by G. M. Ford
He walked over and picked up the AX9. “An Israeli assault rifle so secret only Mossad agents get them as standard issue.” Then he fondled the Glock. “And a Glock 17 . . . one of the most reliable and dangerous handguns in the world.” He looked at both of us. “Yep . . . I think you’d have to say you two were prepared to defend yourselves.”
“I have Washington State and City of Seattle permits for all those weapons. I have—”
“Shut up,” Wilder snapped. “We’ve checked your damn permits.”
“Those game cameras of yours . . .” Morgan shook his head and waggled a stiff finger in my face. “Those are what’s saving your bacon here, fellas. Without those goddamn pictures, you two would be downstairs wearing belly chains and waiting for your ride to Walla Walla.” He threw a glance Wilder’s way. “Deputy Moon reported that when he arrived on the scene, the barn was fully engulfed and you two had opened fire on a bunch of strangers who’d stopped to help fight the fire. Said he thought maybe you two were in the process of torching the barn for the insurance money, and when you were interrupted, you panicked and tried to murder them all.”
“Deputy Moon’s full of shit,” Keith said.
“We know,” Wilder said disgustedly. “The cameras say he was the first one through the gate. Used the winch on the front of the patrol car to pull the gate off its hinges, and then let the rest of them in.”
Morgan had a speech ready and must have figured this was the time for it. “Deputy Moon has been permanently relieved of his duties,” he said. “He was arrested and is being formally charged with dereliction, felonious assault with intent to do bodily harm, and attempted murder. His bail has been set at three hundred thousand dollars.”
I could tell from the disgusted look on his face that this was about to become a good news/bad news story.
“I have been informed that one of his father’s business associates . . . a Mr. Bain, I believe . . . has already posted the sum in cash. Rockland Moon should be back on the street within the hour.”
A strained silence settled over the room, as each of us, in his own fashion, contemplated the inequalities of the American system of justice. No matter how much we blab about social justice and personal equality, that’s not the way it works. There are damn few millionaires cooling their heels in penitentiaries. Like some writer once said, “All men are created equal, unfortunately some are created more equal than others.”
Wilder broke the spell. “The question is why?” he said.
“Why what?” I asked.
“Why put yourself at such risk? Why meddle in other people’s business affairs? What’s in it for you? What do you get out of this whole mess?”
I didn’t answer. Wilder walked over to one of the tables and scooped up Gordy’s postmortem photos. “Who’s this?” he demanded. “I got one of these over the wire last week.”
“Gordon Hardvigsen,” I said.
He started to call me a damn liar and then took a closer look at the head shot. I watched a wave of astonishment wash over his face.
“I’ll be goddamned,” he said. “That is who it is.”
He looked over at me. “What happened to him?” He waved a hand. “I mean . . . the man I knew . . .” He let it go.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” I said.
He studied the picture again. Then shuffled through the pack and came up with the picture of the scars on Gordy’s back. He turned it my way.
“What do you know about these marks?” he said.
“Friend of mine thinks he was whipped over an extended period of time.”
“That’d be Dr. Rebecca Duvall?” Morgan said.
I must have looked surprised. “We pulled your file,” Wilder said.
“Yes,” I said. “That was her opinion.”
The cops passed a look between them that set my teeth on edge.
I took a chance. “You seen anything like that before?” I asked.
No matter what came out of their mouths next, I knew they had. I could tell.
“Quid pro quo,” I said.
“It’s an ongoing investigation,” Wilder said. Which, of course, meant they wouldn’t discuss it with me.
“I’ve got a couple of ideas about how we might find out,” I teased.
“I want our medical examiner to see the body,” Wilder said.
“That’s gonna be a problem,” I said and then told them the story of Gordy’s disappearing remains. They had the same question I did.
“Why would anybody do that?” Morgan asked when I’d finished.
“That’s something else I don’t know,” I admitted.
The two cops leaned together and passed a few whispers back and forth.
