by James Phelan
“Well?” the deputy asked, looking directly at Walker. His name tag read “Chester.”
“Old Pelts Road,” Walker said.
The cop watched him. Waited.
Walker waited.
The deputy behind had stopped sorting through newspapers and joined his colleague.
“What about it?” Chester asked. He had red hair, thick and curly, the kind that could only be inherited and never really bred out. He was tall and lanky, with freckled pale skin.
“I’m looking for it,” Walker said. “Can’t see it on a map. I heard it’s out north, past here someplace. Can you tell me how to get there?”
The deputy looked to the other.
This guy was short, with square shoulders and a barrel chest; ten years older, the kind of cop who would have been the watch sergeant in a big city. His name was Jones.
“Nothin’ out there,” the senior deputy, Jones, said. “Mud track, serious drivin’. Used by Land Management only.”
“It’s a government road?” Walker asked.
“They’re all government roads,” Jones replied. He held Walker’s gaze, not bothering to look at Squeaker.
“Okay,” Walker said evenly. “How do I get to it?”
“What for?” Jones asked.
“Sightseeing,” Walker replied.
“There’s nothing there.”
“You said that.”
Jones was silent. Walker too. Just the hum of the fan heater behind the counter. The cops were in shirt sleeves. Walker was in his jacket, unzipped, and he was hot. He wanted to shrug it off, but he knew that moving in that way might antagonize the situation. Whatever the situation was. Small-town lawmen were a dangerous bunch: as unpredictable and easy to offend as the TSA at airports.
“Look, guys,” Walker said, “I’m just asking for some directions here.”
Chester put his hands on his hips, on the top of his gun belt. He looked at Jones.
Jones looked like he was weighing up what to say, maybe even trying to dig out directions from the recesses of his brain. But he didn’t get there. He didn’t have to.
Because then a door opened to Walker’s left. And the Sheriff came out of his office. And he looked pissed.
35
“We’re good people, right?” Hutchinson said as they headed back toward the airport.
“Better than most,” Somerville replied as she drove. “Fighting the good fight and all that.”
“Right. So why is it like this?”
“Like this?”
“We’re getting nowhere.”
“Aw,” Somerville chided him. “You wanna play in the sandbox with terrorists and Special Ops and you want, what—people to roll over like petty crooks doing a bit of financial crime?”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean the Navy. Can’t they see what’s going on? I mean, McCorkell’s got the Vice President in his pocket on this—so why isn’t the Secretary of the Navy or the Joint Chief making some calls on our behalf?”
Somerville looked at him. “Bureaucracy at work.”
“Glad to see 9/11 brought us all closer together is all I’m sayin’.” Hutchinson fell silent, watching the world pass by.
“Relax,” Somerville said. “Right now Walker’s probably got to Murphy and figured all this out. Hell, they’ve probably trussed up a bunch of terrorists and are now in some Navy bar getting free beers while they tell their tale.”
•
The Sheriff paused when he saw Walker and Squeaker and his deputies all standing at the counter, as though surprised that someone was there or that any work might be being done that morning. Clearly, he’d been stuck in his own conversation, his own worries. Walker then saw a second man exit the Sheriff’s office.
A big guy. Huge. Bear of a man. Six-five, maybe 300 pounds, at least a hundred of it surplus fat in his stomach. The big guy headed for the door, red in the face, angry in his gait. He looked at Walker and Squeaker but it was a passing gaze on his way by, as though he had his own issues that were far bigger than a couple of strangers blowing through town.
The door to the station opened and slammed closed behind Walker, the big guy crunching off through the gravel car park out to the side.
The five of them stood there, accompanied by the whir of the fan heater. Jones shifted a little.
“What’s this?” the Sheriff asked.
“These two,” Jones said, breaking his gaze from Walker and turning to his boss. “They want to get to Old Pelts Road.”
The Sheriff looked at Squeaker, and then settled on Walker and said, “That right?”
“Yes, Sheriff,” Walker said.
“Nothing out there,” the Sheriff said.
“That’s what we hear,” Walker said. “Still, if it’s all the same, I’d like to drive through it.”
“Well,” the Sheriff said, walking over to the counter. He didn’t wear a name tag. The red flush of his face faded with every moment, as though this new business was calming next to whatever he’d just had to go through in his office with the bear. “Each to their own, my pa used to say. Skip, get the big map.”
“Right,” Chester said, going to the room labeled “Restricted.”
“And you two are?” the Sheriff asked.
“Walker,” he said, his hand out. “This is my niece, Susan. Thanks for your help.”
“Sheriff Lincoln,” he said, shaking Walker’s hand. “Old Pelts is only about fifteen miles up to the nor-east. It’s not maintained, and it runs to a dead end after, what, ten miles? What car you got?”
“Tahoe,” Walker said. “Jacked up, off-road tires.”
The Sheriff paused, then said, “That’d do it. Maybe. Winch?”
“Yep,” Walker said.
