River Run

by J. S. James

  “I’ll give a look-see.” Jerzy was outside, across the lane and loping down the pathway before she could say be careful.

  They waited in silence.

  He reappeared with a Z-shaped metal rod in one hand and a small packet in the other, and trotted up to her open window. When he leaned in, the forearm he’d rested on her door came in contact with her shoulder. Warm contact.

  “Good eyes, Harvey. Found the sheriff’s unmarked car along that beat-down trail.” He pulled back, his full attention on her. “Did I hear you say something about Castner driving that car?”

  “Yeah, dressed in some kind of hunter’s monkey suit.”

  Laughter rolled out of the back seat.

  “Damn close, Dee-Dee.” Their glances held in the mirror. “I saw him in a ghillie suit once. He was going bowhunting.”

  “Well, there is this,” Jerzy said, waggling the angular metal rod in front of her.

  She felt the threaded point. “And what is this?”

  “A tree step. Screw them into the bark and you have a ladder up to a tree stand. I found it in the back seat with the rest of his gear.”

  “So,” Delia said, “either he’s coming back, or didn’t need it. Why?”

  “Maybe the answer’s here,” Jerzy said, handing her the packet. She unrolled the paper bag and swallowed, sorted through the contents, then passed it back.

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Did Castner leave any other bread crumbs?” Harvey asked.

  “Whole slices. Sure as hell isn’t worried about somebody tracking him.”

  Harvey cocked a thumb toward the rear of his F-350. “In the mood to do a little ass-covering while we backdoor the party at the house?”

  Jerzy broke out in a grin and stepped toward the truck bed.

  Via the side mirror, she watched him hoist out a coil of boat rope and walk forward.

  “A rope?” she asked, unable to mask the worry in her voice.

  Harvey’s arm snaked past her shoulder, his hand pointing at the glove compartment. “Hand him my never-fail.”

  Delia complied, pulling out a beat-up holster with U.S. Cavalry imprinted on the flap. A very old Browning automatic was entombed in leather.

  “What’s this, a World War I relic?”

  “A tad older. Rumor has it that hunk of iron went on the 1916 expedition against Pancho Villa.”

  She checked the magazine and worked the action before hammering down and pressing the .45 into Jerzy’s palm. Hands lingered as she fixed him with a stare. “Ever use a handgun?”

  “Some.”

  “There’s a hollow-nose in the chute that’ll stop a charging NRA lobbyist if you aim between the nipples.” Delia loved guns, hated gun mongers, and saw no irony in the sentiment. “Self-defense only. Clear?”

  “Clear.”

  She put the Ford in gear. Wind buffeted the truck while she watched Jerzy slip into the woods and out of sight.

  Another rainstorm was closing in.

  * * *

  Tunk-tunk-tunk, tunk-tunk.

  Gus barely had the brake set on Castner’s truck when Bannock cut loose with his toy. An instant later, the left side of the house at the far end of the clearing blew out, followed by a billowing—of smoke and flames, not the cloud of gas Gus had expected.

  “Jumpin’ Jesus.” Scooting his backside across the cab seat, he poked his head out the open passenger window and yelled, “What in the Sam Hill did you load inta that thing?”

  Bannock sat on an ammo canister in the truck bed. His legs were splayed under the grenade launcher, boot soles braced against the hay bales. He was hunched over the tactical computer, his face aglow from the range finder’s data screen. Only the corner of his mouth moved, curling up like a scorpion’s tail.

  “Bastard-killers.” He reared forward, gave two vicious yanks at the arming bolts, or whatever the hell they were called, and sank his face back into the range finder’s rubberized cup. “C’mon, you fucking bastard. Show position and I’ll suck the air out of your lungs.”

  “What about the money?” Gus groped for the right side door handle behind his back, found it quicker than expected, and tumbled out. He hit the ground, falling on the machine pistol strapped inside his parka. A bolt of electricity shot up his rib cage and he gasped for air. Stunned, he blinked the agony away as he watched his Stetson float off on a gust of wind. An odor similar to burnt fireworks stung his nostrils. His future was going up in flames.

  Clawing himself up the open door, Gus saw Bannock had swung the launcher’s barrel and was targeting something far right of the house.