“What couple of ideas are you talking about?” Morgan asked me after they’d straightened back up.
“You seen those marks before?”
Another mini-conference ensued.
“Three times in the past twenty months,” Chief Wilder said. “Two young men and an older woman. All of em transient farmworkers. Nobody even reported em missing.”
“Covered all over with just that sort of scarring,” Morgan said.
Wilder picked up the thread. “Our medical people said they were suffering from both dehydration and malnutrition at the times of their deaths. Said the abuse had occurred over an extended period of time.” He took a deep breath. “They also found . . .”
“Internal scarring,” Morgan filled in.
“On all of them?” Keith asked.
“Yes.”
“Let’s hear those so-called ideas of yours,” Wilder prodded.
“First I need to tell you a story,” I said.
“Make it damn quick.”
I gave em the Reader’s Digest version of the old Gordy-meets-Missy, thirteen-million-bucks-goes-missing, access-road-to-casino-miraculously-gets-built story.
“I heard that back when Roland Moon was single, he used to fly hookers into his ranch for private parties,” I said.
“Where’s this going?” Morgan demanded.
“See what you can find out about the girls. Pictures of them would be great.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
“I’d be interested to hear what the girls had to say about those parties.”
“Lotta working girls in the world,” Morgan griped.
“Well . . . not to be a purveyor of stereotypes,” I said, “but since we’ve got six professional shooters, all of them from Vegas, don’t you think it might be safe to assume . . . you know . . . hookers . . . Vegas.” I shrugged. “Just a thought.”
“Shut up,” Morgan spat.
“I’ll make a few calls,” Wilder promised. “I’ve got a former sergeant working Vegas Vice. I’ll give him a jingle.”
“Which brings us back to you two,” Morgan said.
“Are we free to go?” I asked right away.
Both cops looked as if their briefs were suddenly way too tight.
Morgan jerked a thumb in the direction of the AX9. “The Israeli meat grinder stays here, until you two leave town. The rest of your shit, you can pack up and get out of here.” Morgan turned on his heel and marched out of the room. Wilder, apparently, wanted the last word. “I’ve got three units covering Clarkston, until we can find a replacement for Deputy Moon,” Wilder said. “You have any trouble with anybody, I expect you to let them handle it.” He looked at both of us. “Are we clear on that?”
We said it was.
“I’ll have the garage bring your car around front. Do yourselves a favor. Go home. Wreak havoc in your own backyard. Far as I’m concerned, three dead bodies is about your limit around here.”
He pinned us with a final flinty stare, snatched the AX9 from the table, and walked out, leaving Keith and me alone in the room.
“Barn’s insured,” Sarah Jane said. “You gonna sleep ranch hands in it, you gotta have it insured, else workman’s comp won’t pay.”
“Glad to hear that,” I said.
“Probably get way more out of the settlement than the damn building was worth.”
She looked down the hall toward Olley’s room. Sighed and looked down at her boots. “They ain’t sayin so out loud, but don’t none of these hospital people think Olley’s ever going back to the ranch. They’re too polite to say so, but that’s what they’re thinkin.” She looked up at me. “Might be best we just let Keeler have the damn ground.”
“We’re close here,” I said. “We got em on the run. If we can just hang in there for a while, I think we can break em.”
“House where I’m stayin is for sale,” she said.
I kept my mouth shut.
“Pretty little place. Easy to take care of.”
“I told you when we started . . . anytime you want the ranch back, it’s yours. We’ll work out the details later. All you got to do is say the word.”
“I’m gonna talk to Fred about it later today,” she said.
When, once again, I didn’t say anything, she asked, “Where’s your friend?”
“Out in the car yakking with his girlfriend.”
“Ginny Coulter? From over at the cafe?”
“That’s the one,” I said. “I’m gonna take a run out to the ranch. You wanna come along?”
She shook her head. “Olley might . . .” And then she stopped herself. “I probably better stay here,” she said. “Case he needs me.”
