Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  “Do you think the count was the one who broke into Charley Lee’s room in an attempt to find it?”

  “No, I don’t think he’s up for those kinds of clandestine operations.”

  “Tonight’s adventures notwithstanding?” She chuckled. “Well, if he was, he’s not going to be up for them anymore.”

  “I think we discovered his hiding place, and he was desperate.”

  “Okay. So, Serge? And if so, then who killed him?”

  “Good question.”

  “And if Serge found the painting where or with whom did it go?”

  “Another good question.”

  “You’re thinking the mystery person in the Suburban might be the key to all this?”

  I turned the corner at Fort Street as I glanced at our parking spots. “Whose Chevy half-ton is that?”

  “I’d imagine it’s Barrett Long’s.”

  “I keep forgetting I hired that kid.” Reaching down, I pulled the mic and keyed it. “Base, this is unit one.”

  Static. “Base.”

  “You’re awake.”

  Static. “I figured that was a part of the job too. By the way, it’s Saturday.”

  “Got it.”

  Static. “And coming up on two a.m.”

  “Thank you.”

  Static. “Something else?”

  “Anything coming in on that APB on the Suburban?”

  Static. “They pulled one over on I-25, but it didn’t have any bullet holes, so they let it go.”

  “Roger that.”

  Static. “When do I get to shoot things?”

  “If you hear anything on the radio, patch it through to me.”

  Static. “Roger that.”

  I hung the mic back up and glanced at Vic. “Where could they have gone?”

  “Anywhere. Just because nobody saw them doesn’t mean they’re not here. What’ve we got, two highway patrolmen out with another two deputies from Sheridan County and maybe two city cops? Sounds easy to evade to me.”

  “I guess.”

  Heading out of town, I looked up at the Bighorn Mountains, where the moon cast a pale light on the high country above the tree line. I thought about the soldiers who had been stationed in this part of the world all those years ago—I imagined they felt as if they’d been deserted.

  I reached the turnoff at the Fort and drove down the rolling entryway up to the administration building where no lights shone. After making the next turn, I stopped before heading for the parking lot.

  Vic glanced at the side of my face as we sat there. “Something?”

  Slipping the truck into reverse, I backed up until we could see around the south wing of the redbrick building and the rear end of a silver Suburban on the next street over.

  “Holy shit.”

  Turning off my lights, we moved slowly in reverse around the administration building and then stopped about forty feet away, studying the shattered back window and the two bullet holes about two inches apart in the sheet metal of the rear door. “Nice grouping.”

  She drew her sidearm as I shut off my truck. “Thanks.”

  Directing my spotlight on the vehicle, I flipped the switch and lit it up as we carefully got out, me drawing my weapon and trailing out to the driver’s side with the barrel pointed toward the cab. From all appearances, the SUV was empty, but you never knew until you knew.

  Keeping a peripheral on the alleyway, I noticed the historic buildings to the left of the main structure, glowing in the pale moonlight.

  Vic moved up on the passenger side, her weapon trained on the open window. Stopping at the pillar, she re-aimed and then drew her Maglite from her belt and flipped the thing up, shining the beam into the floorboards on the other side. “Lot of blood. Hell, maybe I did clip something other than his toe.” She traced the beam over the seat, but there were no other stains. “Nope, it’s all from the toe . . . Jesus, good thing Lori’s got those WeatherTech floor mats with the blood wells.” She glanced up at me. “He’s bound to be passed out around here somewhere.”

  I reached in, took the keys from the ignition, and stuffed them into my pocket—no sense in letting Lori get her SUV stolen twice.

  Vic had slipped the beam to the street and then had carefully started forward. As she studied the ground, I switched back and forth between the buildings, providing cover in case there was something up ahead. “More blood?”

  “Yeah, he went this way.”

  She moved, and I followed, sometimes turning and glancing behind us.

  I could see her standing by an open door, which looked like an employee entrance with a ramp, glass booth, lockers, and time clocks. When I got there, I could see the blood marks on the concrete where the count must’ve slipped and fallen. “How is he still moving?”

  Vic shook her head and pushed open the door. “Maybe he’s got help.”

  We crept up the ramp to the glass security booth, which was empty, then pushed open another door and entered the hallway of the silent building. There was no mistaking the direction that he had gone. We followed the trail, took the ramp down to the library where I’d last confronted the rolling Wavers, then went through the event room toward the stairwell where a sound there kept repeating itself.

  The blood didn’t go up the steps but rather went around into another part of the building with tile floors. The sound was getting louder, and I finally decided that it sounded like an elevator door, opening and closing.

  Vic had turned the corner. She stood there for a moment, staring.

  “What?”

  Leading with the Glock, she moved forward, and I could see Count Philippe von Lehman’s leg sticking out of the elevator, the door opening and closing on it.

  The toe was pretty well missing, and another pool of blood surrounded his saturated slipper, or what remained of it. “Nobody’s stitching that thing back together.”

  I stepped into the elevator and hit the lock button to stop the doors from operating and then kneeled down, relieved to find the count still breathing.

