The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  “I know breaking laws isn’t that a big a deal to guys like you, but I’d rather keep my lily-white ass out of prison if I can help it.”

  Not wanting to comment on Rothman’s ass, or what would happen to it if he were incarcerated, Baxter continued to stare, his features hard, his appetite long past.

  “There is movement,” he managed, shoving the words out through gritted teeth. “Enough that a change in status by the end of the week isn’t out of the question.”

  “End of the week,” Rothman repeated, the previous hostility seeping out of his voice. “Well, it is about damn time.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Some would call it shock. Others, detachment. More still might even go as far as to call it some form of euphoria.

  Whatever it was that had gripped Talula Davis in the moments after the encounter on the roadway, it was now gone. In its place was an elixir of emotions, a potent combination of things pointed in a handful of directions, all aching to be unleashed.

  Anger at the three young men in the yellow pickup truck. Three bastards from a different state, people she had never even laid eyes on, let alone met, that had purposely aimed the front of their rig at hers and tried to end her life.

  Had taken it a step further, opening fire, when that hadn’t worked.

  Confusion at Tim Scarberry, his sudden arrival and disappearance both leaving her a bit off-balance. The fantastical tale he wove in the middle sounding like the stuff of a mediocre novel, something that she still couldn’t tell if was more fiction or fact.

  Likely wouldn’t be able to unravel for some time yet.

  Frustration with herself, both for allowing Scarberry’s arrival to cloud her thoughts and actions a bit, for not stopping him as he stepped out of her truck and disappeared into the woods.

  Embarrassment pointed in the same direction at the way she had locked up in the wake of it, so much unfiltered adrenaline pouring into her system so as to render her almost unable to move, everything tingling with sensation, as if the slightest touch might set her skin to fire.

  More than anything though, sitting in the same chair she’d been in a day before, staring at the glowing red face of Sheriff Charbonneau, she felt animosity.

  Hostility.

  Hatred.

  For everything that had happened in the last couple of days, even more for all she’d been through in the preceding two years.

  And for the name Baxter that seemed to be attached to every last bit of it.

  “I mean, shit!” Charbonneau said, standing and pacing behind his desk. “Do you know what our operating budget is around here each year? Any idea what it costs to get a new vehicle requisitioned from the state?”

  Every word was purposefully stated loud enough so Tanner and Adams could both hear outside, along with anybody else that might be in the building.

  Or the parking lot.

  Or possibly even the mini-mart down the street.

  Twisting her body in her seat, Davis cast a glance down to the faint smears of dried blood still crusted along the back of her hand, the smudges surviving her earlier trip to the restroom to clean herself.

  Given the circumstances, she couldn’t help but wonder if she should have left it in place.

  Perhaps that would have made Charbonneau take at least a small bit of pause.

  “What a day,” Charbonneau said, a slight chuckle in his voice. Raising his hands to his head, he threaded his fingers up through his hair, lacing them over the crown, random tufts sticking up through the intersections.

  A foot lower, enormous spots of armpit perspiration were evident in his tan uniform shirt.

  “I mean, it starts with somebody making an anonymous tip to the media and ends with somebody letting our only suspect thus far just hop out of their vehicle and walk away.”

  The insinuation made, the emphasis put on each word, the combination of Charbonneau putting every mishap on her yet somehow giving the illusion that they were all working together was not lost on Davis.

  Sitting in the chair, she became vaguely aware of him continuing to move, his bulbous frame a blur of color marching to and fro on the periphery of her vision.

  She could hear his words droning on, the inflections and cadences used the same ones she had been hearing for more than twenty-three months, so ingrained at this point she could almost give the lecture herself.

  At least, the version he would be giving if he were left to speak his true feelings.

  She was at fault.

  She was a bad deputy.

  Her being hired was a result of affirmative action and someone owing her father a favor and nothing more.

  Fixing her gaze on the desktop before her, her vision steeled, her mind going back to earlier in the day. Time after time she played it through her mind, remembering every bit of how things went, from the way she sensed someone inside the cabin and circled around on Scarberry to how she had spotted the truck and managed to surge ahead before being run over.

  Little by little, she pieced them into one large grid, like the misshapen tiles of a Tetris square, all coming together to form a solid image.

  She was not a bad deputy.

  She had not messed up.

  She was not about to sit and take this shit, not and leave Tim Scarberry out there alone to try and track down whoever it was that attempted to kill them.

  And damn sure not about to let the Baxters get away with even one more wrong.

  “What were you thinking?” Charbonneau asked, Davis’s eyes focusing on him anew, seeing the exaggerated look on his face as he stared at the wall before him, knee-deep in his monologue. “I mean, were you even thinking?”

  It was too much.

  “Yes,” Davis snapped, her voice stopping him cold, both his words and pacing coming to a halt as he turned to look at her.

  With his jaw sagging slightly, he turned to regard her, a look of disbelief on his face.

  “What?”

