Becoming Quinn

by Brett Battles

  A minute later, they pulled to a stop at the corner of the two streets.

  “Would have been nice if he had at least told us which side of Goodman he was on.” Haywood stared out the windshield for a moment, then opened his door.

  “What are you doing?” Jake asked.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” Haywood said as he climbed out.

  Jake hesitated a moment, then did the same.

  Haywood stood next to the car, his head swiveling slowly as he surveyed the surrounding area. Jake turned his gaze outward, but there really wasn’t much to see. Only a few lights pierced the darkness, revealing a handful of small ranches, but that was it. Mostly it was just open desert.

  “I see three places over there,” Haywood said, pointing across Tyler Way. “And two more behind us. You?”

  “I counted three behind us,” Jake said.

  “Three?”

  Jake pointed each of them out. There were two homes across the street from each other, and one large building on another piece of property, set far back from the road.

  Haywood frowned. “Yeah. Three.”

  Jake opened his mouth, hesitated, then decided he should say it anyway. “Do you think maybe it was a prank?”

  His partner studied the desert some more. “Won’t know until we check. We’ll start with the houses on the other side of Tyler, and work our way back.”

  3

  Durrie resisted the urge to close his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the groan that escaped his lips. What a disaster.

  “Don’t anyone go anywhere,” he said into the radio. “I’m going to need everyone’s help.”

  “Hey,” Larson said. “Cleanup’s your job.”

  “Yeah, and killing the target without bringing the police was yours. Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”

  Durrie unhooked the monitor from the cable, then folded up the mirror, and shoved both into one of the bags. That done, he picked everything up and moved his foot around in the dirt, doing a quick cover-up of the impressions that had been made on the ground.

  As he headed back to the barn, he coiled up the cable, and kicked dirt over the imprint it left behind in the sand. But circumstances meant he had to rush, so he knew he wasn’t doing the best job he could.

  When he stepped inside the barn, he saw that not only was Larson still there, but the other two men—Morgan and Fry—had arrived also.

  “You,” Durrie said, pointing at Morgan. “Get the camera. And you.” He pointed at Fry. “The rifle.”

  “You’re not in charge here,” Larson said.

  “Bullshit. I am now.”

  Larson narrowed his eyes.

  “What?” Durrie asked. “You want to sit here and argue about whose dick is bigger while the cops try to figure out where that 911 call came from? Are you that stupid? Go find out what happened to Timmons and Mills.”

  He stared at Larson, knowing they were wasting precious seconds. In Durrie’s estimation, they had no more than five minutes tops, and with potentially four bodies to deal with, it would require everyone to pull this off.

  Larson finally let out a less-than-pleased grunt, then headed for the door.

  “You’ve got forty-five seconds,” Durrie yelled after him as he moved over to Owens’s body.

  The man’s dead eyes looked upward at nothing. Durrie didn’t bother closing them. He wasn’t worried about things like that. Bodies were his job. They were things, nothing more.

  Right off, he saw several problems—the blood pooling on the ground, the bits of Owens’s head that had adhered to the back of the stall. With the proper amount of time, none of that would be an issue. But that was something Larson’s sloppy work had denied him.

  Body first, he told himself. Worry about the rest after.

  From one of his bags he pulled out a packet of plastic sheeting. He laid it on the ground near the body, avoiding the blood, then rolled Owens onto it. With a deftness that came from years of experience, he enclosed the body and sealed it with duct tape in less than half a minute.

  Just about the time he was finishing, the door opened. As Larson reentered, Durrie caught sight of the body of Owens’s friend lying just outside, and a plan came to him.

  “Mills is dead,” Larson said. “Throat slashed. Timmons is alive, but out cold. No wounds I can see, though.”

  Durrie stood up. “Help me carry this outside.”

  Together they maneuvered Owens across the barn and through the door. There was no time to go get the van Durrie had parked half a mile away, so they were going to have to use the car Owens had arrived in. Thankfully, Durrie had thought ahead and had snatched the keys from Owens before he bundled him up.

  “Back of the car,” he said.

  Once there, he balanced his half of the body on his chest while he unlocked the trunk. Fifteen seconds later, the interior light of the trunk was permanently disabled, and Owens was tucked inside.

  As Durrie ran back into the barn, he yelled at the other two men, “Hey! Aren’t you guys done yet?”

  “I got the camera,” Morgan said. “I’m just helping with the rifle.”

  “It’s stuck,” Fry explained.

  “You’ve got twenty seconds, and you can’t leave it there,” Durrie told them.

  He grabbed his bags from where he’d left them and rushed back outside. He placed both in the back seat of the sedan, then withdrew two more packets of sheeting from one of them. Before he shut the door, he flicked the switch killing the dome light.

  Just then Morgan and Fry came outside carrying the camera and gun.

  “Put them in the trunk, out of the way,” Durrie instructed. He opened one of the sheeting packets, tossed the plastic from inside to Larson, then pointed at Owens’s dead friend. “Lay it on the ground next to him.”

  Morgan appeared from around the back of the car, his hands now empty. Durrie tossed him the unopened pack. “You two go wrap up Mills.”