  “He alive?”

  “Barely.” Pressing a few fingers onto his cold neck, I felt his weakening pulse. “He’s in shock, and he’s going to need attention, or we’ll lose him.”

  She crouched down beside me. “We need help.”

  “Yep.” I stood and pulled the FIRE EMERGENCY toggle in the elevator—and that’s when all hell broke loose.

  * * *

  —

  The elevator alarm was still going off as I continued up the steps to where Magic Mike’s impromptu suite of rooms looked out over the parking lot. Vic had begrudgingly stayed to help with the count as Carol Williams arrived with a gurney and two attendants.

  Making it to the second floor, I poked my head around the corner and could see that the door to Bursaw’s room hung open, along with some of the others, the occupants standing in their doorways looking up and down the hallway trying to figure out what was going on.

  Staying against the wall, I shouted to the residents. “Get the heck out of this building!”

  The nearest man in pajamas rubbed his eyes and stared at me. “Is there a fire or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “What’s the gun for?”

  “Shooting things, including you if you don’t get a move on.” I gestured toward the stairwell. “You guys have a fire drill procedure?”

  Smoothing the small amount of hair he had on his head, he nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Then follow it and get out of here.”

  He harrumphed, “This used to be a nice place to live.”

  I studied all the residents but didn’t see Magic Mike in the crowd. Shouting to be heard above the din, I addressed the entire hallway. “We’ve got an emergency, and the elevator isn’t operating, so if you would, please use the stairwe
ll and evacuate the building!”

  Moving as fast as they could—which, in actuality, wasn’t that fast—they grumbled but followed orders, decades-old military training kicking in. Fortunately, this wing wasn’t as crowded as some of the others, and I was just as glad to be in there all but alone.

  Bursaw’s door still hung open exactly as it had when I’d first seen it, and I moved forward, my weapon leading the way. The door was undamaged, and the safety chain, gently tapping at the wood as I edged the door open, hung from the frame.

  The room looked as it had a few days ago, even the turntable continued to spin, skipping on Grace Slick singing the lyric feed your head over and over again. The lights had been left on, and a still steaming mug sat on a side table. “Mike?” I immediately felt foolish calling out to a deaf-mute—never mind that even if he could hear anything, he wouldn’t have with all the noise from the emergency alarm.

  Moving farther in, I could see that the only other part of the room past the hole in the wall was through a beaded curtain where there was a kitchenette in what must’ve at one time been a walk-in closet. There wasn’t anywhere to hide, especially for someone as flamboyant as Magic Mike.

  Starting back for the door, I felt a slight breeze and looked over to see that a speaker had fallen out of the decal-covered window and was lying flat-faced on the balcony outside, the sound vibrating against the tarred surface.

  I lifted the needle from the Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit.” “Take a break, Grace.”

  Carefully easing my head out the window, I looked both ways to make sure the entire balcony was empty, then climbed out and glanced down at the parking area where a crowd was assembling and Vic was escorting the gurney to a waiting ambulance.

  I thought about calling down to her, but her hearing me over the Klaxon alarm and all the people was slim. There was a metal ladder attached to the side of the building, so I moved that way, placed a foot on a rung, and hauled myself to the top roof.

  The entire surface was pale from some kind of weatherproofing and glowed in the moonlight like a vertical, gold-plated trampoline. I was relieved to see railings at the ends of the overhangs, and that there looked to be a walkway leading to the higher level above the balcony—at least if I fell from there, I’d only land a third of the way to the pavement.

  There was a noise to my right, beyond the top of the roof. I carefully climbed up and peeked over but still couldn’t see anyone. The roof dropped off on my right and stretched toward the older buildings and an area that used to be the parade ground.

  There was the noise again, as if someone were crying out.

  Straddling the peak, I crab-walked to the right and was faced with another down slope that went the remainder of the old building before dropping off to a flat roof that ran the expanse of the rest of the structure, including a narrow part that led to another building to the west near what looked like a garage and the historical buildings. I felt like some Bighorn Batman as I stood there listening, but there were no more noises.

  Figuring there really wasn’t anywhere else to go, I took a step, not one of my best decisions, and watched as my boot slipped out from under me, and I sprawled to the left before toppling over the edge. I slid headfirst on my back, but stretched out my arms and legs in hopes of getting enough traction on the weatherproofing so that I wouldn’t slip over the eaves onto the secondary roof below. The ploy worked, but now I was spread-eagled about halfway down the slope, a tenuous thread of friction holding me in place for the moment.

  “Well, hell.”

  I stayed like that, looking at the next drop, before edging down about four inches, this time not coming to a complete stop but instead continuing to slide at about ten inches an hour.

  “Damn.”

  Placing the back of my hand on the surface of the material, I slowed and squelched to a stop.

  “Having fun?” With the heightened level of East-Coast sarcasm, I didn’t have to look to tell who was addressing me. “This is an interesting perspective.”

