

  Ramage sighed.

  “Fine,” she said. “What do you want me to call them?”

  “How’s bad dream?” he said, imitating the voice of a child.

  “Whatever makes you feel older than ten.”

  “They’re a little better, actually,” he said. “I overslept yesterday. In fact, I was so out I…” Shit, he hadn’t mentioned the sabotage. “I was so out of it I felt drunk when I woke up. You know that feeling?”

  She didn’t answer right away, her bullshit meter having a hard time getting a reading two states away with no visuals. “I suppose. What are you up to tonight?”

  “Food, maybe some beer, then find a bed.”

  “You’ve got the whole day tomorrow, you doing any sightseeing?”

  That was one way to think of it. “I’m working on a plan,” he said. “But I don’t want to go too far, I want to stay in the mechanic’s face so I don’t get bumped.”

  “I’d like to get bumped.”

  Ramage looked around the church, at the rack of candles with no flames, the statues, the molded stone scrolls, and tapestries depicting various scenes from The Book of Mormon. “Not really in the mood at the moment. Rain check?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Sure thing,” Ramage said.

  There they were again, the signoff dilemma. He was tired, hungry, and still had too much to do to be worrying about the appropriate time to tell someone you loved them. “Call you later sweetie.” He clicked off and slipped the phone in a pocket.

  The church was hot and Ramage unzipped his jacket and leaned back, scanning the chapel. He knew he was being watched, he could feel it, but he couldn’t tell from where. Could be as simple as a camera mounted in the wall sconces made to look like torch holders, or in the emergency exit signs? Church’s liked to give the feeling of openness, but there were things of value in the church, and he was sure they were being protected. Question was, did he want to talk to someone from the church? The peace and quiet had served its purpose, so he figured it might be best to move on. His curiosities could wait.

  He rose, grabbed his pack, and headed back to the front entrance, but pulled up short.

  A woman stood there blocking his way, her cataract-covered eyes watching him. She wore all black, and her pure white hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She looked like a witch who’d given up being bitchy. How she’d slipped in behind Ramage without him noticing poked his ego, and he looked around, trying to see what hole the lady had crawled from.

  She said, “May I help you?” Her eyes shifted under their milky film.

  The woman sounded nice enough, so Ramage said, “Maybe. Do you know where I can rent a car?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ms. Delores Killborn did know where Ramage could rent a car. Though pleasant and motherly, it was clear she wanted him out of her town, fast, because she called the rental place and told them to expect him, said Ramage was her friend. He could’ve used his secure travel website, but then he would need a computer, and he didn’t think the extra precaution was necessary. In fact, he wanted Rex to track his movements. It would strengthen his alibi.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “How are you going to get there?” she asked in a voice that always sounded worried and concerned.

  From what he’d seen so far, West Wood was a spillover from Price, which was only a click or two up the road. “It’s a nice day. I’ll walk it.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, as she held the door open for him.

  Something about the gesture, the old woman holding the door open for him, a young man, raised the red flag of concern, but he said nothing as he waved a hand and exited into the cold. He strolled down the concrete path to the sidewalk, where he paused and looked back.

  Ms. Killborn stood watching him, her shriveled head peeking out from behind the half open door. When she saw him looking her way, she ducked inside and let the door fall closed.

  Houses with manicured lawns ran down both sides of the street. To the left the road ended in a vast brown wasteland that stretched to the horizon, like the largest bulldozer in history had flattened the world. The neighborhood had no trees, no aboveground power lines or communication cables. The place had a from scratch feel, a new development, most likely church members who came to the quiet patch of nothingness of Eastern Utah to experience their own twisted version of reality and worship.

  Ramage went right, the house lined street running to a T, where it met another road that headed east toward RT-6. The directions to Tiki’s Snacks, Ammo, Gifts and Sundries Trading Post Ms. Killborn had given him placed the oddly named establishment east of RT-6 in what the old woman had called the “business district.” Ramage would’ve questioned the authenticity of any store that claimed to sell ammo and snacks, had it not been for the general store in his hometown in Pennsylvania named Bait, Tackle, and Gifts. No doubt Tiki’s was a hunter frequented establishment, hence the ammo and food. What he didn’t understand, was why guns weren’t listed as a primary product for sale.

  He steadily worked his way up the road, women staring out windows, children stopping on bikes to stare. He was a foreign contaminant, and even the kids knew they hadn’t seen him in church that week. Ramage made a left when he got to the end of the street, and walked on, houses giving way to brown frost covered nothingness to the west. Work yards, and various shops without signs lined the eastern side of the road, and RT-6 beyond.

  Ramage’s stomach grumbled as he caught the scent of bacon and coffee. He followed his nose down a side street, old trucks and dented cars covered in dust and the white residue of ice melt spray that made everything look dowsed in powdered sugar.