  “Where is he?” Morgan asked.

  Durrie looked at Larson.

  “Around the other side,” Larson said. “There’s a small shed extension. He’s in there.”

  “You’ve got less than a minute to wrap him up and bring him back here,” Durrie informed them.

  The two men took off running around the barn.

  Durrie knelt down by Larson’s first kill. “Help me get him on the sheet.”

  Together they transferred Owens’s partner onto the plastic. As they were folding the sides over the top of the corpse, Durrie noticed something odd under the car. He knew he didn’t have time for distractions, but he couldn’t help lowering his head to the ground and taking a better look.

  Son of a bitch, he thought.

  The engine compartment had been modified so that there was a space just big enough for someone to crouch in. It even had a gate across the bottom to keep any arms or legs from accidentally dragging on the ground. The gate was what had caught Durrie’s eye. It was on a hinge and had been opened so the occupant—the dead guy next to him—could get out. No wonder the watchers near the road hadn’t spotted him in the car. His heat signature would have blended right in with the engine. Durrie reached under the car, and closed the gate.

  His attention back on the body, he said, “Grab him by the shoulders.”

  Larson looked confused. “Aren’t you going to tape him closed first?”

  “No.” Durrie scooted his hands under the plastic, grabbing the body by the legs. “He’s not staying in this.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t have time to go over the finer points of my job,” Durrie snapped. “Just do what I say.”

  With Durrie leading the way, they carried the body into the barn, and placed it roughly in the same place Owens had been.

  “I don’t understand,” Larson said.

  “I don’t care. Here.” Durrie gathered up the plastic and handed it to the agent. “Put this in the trunk, then go get Timmons.”

  Larson all but ripped t
he plastic from Durrie’s hands, then stormed out. Durrie rolled his eyes. He had no idea how a guy like Larson had lasted even a few months in this business. There was little doubt a bullet with the assassin’s name on it was waiting somewhere in the not too distant future.

  Durrie searched the body. As he’d suspected, the man was carrying two pistols. He removed both of them, and a knife in a sheath strapped around his ankle. The only other things the man had been carrying were two hundred dollars in cash. That, Durrie left.

  Standing, he took a quick look around, making sure there was nothing that would destroy the impression he was trying to create. It all looked good. He glanced once more at the body.

  “Tough luck for you,” he said.

  He could have used Owens for what he had planned. But Owens was the job, and the job was to make him disappear. This guy was collateral damage, and therefore Durrie could use him in whatever way he saw fit.

  He stepped back outside just in time to see the others dump Mills’s body in the trunk. A few seconds later, Larson showed up with Timmons propped against his side. The team leader was no longer unconscious, but he didn’t look like he had a complete handle on what was going on, either.

  “Stick him in the car, then you three can get out of here,” Durrie said. Their car was parked on a parallel road a quarter mile behind the barn.

  “No,” Morgan said. “Timmons is coming with us.”

  “Fine. But you’d better get a move on it.”

  They hesitated for a moment.

  “Go!” Durrie yelled.

  That seemed to be what they needed.

  Before they’d even rounded the corner of the barn, Durrie was on his hands and knees with a piece of cardboard he’d found in the back of the car. He scooped up the blood Owens’s partner had left behind and carried it quickly into the barn. It took three trips, but when he was done all signs of what had happened outside were gone.

  Now, the final step.

  He opened the car’s back door, and from one of his bags withdrew two cans of lighter fluid, an unused rag, and a lighter. He carried these into the barn, doused the body, then moved around, spraying the rest of the building. As he did, he came across Larson’s coffee cup. Talk about sloppy. Standard procedure was to always take with you whatever you brought. Durrie knew the fire would probably burn it completely, but he couldn’t take the chance. He picked it up, then finished soaking the interior. Ready now, he lit the rag on fire, and tossed it on the body.

  With a whoosh, flames sprang from the ground. Soon the whole barn would be ablaze. The authorities would find a body that had been shot, but that’s all. No identification, no reason why. Nothing to tie back to Durrie’s employers.

  Durrie allowed himself a smile. Another mess he’d made right. This should be worth a nice little bonus.

  But as he exited the barn his smile quickly disappeared. Not far away he could see flashing lights coming down Goodman Ranch Road.

  Keeping his gaze on them as they drew closer, he moved sideways to the corner of the barn, ready to run the moment the cop car turned onto the property. But it never slowed, and instead shot past the entrance, not stopping until it reached the intersection another hundred yards down the road.

  Durrie looked back in the direction the cops had come, expecting to see more lights heading this way, but there were none. He jogged back to the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Keeping all the lights off, and his foot away from the brake, he started the engine. He then inched the car around so that it was pointing down the dirt road toward the main road.

  The cop car was still at the intersection, like it was waiting there for something. Backup?

  It was possible Durrie could take the car out the other way, across the desert and to the road the ops team had parked on. But the terrain would be uneven, and he knew the chances were great he’d be forced to use his brakes, betraying his position.

  No. Either he drove out to Goodman Ranch Road, or he left the car and disappeared into the night on foot, making his way through the desert back to his van.