  “Thanks.” I raised my head ever so slowly and felt my hat slip off and slide away; I could see Vic standing at the peak of the roof with her Glock hanging at her side as she considered the material that covered the surface and subsequently, my situation. “This shit is slick.”

  Trying not to move, I called back. “Yep.”

  She glanced around. “Why the hell would you use this stuff on a roof?”

  “Believe it or not, I was just asking myself the same question.”

  “I saw you climbing the ladder outside the balcony to Magic Mike’s room and figured you must be up here somewhere.”

  “You don’t happen to have a rope or tow strap on you, do you?”

  “No. Of course, if I had my new truck, I’d have plenty of room . . .”

  “Shut up about the new truck, will you?”

  “My, aren’t we cranky.”

  I very slowly started to move but felt a tiny squelch and began sliding again. “Any idea how far I’m about to fall?”

  “Maybe about twelve feet down to the next level—I’d try and get turned around—backward, headfirst landings don’t usually end well.”

  As I tried to turn, I gained a little speed. “Thanks for the help.”

  “No problem.”

  I’d gotten about halfway around when I reached the edge and tumbled off, grabbing at the gutter with one hand. I watched as it jerked itself loose from the eaves, the ten-inch nails pulling from the old wood like stitches being ripped from a hem.

  “Well, hell.”

  Still holding on to the gutter, which in no way was designed to hold my weight, I landed on my feet, sort of. One ankle gave way, and I rolled on it, causing me to fall down a set of three steps that led to a doorway before landing on my back and staring up at the sky and at Vic, who was backlit by the outrageous stars—or maybe those were the ones in my head.

  “You all right?”

  Taking a moment to catch my breath, I exhaled until I was sure my lungs were going to collapse before breathing in like a bellows and then coughing out the words, “Great, really wonderful, thanks.”

  “I think I’m going to try another way.”

  Releasing the gutter and struggling up, I coughed some more. “I can’t say that I blame you.”

  “Did you get a look at whoever we’re supposedly chasing?”

  Rolling onto my knees, I stood rather slowly, discovering that my right ankle didn’t really like me anymore. “No, but I’m pretty sure it’s somebody that’s got Magic Mike because he knows where the painting is.”

  “Why would they be on the roof?”

  “Because we broke up whatever they were doing, and they crawled out the window to get away.”

  “So, you don’t think the painting is there?”

  I picked up my hat and took a step, finding that my ankle, though unhappy with me, would carry some weight. “No.”

  “I’m headed back down. I’ll circle around and meet you at the west end of the building, since if they’re up here, that’s where they’re headed.”

  “You know, I’m starting to think this manhunt crap is highly overrated.” Waving a hand at her in dismissal, I limped forward. “I’ll drive them your way.”

  She disappeared, and I started off toward a structure that housed the elevator, the shaft having a skylight at the top. There was a large cottonwood to my left that blocked off the view of the building in that direction, but I figured I’d be able to see a good deal once I got to it. It took forever to get there on my weak ankle. There were no other lower roofs that I could access, so I supposed I was going to have to look for hatches or stairwells that led down.

  There was a door leading into the shaft with the skylight, but it was locked, so unless the assailant had a key, this was a no go.

  Glancing around some more, I could see another
roof over what must’ve been an entryway for the building to my left. Limping off in that direction, I could’ve sworn I heard more noises and picked up the pace as best I could.

  By the time I got there, I could definitely hear voices below me. I stepped to the edge and yelled down, figuring my voice would cover ground faster than I could. “Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department, halt!”

  There were more noises, but they weren’t sticking around.

  “I said halt!”

  Predictably, there was nothing.

  Grumbling, I limped over to the edge and looked down at about a six-foot drop to the next roof.

  Sighing, I holstered my Colt and sat. Then rolling onto my stomach, I draped my legs over the precipice and edged down. I dropped, trying to keep my weight on my good ankle.

  It worked, and I stood there finally looking at the ground, which I figured was about ten feet down—who the hell was I chasing, the Flying Wallendas?

  One of the limbs from the cottonwood stuck out past the corner of the entryway roof, so I limped over there, reached out, and tested the weight. It was sturdy, and if it held me it would be easy enough to climb down on the other limbs and gently lower my damaged ankle to the sidewalk.

  Grabbing hold, I swung out and got my boots on the next one down, edging closer to the trunk and then lowering myself to another branch and then another until I was on the lowest one, which was five feet or so above the ground.

  Again, I tried to get my weight on my left ankle, but the dirt was uneven, and my right hit first. I crumpled and just lay there trying not to yell.

  Finally sitting up, I carefully stood and started limping toward the corner of the building where the noises had last come from and where the sidewalk ended. There was another building and a parking lot across the street, and I was about to turn the corner when somebody came from the other side and I pressed my .45 into his face.

  “Jesus!”

  Pulling back, I realized it was just one of the watchmen. “What’s your name?”

  “Gene Weller! It’s me, Gene Weller, Sheriff.”

  Lowering my weapon, I looked past him. “Hi Gene, how are you?”