  Meat Man diner sat atop a red stone slab that stuck from the ground like a solitary wart. There was a parking lot out front that had once been blacktop, but was now a patchy mess of gravel filled potholes, filled cracks, and broken gray rubble. There were three cars in the lot, a blue pickup, an new white Chevy Traverse, and a Jeep that was so rusted Ramage couldn’t tell what the original color had been. The building had housed something else, that was clear, because there were none of the typical diner accoutrements. No large frontal windows, or concrete steps leading to a glass door. No sign listing the hours, or what the place served, its proprietor content with two keywords, Meat Man. From the looks of the place, it wasn’t a gay bar, not that he cared about such things, but freedom of sexual expression didn’t extend to his eggs and bacon.

  He strode across the lot like he belonged, sizing up the building. The place looked as though it had been built by a doctor, an accountant, or vet, because there were two entrances: the main one, which had a porch and wide steps, and a smaller, more discrete entrance on the side. With no directions as to which door to use, he went to the main entrance and found the door locked. He peered through the windows and saw the living space of a man; piles of garbage, empty bottles on every vertical surface. Nothing moved inside.

  Ramage found the second door open, and a bell chimed faintly as he entered. The room was dimly lit and had once been a waiting room of some kind, but now had five tables of various sizes evenly spaced throughout the room. Three of the tables were occupied by an older couple, an old man, and a young woman with olive colored skin and black hair. All four patrons looked his way briefly when he entered, then went back to focusing on their plates.
r />   The guy that busted through the door at the rear of the small space was nothing like Ramage had expected. He wore a crisp white apron that said The Man on the front in red letters. His shortly cropped blonde hair was almost a crewcut, his sharp blue eyes vibrant and focused. He looked military, maybe an ex-Army cook looking to ply a trade other than killing. He approached Ramage, his blue eyes ranging up and down his dirty clothes, his mouth becoming a thin line as he took in Ramage’s ripe scent. People like this always threw Ramage. How could he be so put together in public, but live in squalor? He was making too many assumptions. The guy might not live in the house.

  “Can I help you?” he said, like he and Ramage weren’t standing in a place that served food.

  “Looking for some breakfast,” Ramage said.

  The guy’s face brightened. “This way.”

  He offered a table in the center of the others, and Ramage took the seat allowing him to see the entrance and everyone except the young woman.

  “What can I get you?” The Man said.

  Ramage looked around for a sandwich board, a list of specials, but there was nothing on the walls, no art, mirrors, nothing but a coating of grease and smoke scum. “Menu?” Ramage probed.

  “We do things a little informal here. Don’t usually get outsiders. Tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you what I can do.”

  Ramage nodded. “Four eggs, scrambled with cheese, double side of bacon, a toasted bagel and a large OJ.”

  “Cheese? We’ve got Swiss and American.”

  “How international of you. American.”

  “No bagels, white toast or whole wheat?”

  “Whole wheat.”

  “Water or something else to drink? We don’t sell OJ,” The Man said.

  “No OJ? That’s odd, no?”

  The Man shook his head. “None of my customers drink it anymore. Too much sugar, so why have it?”

  “Solid point. Water, please, with ice.”

  The Man went away without another word and Ramage pulled his phone so the others in the room didn’t notice him studying them.

  The older couple were regulars, that was easy to see. He read the paper, her a hardback novel, their half-eaten breakfasts before them, an empty glass coffee urn at the edge of the table waiting to be replenished. He used the window in the entrance door to examine the reflection of the woman sitting behind him, but it was hard to get any detail. She didn’t make a sound, not even the tinkle of her fork dancing off her plate. She got up and left, and Ramage didn’t get a good look at her face as she brushed by him, exiting without looking back.

  Eight minutes later Ramage’s food was up, a steaming portion of goodness that smelled like mana from heaven, whatever that smelled like. He’d have to ask Ms. Killborn. “Thank you,” Ramage said.

  “Do you think you’ll need anything else?” The Man said.

  “Do you know Tiki over at the ammo shop?”

  The Man chuckled. “There ain’t no Tiki. It’s called that because there’s an old-style tiki pole out front.”

  “Who does run it?”

  “Jasper and Jenny.”

  “Place should be called JJ’s.”

  The guy made no sign and said nothing.

  “You know Jasper and Jenny?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid.” The guy sounded put out. “I meant, will you require anymore food today?”

  Ramage looked down at his plate and said, “I don’t think so.”

  The Man placed the check on the table and waited.

  Ramage took a bite of eggs, and when he noticed The Man still standing there, he hiked his shoulders.

  “Payment, please,” the guy said. “Like I told you, we do things a bit different here.”

  Ramage gnawed on a piece of bacon as he examined the check. Nine dollars, no tax. Ramage gave the guy fifteen bucks and said thank you again. Never knew when he’d be back, and maybe a six-dollar tip would soften the guy…. next time, because he took the money and walked away before Ramage could ask him another question.

  He saw The Man one more time when he brought out a fresh urn of coffee for the old couple. Ramage ate in silence. The food was good, perfectly cooked, and there was plenty of it. When he was done, he headed for the exit, pausing before a bulletin board next to the door. There were business cards for all the standard services: babysitting, tutors, mechanics and handymen, but it was the three copies of the Price Tourist Guide tacked to the board that drew his attention. He pulled one free.