  “No diddle us and dash this time, you maggoty-ass bastard.” Tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk.

  Before Gus could blink, a multi-burst cluster made coleslaw of their quarry’s rubber-sided boat.

  Bannock had the launcher trained back on the house and was in the process of targeting another volley. Gus couldn’t let that happen. He stumbled toward the rear of the truck, anger overriding caution.

  “Now just a goddamn minute. You’re gonna fricassee the fuckin’ money.” Too intent on dealing death, Bannock paid no attention to what went on behind him.

  Gus didn’t think to ask why. He used the truck’s back tire as a step-up, hooked a leg over the sidewall, and managed to shinny his belly onto the edge of the bed. He struggled to a sitting position and swung his other leg inside the truck. Repositioning the machine pistol on its strap, he snicked in a round, reminding himself not to stand—his hat was gone and Castner was out there sighting in from a tree.

  Gus paused, ginning up the nerve to confront Bannock, when something hard jabbed into his spine.

  “Drop the weapon, Gus.”

  Castner. Coming from behind, his voice sounded strange. Filled with resentment. Gus couldn’t believe his bonehead nephew had gotten the drop on him. He slowly raised both hands to show they were empty. The Agram 2000 hung directly below his chest, out of Castner’s sight.

  “Craig? Son, what are you doing?”

  “Cashing in. Real money, not worthless promises.”

  Tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk. More shells rattled through Bannock’s grenade launcher. More distant thumps from detonating grenades.

  “You double-cross your uncle? After all I’ve done for—” Harsh laughter stopped him.

  “Sorry, Gus. Not after the years I put up with you scraping me off your boot like dog shit. Now, stand up and turn around. I want to see the look on your face when this Glock tattoos your gut tub.”

  “How much is Bannock paying you?” Gus leaned forward, lowering his hands as if to push off from the pickup’s sidewall. Instead, he swiveled the machine pistol’s barrel around under his right arm.

  “Ninety now and—”

  Gus touched off, shooting through his parka. His own body arched with the return punch of Castner’s back-shot. His balance lost, Gus pitched backward out of the truck, knocking Castner off the dike road. Gus would have gone over, too, if he hadn’t landed against a tree stump.

  By the agony in his shoulder, Gus was sure he’d dislocated it. The real shock was the blood filling his mouth, then spilling out between his teeth. Every drawn breath felt like a stab to his chest. He lay there, afraid to breathe. Afraid not to.

  That pain-sick gorge would have been even worse had he not noticed the blood splatters marking his nephew’s tumble toward the river. The machine pistol had done some good.

  Above the V-8 rumble of an approaching truck and the bursts of launching grenades, Gus heard Bannock’s send-off.

  “You get him, Castner?” Tunk-tunk-tunk. “Good riddance. A worthless piece of shit if I ever saw one.” Tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk.

  Gus dearly hoped Bannock wouldn’t get his money’s worth, but feared he would.

  * * *

  The dike washout’s far incline blocked Delia’s view of the road ahead as she bounced through the depression, slammed the Ford into four-wheel drive, and punched the gas pedal. At first the F-350 gouged into the slope with its front bumpe
r; then it tilted upward as the off-road tires dug in. The truck lurched up and over the embankment.

  Out of the washout and back on top of the dike road, Harvey grunted loudly, mashed against the seat back when Delia hit the Ford’s brakes. Both sat there, stunned by what was happening in the Dodge pickup barely a hundred feet ahead.

  The truck’s open tailgate was aimed toward them, with bales of hay and a figure in its bed seated behind a leftward-facing weapon on a tripod, viciously jerking at the arming bolt.

  “Harvey, that’s not Grice. I swear I caught a glimpse of him before we dropped into that washout. You?”

  “Too busy peeling my face off the upholstery, but that guy looking at us from the truck bed must be Bannock. Hey, what’s in his hands?”

  Beneath the gathering dusk, she couldn’t be sure. Until her sight gelled on the stubby outline of a weapon, a guy in the process of chambering a round.

  “Mierda. Hit the floorboards.”

  She flopped hard to the right. The Ford’s windshield cobwebbed. Frosty circles the size of pigeon eggs stitched across the safety glass. Each one left a hole like a black yolk.