We stood up together. She seemed to have lost some of the spring in her step as she walked down the hallway toward the nurses’ station. I watched her go, then headed upstairs to get my bowser bandage looked at.
“You’ve reached the message center for Rachel Thoms. Please leave a message after the tone, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.” Beep. I’d been getting the machine all morning, which meant either she had a full day of clients or she wasn’t working at all. Either way, everything was going directly to the machine.
“It’s me,” I said. “Give me a jingle.” Beep.
I jammed the phone into my pocket and walked around to the back of the house and sat down next to Keith.
“Stinks,” Keith said, fanning the air in front of his face.
He had a point. All that remained of the barn was a pile of charred rubble and nine blackened hunks of porcelain. Three sinks, three urinals, and three commodes. That and the acrid smell of fire that loitered like a vagrant in the morning air.
We were sitting side by side on a handmade picnic table in the Hardvigsens’ backyard. We’d rounded up the sleeping bags and the cooler and packed them into the Blazer. The flattened grass said somebody’d gone through the yard with a metal detector and picked up all the spent shell casings. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung around the house like a demented Christmas ribbon. Maybe not the cheeriest sight I’d ever seen.
“What now?” Keith asked.
“Don’t know,” I said.
“No point camping out here anymore.”
“Nope.”
We settled into silence. The swirling breeze lifted a mini-twister of soot and ash into the air. The yellow tape snapped in the wind.
“You could give the lady back her ranch.”
“Just talked with her about doing that. I was thinking maybe I’d—”
A cell phone began to ring. I reached for my pocket before realizing the ring wasn’t mine.
“Hey,” Keith said into his phone.
I started to climb down from the table. Leave him a little space so he could properly schmooze with the girlfriend, but his tone of voice stopped me in my tracks.
“I’m on the way. Yeah . . . yeah . . . I’m coming.”
He snapped the phone closed.
“Boyd,” he said. “He’s got Ginny.”
We sprinted for the car.
The Chat ’n’ Chew Cafe looked like it was hosting a cop convention. Must have been half a dozen police cruisers strewn about the street. Cops of all makes and models squatted behind the cars, shouting instructions and checking their weapons.
Keith and I stayed low, using parked vehicles for protection as we duckwalked along the line of cars. I could see Irene a couple of vehicles up. Sitting with her back against the car, talking into a phone, and running a nervous hand through her hair.
The bad news was that Chief Nathan Wilder was manning the bullhorn on her immediate left. The look on his face when he saw us confirmed what I already knew: As far as the chief was concerned, we could well be the last two people on earth he wanted to see. Ever. Not to mention now.
“What in holy hell—” was as far as he got before Irene crabbed over to us.
“He’s got a gun,” Irene said to Keith. “Made all of us get out.”
Wilder was a quick study. “This is Ginny’s . . . this is who you wanted to call? . . . him?”
Irene nodded. “They been seeing each other,” she said.
I watched as Chief Wilder resisted a powerful urge to just shoot both of us and be done with it. “Boyd’s threatening to kill them both,” the chief said. “Says if he don’t have Ginny, nobody else is gonna have her either.”
“He have a history of violence?” I asked.
“Nothing serious,” the chief said. “Mostly he’s just a pain in the ass. Gets drunk. Makes a nuisance of himself. We throw him in jail till he sobers up. But nothing like this. Nothing violent.”
“I’ll go in,” Keith said out of the blue.
“Nobody’s going anywhere,” the chief growled. “Boyd’s drunk as a skunk and waving a gun around. We’re going to sit tight and give him a chance to sober up a bit. See if maybe he don’t come to his senses.”
“That’s my daughter in there,” Irene pleaded. “Do something. Please.”
Keith’s eyes looked like they were about to start rolling in his head, like a spooked horse. I put my hand on his arm. He flinched hard.
“The chief’s right,” I said. “He’ll sober up. Nobody’ll get hurt.”
“We can’t just sit out here and do nothing,” Keith said with a bit more resolve than I liked the sound of.