The Sheriff took the map from Chester and spread it on the counter. It was the size of a pool table, laminated and with numerous pinholes at the corners.
“Here,” the Sheriff said, putting a stubby finger on the map. “That’s us. Here’s Old Pelts Road—see that faint line?”
“Sure,” Walker said, tracing the route from town. North for about five miles, then east for three, then a series of left and right turns through what must be private roads before getting to it.
The Sheriff said, “It was a road, back in the twenties; the government put it there.”
“I hear,” Walker said, “that the government puts all our roads in.”
“Yeah, well, this one was superseded when this town here formed,” the Sheriff said, tapping a spot about halfway along the middle of nowhere some ten miles west of the start of Old Pelts Road. “They had a gold rush that lasted maybe four years. Towns emptied as quick as they started. Buildings taken down, rush moved on; towns go up, then they come down again.”
“America in action,” Squeaker said out of the side of her mouth to Walker, though loud enough for all to hear.
“What’s that?” the Sheriff asked.
“Nothin’.”
Walker said, “And the road just ends?”
“Yep. At this mountain pass,” the Sheriff said, looking back to Walker. “It was gonna be a tunnel, I think, taking the road right onto the northeast and linking up with the highway. But they never bothered once the old town died. So, Old Pelts Road just ends. One way in, one way out. Hell of a track.”
“Okay,” Walker said, taking a final glance at the map. “Thanks.”
The Sheriff nodded. “We got a problem, though,” he said.
Walker paused. “What’s that?”
“You can’t go there.”
36
Walker looked from Sheriff Lincoln’s face to the two deputies. All watched him.
“The road’s down; been that way near-on two days,” the Sheriff said. “We’ve had mudslides all month.”
“The rains,” Jones said.
“And too much logging,” Chester added.
Jones looked at his counterpart like he was providing too much information.
Walker asked, “Which road?”
“No other way?” Walker said.
“Unless you spend the day on back roads and go around the other side, about 400 miles all told.” Sheriff Lincoln shook his head. “And believe me, Mister . . .”
“Walker.”
“Walker, right. You’re the last of my concerns, you and your niece. I got thirty people out there, livin’ on plots and ranches now cut off from those roads. And I’ve got truckers and foresters and miners here in my town who can’t get to work or beyond. See? Problems. Up to it this high.”
Sheriff Lincoln made a show of putting his hand horizontal and at his neck.
Walker thought of the bear of a guy who’d left the Sheriff’s office a few minutes earlier. He had the look of a trucker or logger. He’d likely been telling the Sheriff that he was losing money hand over fist because that road was down. Maybe he and his trucking or logging company supported the Sheriff’s re-election. No wonder the Sheriff had been red-faced—he had problems stacking up and a town at bursting point with people complaining to him. That and then some.
“Tomorrow,” Walker said. “You know what time?”
“When it’s cleared, you’ll know,” Sheriff Lincoln said.
“How will we know?” Squeaker asked.
Sheriff Lincoln looked at her as though seeing her properly for the first time. “Half the guys in this town are waiting for it to be cleared, and they’re stuck here,” he said. “When you see the mass exodus, you’ll know it got cleared. Right? ’Sides, word spreads real fast hereabouts.”
“Right,” Walker said. “Thanks, Sheriff Lincoln. Deputies.”
Chester said, “Here to serve.”
“Like the president,” Walker said to the Sheriff. “Your name, I mean.”
Sheriff Lincoln paused. “Like the car.”
Walker nodded, looked to Squeaker, then back to the cops.
“We’ll find a place to stay the night.”
“Town’s all full up,” Jones said. “Half those guys stuck here are sleeping in their cabs.”
“We’ve only got three motels,” Chester added, his voice eager, as though he was adding something of use.
“We’ll figure it out, thanks,” Walker said, looking out the window to the heavy gray sky.
“Here,” the Sheriff said, leaning down on the counter and writing something. He passed over a slip of paper with a name and address scrawled on it. “She’s a good lady, she’ll put you up, give you breakfast too. You pay her, of course. Pensioner. War widow. It’ll be helping y’all out.”
•
“Got it,” Levine said, emerging from a trailer.
Woods was sitting on the hood of their Ford, flicking through his notebook, looking at a whole lot of nothing he’d got from the other neighbors over what felt like hours of standing on their porches, talking through flyscreen doors. “What’d that be?” he asked.
“North. Over the border, in Missouri,” Levine said, walking toward him. “Raytown, that’s where they’re headed.”
“How’s she know that?” Woods asked, nodding to the trailer.
“She heard them say it when they came back for the body.”
“Body?”
“Walker killed a guy here, soon after midnight. Self-defense. Knife through his brain, that nice lady told me.”
Woods looked over Levine’s shoulder to see the woman standing behind her screen door. Tall, stooped, as though her life had given her a body full of dull aches and pains.
Woods said, “Do you think the Sheriff knows that?”
“Probably, but no cops have been here to check things out. Just the guy’s co-workers, to pick him up, first light this morning.”