  She stayed down for a second burst, wincing at the plink-plink-plink of slugs tearing through grille metal. Engine coolant hissed. Death knells of steam vented out the Ford’s hood seams.

  She realized her foot had slipped off the brake. Still in drive, their truck crept ahead. Into can’t-miss range. C’mon, Delia. Think fast.

  Harvey voiced the idea forming in her head. “Now, Dee-Dee. Before the motor quits. Run right up his ass.”

  “I’m on it, Harv.” She executed a pop-up, pop-down glance over the dash.

  Bannock was turned away, his face buried in a funnel-shaped object on top of a large weapon. A grenade launcher, pointed toward the house. The hellhole Robb had planned to close. The launcher was a sure-kill weapon, and Bannock aimed to kill him.

  She sat up and stomped the accelerator. The Ford jumped ahead, just as a belt-load of shells rattled through the launcher.

  The F-350 fishtailed toward the Dodge. Over the roar of acceleration, she heard the pomp-pomp-pomp of forty-millimeter rapid fire. It halted the instant the Ford jolted into the truck ahead.

  She stomped down again. The hood of the high-centered Ford rose up and over the stationary truck’s tailgate and mounted the Dodge, launching it in motion. The Ford kept going, snorting steam, thrusting forward. A hunk of Detroit iron in mating season. The Dodge hit a clump of trees and jolted to a stop. The Ford followed suit when its bumper kissed the cab of the truck beneath.

  A concussive whoosh rattled both trucks, and the horizon to her left took on a coppery flush. The house beneath traded its rectangular gray for a globe of flaming orange. A massive fireball rose into the dark, a hot-air balloon painted in hell. Robb. Shit.

  “Harv, you okay?”

  “Think so. You?”

  Shaking off the numbness, she wiped at the blood running from her bandaged ear and unholstered her mouse gun.

  Bannock. First, neutralize the threat. Delia got the driver’s side door of the Ford open a crack before it stuck. She scrunched her butt around and aimed both chukkas at the door panel. Her kick was interrupted by a low-timbre whoomph that shook the truck. Something else had exploded at the house. Stunned, all Delia could do was think cremation and gawk as every space of the structure showing daylight, glowed white hot. The heat came from deeper inside. From the place she was sure Robb had gone.

  “Hol-ee buckets.” Harvey must have worked himself back up to window level. “That frickin’ place had to be packed with fuel and accelerants.”

  She gave the driver’s side door a vicious boot, and it banged open. A snowstorm of loose hay swirled in. She leapt out, twisting to keep her small weapon trained on the major threat as she hit the ground beside the trucks, one stacked atop the other.

  That threat was dead. Clearly dead. Bannock’s upper torso was crushed between the cab of Castner’s Dodge and a heavy-duty electric cable winch mounted on the front bumper of Harvey’s Ford. The grenade launcher was also a goner, now a wheel-wrapped linguini of tangled ammunition belt and contorted metal. But had it done its job? Taken away the brother she might’ve found?

  “Bannock has checked out, Harv.”

  “What about Grice?”

  “Good question.” The house had flame-lit everything on one side of the trucks, leaving the side to the river in shadows. “Grab those flashlights.” She helped ease Harvey down from the two trucks. Taking one of the lights, she made a circuit around the vehicles and returned to Harvey.

  “No Grice,” she reported, switching off. “And no Castner. I hate loose ends, Harv.”

  He was about to say something, but turned at the wail of distant sirens. “I’d better hike back and stop them at the other side of the washout.” Delia watched his circle of light bounce unevenly along the roadbed as he limped back the way they had driven.

  Back! It was the word-trigger she needed to get her thinking straight. After impact, the two trucks had traveled a good forty feet. She traced back along the side to the river, her light playing among weeds, brush, and graying tree stumps. She stopped when the beam lit up a pointed boot toe.

  Grice sat with his back against a stump, his chin on his chest. The front of his shirt was bright red, coating over what she took for a machine pistol. He didn’t appear to be breathing, but she lifted the strap from behind his neck and removed the weapon. She set down her light and crouched beside him. Feeling for a pulse, she got a weak one. He stirred, lifting a hand toward Harvey, she thought, who stood at the top of the dike washout and flashed his light around. She figured Harvey was having trouble finding a safe way down.