  “Yes,” Davis said. “You asked me if I was thinking, and the answer is yes, I was.”

  Rolling her face up to look at him squarely, she said, “I was thinking that not too long ago, three armed rednecks try to kill me. I was thinking that when I tried to call in for backup, the fat ass running the dispatch desk was too busy stuffing his face to even take my call, let alone send help.”

  Across from her, Charbonneau’s eyes bulged.

  She paid him no mind.

  “I was thinking that it’s bullshit I even have this case, this the sort of thing that should have been farmed out to detectives from the big city, but nobody around here wanted to make that call because it might look bad, like they couldn’t get the job done.

  “Heaven forbid they actually do it themselves, though, in case things don’t work out. Need to maintain that plausible deniability.”

  Shifting to face her, Charbonneau’s face grew two shades darker, raising a finger to point her direction.

  Matching his stance, Davis pushed herself up to a standing position, leaning forward over the edge of the desk.

  “And I was thinking that when the shit went down and bullets started flying, the suspect you claim I was so stupid to let walk away was the only one that had my back.”

  Shifting, she gazed out toward the bullpen behind her, finding Tanner and Adams both staring, mouths agape, just as she’d imagined they would be.

  “First damn time in two years that’s happened.”

  Turning back one last time, she looked at Charbonneau, at the expression on his face, at the blood collected beneath his cheeks, like a tick ready to burst.

  “And right now I’m thinking I’ve got a damn murderer to catch and three attempted murderers to run down, and I don’t have time for this shit.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The walk from the wreckage of Lou’s truck took almost an hour, starting with a run and slowly losing steam. Wanting to put as much space between us as possible, I had crossed over the short expanse of open grass and into the woo
ds, working my way along the bank.

  After that, it was that same feeling as early in the morning, running the trails I had grown up on, muscle memory hurtling me forward.

  Setting a heady pace, I went until the dust of the forest and the sweat from my scalp burned my eyes and throat before slowing, covering the last mile or two back in around twenty minutes.

  Nearly all of that I spent with the grip of the Beretta never more than six inches from my hand.

  How Baxter’s team had known when I arrived, there was no way to be certain. Conventional wisdom dictated that they must have had some form of surveillance in place, and anyone there in person would have made a move on me the instant I appeared.

  Showing up alone under cover of darkness, there would be no better chance.

  That meant the more likely truth was that they had electronic oversight in place, starting to move the second I appeared, but being thwarted by the media and Lou’s combined arrivals.

  It also meant that their willingness to come after us while parked along the side of the road, in a clearly marked Sheriff’s Department vehicle, was a mark of desperation.

  What had put it there, I couldn’t be certain, but finding the answer to that question was next on my to-do list.

  Coming up on the motel from the opposite direction as that morning, I overshot the place by a few hundred yards, retrieving my other duffel from its hiding place along the path.

  Returning to the Charger a few minutes later, I found it untouched, one of a random assortment of vehicles still strewn throughout the parking lot. With sweat streaming off me in random rivulets, I opened both front doors, letting some of the bottled heat inside sift out, before sliding down into the passenger seat, my wet skin slipping over the warm leather without opposition.

  Leaving the Beretta buried under my front thigh, I cocked my body so I had a view of the rest of the lot, my foot perched on the edge of the frame, ready to push forward in an instant if need be.

  On the opposite thigh I balanced the laptop, tapping back into the motel’s wireless network and going to work.

  Moving straight to Google, I ran a quick search for Eric Baxter, a list of entries several hundred thousand in length popping up instantly. Scrolling through them, I found most to be dated years before, rehashing everything I already knew far better than I ever wanted to.

  In a couple of places there was even mention of the mystery assailant and witness, though nowhere did my name ever surface.

  Apparently, WITSEC could do some things better than I had given them credit for.

  Finding nothing of use, I returned out to the basic search engine page, staring at the blinking cursor before me.

  Nearby, a pair of construction workers in dirty jeans and neon shirts shuffled toward the motel, appearing to have just gotten off work for the day, returning to another low-rent dive their company was putting them up in. Neither so much as looked my way, locked in an animated discussion about the Atlanta Braves.

  As if a more boring topic of conversation had ever been hatched.

  Returning to the computer, I sat and thought a moment, drawing in deep breaths, slowing my thinking.

  Vic was the one in charge, but this had to be about Eric. Six years had passed, and it seemed unlikely that this exact moment just happened to be the one where they finally unearthed Uncle Jep to get to me.

  There must have been some reason they wanted me back, had made a run at me within minutes of showing my face in public.

  Just wanting revenge wasn’t strong enough. Their actions reeked of something distressed, as if a clock was hanging over their head.

  Blinking twice, a thought occurred to me, pulling me back to the screen. Entering my query, I scrolled past the first couple of entries in the response before finding what I was looking for and clicking on it.

  With each word I read, I could feel my insides growing tighter. Venom boiled up, everything from the death of Uncle Jep to the attempted murder of Lou and I coming alongside it.