When he stood up, so did I. And then, in the second before I figured I was going to have to stop him from doing something stupid, the fates intervened. Wilder’s shoulder radio crackled.
“He’s bringin her out the back,” a voice said.
And then everybody was moving at once. I grabbed Irene by the arm and began to jog along behind the chief and a couple of large men carrying shotguns. Above the slap of our feet on the concrete, I could hear somebody yelling. Somebody all slurry and drunk. When you keep the kind of company I do, you develop an ear for the one-word sentence. SweartogodIonlyhadonedrinkonmysaintedmother’sgravejustone.
I checked over my shoulder as I loped along. Shoulda figured . . . Keith had other plans. He was high-stepping it straight for the front door of the Chat ’n’ Chew. Musta figured the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. Imagine that.
A narrow, two-garbage-can alley ran between the restaurant and Lewiston Plumbing Supply. We picked our way through bottles and bricks down to the far end.
I could see Boyd and Ginny now. He had her around the neck and was using his knee to force her down the back stairs. She was bleeding heavily from the nose and was working up a world-class shiner around her right eye.
And yup . . . he had a gun all right. Not pointed directly at her. Not pointed directly at himself either. Sort of in the middle somewhere. Almost as if he couldn’t decide which of them he wanted to shoot more.
Chief Wilder set the bullhorn on a garbage can, shouldered his way between the shotgun cops, and stepped out into the back parking lot. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet from the happy couple.
“Let her go, Boyd,” he said. “Before this gets to be something ain’t ever gonna go away, you let go of that girl, and we’ll sit down and talk about this like men.”
Wilder had balls. I’ll say that for him. Boyd pointed the gun directly at his face, and screamed, “Get the fuck outta here! I’ll kil
l you, you son of a bitch! Get the fuck outta here.” He was waving the gun around like a conductor’s baton.
The chief never so much as blinked. “Give me the gun, son,” he said.
And that’s just what ol Boyd did. He gave Ginny a giant push forward, staggering her right up into Wilder’s chest. Then reached around, put the barrel of the gun on Chief Wilder’s forehead, and pulled back the hammer.
“You son of a bitch!” he screamed. And then he pulled the trigger.
Boom. Everybody in sight winced and then dove for cover.
The chief staggered back, his disbelieving hands cradling his head as he tripped over his own feet and fell heavily onto the ground. He pulled his hands back and then sat there staring down, expecting to see his palms covered with blood, brain matter, and bone. Except they weren’t.
I quickstepped forward, grabbed the chief under the arms, dragged him into the mouth of the alley and out of the line of fire. He looked up at me as if to ask why he wasn’t dead. He had a black powder burn on his right cheek, but seemed otherwise unscathed. I felt around on his head, front, back, sides, but nothing.
He was still staring into my eyes, looking for confirmation.
“I think he missed,” I said.
He took his own tour of his noggin and came to the same conclusion.
“Damn” was all he said as he pushed himself back to his feet.
He stumbled to the mouth of the alley on unsteady legs.
Boyd had his back against the cafe wall and Ginny pinned tightly to his chest. He was sweeping the gun back and forth like a searchlight.
“Hold your fire,” Wilder shouted.
And then I saw the moving shadow and looked up. Keith was on the cafe roof. Walking along behind the gutter. Directly above Boyd and Ginny.
From there on, the scene unfolded like a bizarre piece of dance choreography. The chief stepped forward again, providing the perfect distraction. Boyd caught the chief’s movement in his peripheral vision and turned that way. From the stupefied look on his face, I’d say he couldn’t believe he’d missed Chief Wilder either. He raised the gun.
That’s when Keith landed in the middle of his back with both feet. From where I stood, it looked like Boyd had been hit by a grand piano. The force of a hundred ninety pounds falling from the sky drove him down onto the pavement with a wet, sickening smack. Ginny went along for the ride. The gun didn’t. It went clattering along the pavement and came to rest at the feet of one of Lewiston’s finest, who gingerly picked it up by the trigger guard.