“Like that, hey?” Woods pocketed his notebook.
“Like that.”
“Who was the dead guy?” Woods asked, opening the passenger door as Levine went for the driver’s side.
“Muscle,” Levine said over the car’s roof.
“Who picked him up?”
“Guys that work for Barb Durrell.”
“Right—wait.” He flicked through his notes. “I’ve got a Black Tahoe 2013 model registered to a Gus Durrell, right here in town, one of only four such vehicles registered in a hundred-mile radius.”
“Then that’s our vehicle.”
“We go for Walker, though, right?”
“After. I want to talk to those guys first.”
Woods hesitated, then said, “We’ve got a trail that’s getting colder by the hour.”
“But those guys are now after Walker too,” Levine said, opening the driver’s door. “This is their turf, right? They’re going to be pissed, and they’re going to be chasing after Walker—so we can follow them. If they’re some organized crew running or manufacturing drugs, then they’ve got eyes and ears all over, right? Besides, it won’t take us an hour, you’ll see. We’ll make up time.”
Woods looked around the clearing, seeing it in a different light now: a murder scene. “A buck says they’ve got the local Sheriff’s department onside.”
“You’re probably right, so keep your dollar in your pocket.” Levine climbed inside, started up the Taurus and was reversing into a U-turn before Woods had fully closed his door. “And I want to know who they are and what their involvement is.”
“Do you want to get some back-up on this?” Woods asked as Levine put the car into drive. “State police?”
“What, you got your period?” Levine stomped on the gas and tore out of the clearing.
37
Walker pulled to the curb outside the little house of the war widow, Margaret. It was timber-clad, double-story, with wide verandas all around. Built when things were made to last. Painted the same dull gray as the sky. The garden was a neat clipped lawn but the flowerbeds and trees hadn’t seen much attention in years. The rusted roof needed replacing. The chain-link fence was on iron posts that could have been reclaimed civil war canons.
“Could have been here since the Civil War,” Walker said, getting out.
“Probably has been,” Squeaker said, standing on the damp easement out the front. “You sure you want to stay here?”
“Gotta stay someplace,” Walker said. “What, you don’t like houses, or little old ladies, or both?”
Squeaker hit him in the arm and climbed the brick steps.
The door creaked open as they approached.
Margaret stood in the doorway. Stooped and shrunken with age, she was smaller than Squeaker.
“So,” she said, “you’re the out-of-towners.”
“Sheriff rang you?” Walker said.
“Nope. Ain’t got a phone.”
“Right,” Walker said.
“Only people I get callin’ on my door is when the roads are down and the town’s all full up. Come on in. Board is twenty a night—that’s each.”
“Thank you. One night is all we need,” Walker said. He motioned for Squeaker to enter first.
Margaret stood at the door and waited for them both to pass, then closed it. She eyed them both, up close. Her eyes were cloudy.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Sq—Susan.”
“What’s that?”
“Susan.”
“Susan. Where you from, Little Rock?”
“Near there.”
“Thought so. Your accent says it.” Margaret turned to Walker. “East coast. Virginia maybe.”
“Philadelphia.”
“What’s that?” Margaret said, her hand to her ear.
“Philadelphia,” Walker said, louder.
“I’ve been there, when I was a teenager,” she said, walking down the hall with the aid of a cane. “You stand like a soldier.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Walker said, following the two women to t
he kitchen out back. The floorboards creaked under his weight. “Air Force.”
“Air Force?” she said, looking at him. “Hell, no soldiers in the Air Force. That’s my husband there.”
Walker looked to where she was pointing with an age-gnarled finger. The mantle over the fireplace beyond the small kitchen table held a framed photo of a strong-looking square-jawed man; it reminded Walker of so many photos he’d seen of his grandfather’s service in Germany.
“Airborne,” Walker said.
“Yes, that’s right,” Margaret said, putting an aluminum kettle on the gas stove and lighting it with a match. “He and my brother, both of them went. Neither came back.”
“Japan?”
“Okinawa.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Walker said.
“What’s your name?”
“Jed.”
“Ted?”
“Jed. As in Josiah.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“Family name.”
“Right. I’ll call you Mark. You look like Mark, my brother, rest his soul.”
Margaret went to a glass-fronted cupboard, removing some good china rather than the mugs that hung on hooks by the stove. Walker wondered if every guest got this treatment, or if it was just that he had the military connection.
“I’ll help you,” Squeaker said, taking the cups and saucers from her.
“Help?” Margaret said. “You can make it. Tea and coffee there. Milk and sugar there. I’ll show Mark to your room.”
Squeaker nearly lost it with laughter as Margaret started up the corridor and let out a loud fart.
“Hear that?” Margaret said, not pausing her slow shuffle up the hall. “Earthquake. Been getting them five times a day this year. Four times a day last year. Before that, near-on never, maybe once every couple of years.”
“What’s causing it?” Walker said.
Margaret stopped and turned. “Gas.”
Squeaker laughed.
Walker said, “Sorry?”