  “Cas …” Grice burbled, more blood spilling down his chin. His arm dropped, unmoving.

  Delia squinted ahead, down toward the water where one of the bushes moved. It crept upward, gaining the top of the dike. She was going for her Kel-Tec when the bush produced a handgun and pointed it toward Harvey. She put two rounds into the bush, which got off one air-shot before she tapped in two more for good measure.

  Harvey turned and gawked as Delia retrieved her flashlight. She switched on and lit up Craig Castner’s ghillie-suited body.

  * * *

  Delia Chavez stood as close as she could to the roaring house fire, its heat a fever on her face, the night sky a glower of massing clouds. She peered into the blaze and listened to the clamor of approaching sirens. The wind had died off with nightfall, but cold ground air continued to rush past her legs, feeding the flames.

  She’d helped Harvey across the washout, then canvassed the entire outer perimeter of the burning house. A cool-down walk. Twice she’d run her flashlight over every open patch, animal trail, sticker bush, or blade of bent grass that might hint at escape, any shred of possibility Robb had gotten out alive. Something to recoup amidst the evening carnage.

  Something to offset the loose ends. Shoot a killer, lose the body. Get abducted, lose a brother. It seemed she’d made a career—a life—out of losing things.

  The only tracks she’d found ran between Robb’s ruined Zodiac and the front of the place. Or what used to be. The porch faced the dike road and had been fully visible until its sagging roof fell in on the steps. No one could have come out that way.

  She watched now as the house collapsed inward, sending beehives of orange-white sparks swirling into the darkness. Bones might survive such intense heat. Teeth. A crucifix. Once the wreckage cooled and the sifting started. Still, she couldn’t let herself believe the house, or Bannock, or both, had claimed Robb. Nor set aside her qualms about him. Whether he would have ignored Rose’s warning, had he received it. Would have sought Delia out and turned himself in. Acted like a brother. No matter who he was.

  She toed an ember, mashing it into dead ash. What had somebody once said about family being more than blood? “It’s the people in your life who want you in theirs.” But they hadn’t said how to keep them in your life.

 
Delia bit back tears while wiping away the leakage from her bandaged ear. Robb had needed a sister. And she needed—

  “Where do I put this?”

  She spun around, drying her eyes with the heel of her hands. “Jerzy, Jesus. You okay?” she asked, reminding herself she hadn’t lost everything, covering for the pang of guilt she felt for not thinking about him.

  “Looks like I missed all the action,” he said, showing her a scoped deer rifle. “This was leaning against a monster oak, but I never found our local rent-a-sniper.”

  “I did.”

  A procession of colored lights winked along the dike road.

  It started to rain.

  Epilogue

  WELLS LANDING ROAD

  THREE WEEKS AFTER WATERFOWL SEASON

  Sitting in the parked Camaro and reinstated, Detective Delia Chavez glanced at her watch. It had been fifteen minutes since she’d called Zack, two hours since the orchardist’s find. Charlie’s brother deserved at least some closure. She rolled down the passenger’s side window and glassed the site where the three ME crew members in yellow slickers crouched around a darkish lump lodged against the trunk of a cherry tree. Like her, they’d booted up and slogged out there through parts of the orchard still inundated by the Willamette River.

  That’s the way it had gone. In the month since the Gatlin house had gotten blown up, burned down, then scoured out by impossibly high water, she must have driven every back road along the river, hoping to tie up at least one loose end. What had kept her from making the find on her own? River water, of course. Miles of it. She couldn’t count the number of times a roadway had ended abruptly, diving into a temporary lake.

  So what had happened? A farmer checking for tree damage had skirted the receding water in his ATV and stumbled across the leavings of the worst flood in years. Yet another fluke in the global-warming hoax.

  Hearing the mellow grumble of dual exhausts, she lowered her glasses. Zack’s perfectly restored, pearlescent red pickup rolled to a stop across the road, reminding Delia she still had to talk Big Juan into another fix-up on Enrique’s Camaro.

  She motioned Zack toward the passenger side and he got in, a set of papers in his hand.