  I knew why they had chosen that moment to make a move, to try and pull me out of hiding.

  In cases of attempted murder, an inmate with good behavior became eligible for parole after six years.

  Most of the time, initial requests were denied, unless something fundamentally altered the original facts of the case.

  Something like the only material witness in the matter suddenly disappearing.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  There was at least a fifty-degree difference between their previous two locales, a shift felt the instant the plane rolled to a stop and the automated door began its slow descent. With each inch it rolled down, more hot air wormed its way into the cabin, raising the temperature precipitously.

  Combined with the anxiety, the adrenaline, that each person crammed into the cabin was already feeling, it made the interior feel like a pressure cooker.

  On the ground no more than a minute, Deputy Marshal Abby Lipski peeled away the suit jacket she was wearing. Leaving it lying on the seat, she was the first to climb out, the leather straps of her shoulder holster in one hand, a Kevlar vest in the other.

  Having spent the vast majority of her life in Oregon, never had she had any occasion to come to the South, though she’d heard enough stories about NRA rallies and people with extreme affinities for weapons to know not to step outside without either.

  Or to bring anything bearing the emblem of a federal agency if she could help it.

  Stepping down off the ladder, she felt the heat rising up off the asphalt of the tarmac, passing through the soles of her shoes, rising along the inseam of her pant legs. Moisture appeared instantly on her brow and the small of her back, easily the warmest weather she’d experienced since a family trip to Kauai the year before.

  An outing with a much different crowd under much different circumstances. The sort of place she never wanted to leave.

  This one, she just wanted to accomplish what they set out to and get back, not spending one second longer on the ground than necessary.

  Having a feeling that exact sentiment was etched across her face, she forced something resembling a smile onto her features. Extending a hand before her, she walked straight to the young man waiting beside a single black SUV, both the person and the vehicle a near copy of what they’d left behind in Bangor hours earlier.

  “Deputy Marshal Lipski,” the man said, squeezing her hand harder than necessary, his forehead glistening with sweat, the lower part of his face largely hidden behind dark sunglasses. “Marshal Aaron Colvin, Knoxville field office.”

  “Thank you for helping us under such short notice,” Lipski replied, releasing the grip and wiping her palm against the side of her leg, brushing away the sweat from his shake. Turning, she gestured to the same two-person team that had escorted her in Maine. “These are Marshals Burrows and Marlucci, also from the Portland field office.”

  Nodding to each of them, Colvin looked to the plane. “Are they the only ones joining us today?”

  “They are,” Lipski said. “The others will remain here on standby in case we need them.”

  Pausing, his mouth poised open as if he might say something, Colvin stared at the plane a moment before bringing his hands together before him, his palms making a small clapping sound.

  “Okay. Would one of you like to drive or should I?”

  Knowing that none of the three had ever been to Tennessee, let alone the remote corner of it they would soon be headed to, Lipski replied, “You, please.”

  Without waiting for further comment, all four piled inside, Lipski taking shotgun, her two marshals seated in the rear.

  The last hour of the flight had been spent in a huddle with everybody onboard the aircraft, an information dump of everything that had been gathered in the prior two hours.

  Which was to say, not a whole lot.

  It was determined rather quickly that the phone number that was used in Maine was nothing more than a false front, the sort of thing that basic technology could do
with just a few keystrokes. Working backward from there, they were able to trace the signal through two routing stations – one in San Antonio, the other in Seattle – before bringing it to a cell phone with a local area code.

  From there, a quick look through the billing history saw it was registered to a man named Simon Kentworth, someone that was last seen in the seventies, a casualty of the Vietnam War.

  Same for the billing address attached, it also being a fake, a trip through Google Earth displaying the supposed stop to be nothing more than a field filled with soybeans already yellowing, wilted by the early summer sun.

  Why nobody had thought to dig into this years ago when Scarberry first entered the system, Lipski had not the slightest clue. At that point, she was merely a marshal assigned to the team, not ascending to the top spot for more than two years thereafter.

  Even at that, she was fighting a losing battle to keep from beating herself up over it, most of the debriefing period on the plane spent with her pacing the length of the aisle, wishing so badly she had something to punch.

  Like, for instance, Tim Scarberry.

  The thought of how many other things she had let slide since taking her new post was one she didn’t especially want to ponder, knowing only that once she returned to Portland, there would be a couple of unpleasant weeks ahead for her and her team.

  But before that, she needed to make sure to finish things where she was at.

  Positioning himself behind the wheel, Colvin reached out and adjusted the temperature control before raising his hand to the GPS unit mounted to the dash.

  “Where to?” he asked, his tone as casual as if he were an Uber driver picking up a group of coworkers after a lunch meeting.

  A sound that grated on Lipski’s nerves almost as much as the fact that he was still wearing his sunglasses inside the SUV.

  “Monroe County,” Lipski replied.

  In her periphery, she could see Colvin turn to face her, his expression still hidden behind the mirrored frames.