  It was one of those thin booklets that almost every town had in one form or another. Basic information about the town, all the state’s outdoor parks and recreational information, including the fun fact that there was a piece of a national park in all of the state’s counties, a bunch of ads, and in the centerfold a jackpot, a map of Price and the surrounding area. He could’ve used his phone, but when it came to maps he was old school, and liked to see the entire area, not just a slice, which was all the small cellphone screen could provide. It helped him get his bearings, see things he might not otherwise see.

  Tiki’s was clearly marked, and he traced his finger along his path. Price was to the southeast, and he found the truck stop, the church in West Wood. He felt better, like he’d just figured out what planet he was on and how he could get home. He folded the brochure, slipped it in a pocket, and pushed out the door, the cold Utah wind hitting him like he’d opened a giant freezer.

  Ramage pondered his situation as he threaded his way past houses, vacant lots, and thickets of scrub pine and juniper. He buttoned his coat and put on his gloves, the wind biting at him, the sun an illusion. Ramage was tired of setting traps, waiting on his prey to come to him. This was the preferred method in the wild, where humans had the biggest brains, even if they didn’t use them much. He decided he couldn’t head home with the rabble on his tail and make things worse there. He needed to fight Rolly on his turf, a spot that would give him the advantage.

  He considered his weapons situation. He might be able to get ammo from Tiki’s, but what paperwork would he need to supply? Utah’s gun laws were some of the most permissive in the United States, and nobody could claim their First Amendment rights were under attack in Utah, but that didn’t mean he could buy whatever he wanted. He thought of the rifle and Colt he’d stashed, and the snubby .38. He wanted no part of the Colt, but figured .22 caliber shells, which were commonly used for hunting, might be easy to get, and the rifle was much better at long range. He was unsure about ammo for the .38. He’d have to feel things out. A plan started to form, and if he could get the car, it would be easy to go back and retrieve the rifle.

  Unlike Meat Man’s, Tiki’s Snacks, Ammo, Gifts and Sundries Trading Post was exactly what he’d expected, at least on the outside. The tiki pole looked to have been carved from a thick tree trunk with a chainsaw, its rough edges depicting various animals, most of which could be found in Utah: armadillo, lizard, cougar, bear, coyote, and a bunch of others. Utah’s geography ranged from deserts to forests and high mountain ranges, and supported a diverse animal population. The building had a green metal roof and clapboard siding. Its sign was white lettering painted over a black background. No depiction of an elk, or a bullet sipping through the air. The front window had blinds, which were closed, and a sign on the door read “open.”

  Ramage strode toward the entrance, but when he was almost to the door an incredibly tall man came out. Ramage, who was five foot eleven inches had to look up at the man. The guy had salt and pepper hair, hawkish eyes, and sharp features, but when he smiled all that melted away. “Mr. Ramage? I’m Jasper.”

  He nodded. Ms. Killborn’s work.

  “Figured I’d meet you out here, since that’s where we’d end up anyway.” Ramage must have looked confused, because the guy said, “You wanted to rent a car, right?”

  Ramage nodded again.

  “This way.”

  Ramage fell in behind the guy, and they looped around the back of the building and strode along a line of cars.
There were four: two Honda civics, one new, one old, both white, a green Dodge pickup that looked like it had blood coating its bed sat between the cars, and a green van was on the far end. The outline where a logo had been pasted to the van could still be seen, its dust covered outline reading Smoothie Greens.

  “The cars are in cost order. $25 a day and a hundred miles, up to the van, which is seventy-five a day and fifty miles,” Jasper said.

  “What’s with the pickup? Didn’t you clean it after renters used it to go hunting?”

  Now it was Jasper’s turn to look confused, and his brow knitted.

  “The blood in the bed?”

  Jasper laughed. “Paint spill.”

  “How much for the pickup?”

  “How long?”

  “Until Saturday morning, and I need you to pick it up at the truck stop in Price.”

  “How’s a hundred? Rental collection included.”

  Ramage pulled the .22 shell and the spare .38 caliber bullet from his pocket. “Can I get a couple boxes of these as well? Doing some armadillo hunting. That’s why I need the truck.”

  “There’s a limit on how many you can take, you know.”

  “I’ve got buddies coming with me.”

  Jasper wagged his head. “Let’s go inside and do some paperwork.”

  Turns out renting a car in West Wood was a shade more difficult than getting on a plane in Provo. Ramage gave up his credit card for the car and asked to pay cash for the bullets. If Rex checked, renting a car made perfect sense. Buying bullets, not so much.

  Jasper didn’t blink at the odd request. “The state doesn’t require any verification on long guns. I only need to be concerned if you want to buy more than 10,000 rounds,” he said.

  “10,000 rounds? Do you have that much?”

  Jasper smiled, but didn’t answer.

  Ramage was starting to like this town.

  “I’ll need to see a permit for the .38, though.”

  Icy drips slid down Ramage’s back. He did his best fake laugh. “I don’t have it on me.” Ramage smiled.

  “Well,” Jasper smiled back. “You are a friend of Ms. Killborn.”