  It all depended on the police in the cruiser.

  It seemed to sit there forever, but finally Durrie saw it move through the intersection and head farther away. Not waiting to see what they would do next, he drove quickly down the dirt driveway, then turned right on Goodman Ranch Road and headed toward the city.

  It was a good thing he’d gone when he had. He’d only traveled a quarter mile along the blacktop road when he saw in his mirror the first flames flickering out from the barn.

  4

  “Sorry, Officer. Not a thing.” The man in the doorway was wearing a black golf shirt and a pair of jeans.

  From not far inside, a TV was blasting and Jake knew even if someone had shot a gun in their front yard, the guy wouldn’t have heard it.

  “Are you here alone, sir?” Haywood asked.

  “My wife’s here,” he said. “And my kids.”

  “Is it possible they might have heard something?”

  “Kids are asleep, but I’m sure Jenny would have said something if she had.”

  “Jenny’s your wife?”

  “Well, yeah.” The man gave them a look like that should have been obvious, then turned away from the door. “Jenny, come here for a minute.”

  A moment later a woman appeared beside him. She was shorter than he was, and not quite as overweight.

  “These officers are wondering if we heard any gunshots. I know I didn’t,” the man said.

  “Tonight?” she asked. “I haven’t heard any. Why? Were there some?”

  Haywood smiled. “We’re not entirely sure. Just checking a report, that’s all. Sounds like neither of you heard anything, so we won’t bother you any longer.”

  “We’ll keep an ear out in case it starts up again,” the man said.

  “Thank you,” Haywood told them. “You folks have a good night.”

  He stepped off the small porch, with Jake following closely behind him.

  “You do the talking at the next one,” Haywood said as he opened his car door. “It’ll be good practice.”

  But Jake was barely listening to him. Instead he was looking across the top of the car into the distance. After a second, he said, “That’s a fire.”

  “What?” Haywood whipped around to see what Jake was talking about.

  “There,” Jake said, pointing. “I think that’s one of the buildings we were going to check out on the other side of the intersection.”

  “Get in!” Haywood shouted.

  As they pulled away from the house, Haywood grabbed the radio mic. “9-82 Adam. We have a structure fire on Goodman Ranch Road just north of Tyler Way on the east side. Possible connection to earlier call.”

  “Copy, 9-82 Adam. Will start fire and back up.”

  Haywood replaced the mic, and pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. When they reached the dirt road that led onto the property where the fire was, he slowed just enough to take the turn, then accelerated down the uneven surface.

  “No way the fire department’s going to get here in time,” Jake said.

  The building—it looked like a barn—was nearly engulfed by the flames. The wood that had yet to be touched looked old and dry and ripe for burning.

  Haywood skidded to a stop a hundred feet away from the structure. “We’ve got to make sure no one’s in there.”

  Jake nodded as they jumped out of the car.

  They split up and circled the building in opposite directions. The heat from the flames was so intense that every few seconds Jake had to turn away to keep from scorching his face.

  “Anyone inside?” he called out. “Hey, anyone in there?”

  He wasn’t sure what he would do if someone answered. There was no way he could go in and survive. When he reached the back, Haywood was already there.

  “Anything?” the veteran cop asked.

  “No,” Jake told him.

  Haywood watched the flames. “Probabl
y abandoned.”

  “Maybe…maybe the fire was started by a gunshot. Someone could have been playing around, that’s why we got the call.” They had to be connected, Jake thought. One of his instructors at the academy had said more than once, “Never trust a coincidence.”

  “Perhaps,” Haywood said. “My guess? Some teenagers messing around. Drinking, maybe shooting a little bit. Then they got bored and set this thing on fire.” He paused, looking at the blaze. “Take a look around. See if you can find any signs of people running away. They could be hiding out there in the dark, watching their handiwork, so also keep your ears open.”

  With a flashlight in one hand and his gun in the other, Jake moved out to search the perimeter, but the only noise he could hear was the roar of the fire behind him.

  There were footprints all over the place, some obviously older, while others could have been made any time in the past couple of weeks. Phoenix hadn’t had any rain in months, and as far as Jake could recall, there had been no real winds to speak of for some time. That meant a print made today or last week could be almost identical.

  With so many tracks, Jake guessed the barn was a popular hangout. Probably a place local teens would come to on weekends to drink and party because no one would see them. Just like Haywood had suggested.

  He moved around the barn to the far side, the beam of his light cutting back and forth across the barren ground. Sitting off to the side of the barn was a large tank that would make a perfect place for someone to hide behind.

  He knew he should probably get Haywood so they could check the tank together, but thought he should be able to handle this, right? This was what he trained for, after all, and the more initiative he showed, the faster he figured he’d move up the ranks, bringing him closer to becoming a detective. That was his ultimate goal.

  He swung his flashlight away from the tank, making it seem like he was checking in another direction, then he switched it off. Though the moon wasn’t up yet, the glow of the fire provided enough illumination to see what he was doing.

  He went right, circling the tank, his gun held out in front of him in a double grip. Given the location of the tank in relationship to the barn, anyone waiting behind it would probably expect someone to come at them from the other direction.