I struggled up beside Dog. “Jeez . . .” I could feel the bile in my throat and choked back the nausea. My balance was still a little off, and I put a hand on the door of another rusted hulk, took a few more breaths, and got my voice back to a squeak. “What took you so long?”
He didn’t turn to look at me, but his head cocked as if I were calling to him from another world—I guess, in a way, I was. He raised his bloodied muzzle but kept his eyes on Sundance. “Good boy.” I breathed out a great sigh. “Good boy.”
He was bleeding from his jaw, and his ear looked torn, but he wouldn’t turn. I took a few more deep breaths and whispered the only word I could think of saying. “Stay.”
I swear he glanced up at me with the expression of “What the hell else do you think I’m going to do?” I smiled and kicked off after the only prey left, confident that Dog had my back.
My right hand was still inoperable; it didn’t hurt, but it wouldn’t work from the wrist down and only flopped when I rotated my arm. I checked the Colt to see that the breech was still pulled and the safety off, which it was.
In the distance I could hear a motor turning over, the starter grinding in the cold, running the battery down. I continued through the snow and could finally see the row of tow trucks, but I couldn’t tell which one was producing the noise.
I stepped from the row as one of the tow-truck engines caught and fogged a blackened exhaust onto the snow. It was the one closest, and I raised the .45 in my left hand. “Sheriff ’s Department, freeze!”
My voice might’ve carried to the end of my arm.
I cleared my throat and tried again. “Sheriff, freeze!”
Maybe two arms’ length.
I bellowed out with all I had as I staggered forward, the Colt leading the way. “Sheriff !”
I could see Gina, frantically trying to get the tow truck in gear with both hands, and then could hear the horrendous noise as the gears caught and the big vehicle leapt forward in granny—a good one mile an hour.
The Fords I remembered from that period had floor shifters like Arthur’s sword in a stone and, once you got them in the lower-case gears, they didn’t come out. The hubs were locked, and the heavily knobbed snow tires dug like the steel wheels of a locomotive.
We were now set for the slowest chase in high plains history.
Brandishing my sidearm in a highly dramatic fashion, I limped forward, only slightly faster than the approaching truck. “Gina, shut that thing down! Now!”
The truck continued to forge on toward me, the tow- lift cables swinging behind it in the falling snow. The grille guard on the front was homemade and consisted of four-inch pipe and steel grating, honeycombed across the front, with a large opening so that the hood could be raised.
I had limited ability with my left hand but figured I could hit the radiator, so I raised the barrel of the Colt and fired. The thing spewed a blast of steam and dribbled a sickly green onto the packed ice and snow, but it kept coming at me.
I could see Gina better now, and it looked as if she was intent on upping the stakes. Her hand came forward, and she pushed the pistol toward the glass.
“Gina, don’t! That .32 won’t—”
The double crack of the firing pistol and the bullet’s collision with the heavy glass sounded as one, and then I could hear the round, which was incapable of breaking the windshield, ripping through the cab. Undeterred, she fired again, spreading the spiderweb of breaking glass. This time the ricochet must’ve found Gina. She fell against the steering wheel, and the tow truck lurched in my direction.
“Oh, hell.”
I scrambled backward, started to slip, but then caught my balance as I tried to get next to the relative safety of the stacked cars. The Ford was bearing down and it occurred to me that as slow as the tow truck was, I was slower.
I made a calculated decision and changed direction—it wasn’t like the thing was going to kill me with speed. I tried to make it to one side, but I slipped again and had no choice but to climb onto the grille guard.
I hitched a leg up and rolled myself onto the hood as the truck slammed into the nearest stack of cars, moving them sideways for about four feet. I looked in the cab, but Gina was still slumped against the wheel.
I heard a groan of metal as the vehicle slowly moved the stack of cars clockwise, its wheels spinning on the packed snow like Mexican fireworks. Something caught my eye, and I looked up to see a Subaru sedan teetering at the top of the stack.
“You have got to be kidding.”
I threw myself to the left as the car slid a little toward me and then toppled over from twelve feet above, top down.
I slid completely into the open space between the hood and the grille guard as the Subaru crashed onto the tow truck like some giant samurai trying to stomp me to death. The majority of the car hit the cab of the Ford but then pivoted on its top and slid down toward me as I tried to make myself as svelte as possible in the space between the grille and the guard.
The Subaru slipped to the side and fell away as the tow truck continued on its merry path of destruction, driving us back in time down the aisle of cars through the nineties, the eighties and, finally, the seventies. Towers of cars kept falling, but the granny gear was bound and nonetheless determined.
We had to be approaching the sixties where Dog held Sundance at a stalemate, and I hoped that they’d have the common sense to run for their lives. All I could do was lie there behind the grille guard and hope it held up against whatever we ran into, which at the moment looked like a particularly solid stack of vehicles that included a defunct ice-cream truck, a Buick station wagon, and a powder blue International Scout.
I had plenty of time to contemplate the impending collision as the tow truck ground on, but the vehicle that arrested my thoughts was the Scout on top. There was something about that particular model of car.
And there was something else, something important. That was the way my mind had been working as of late; I’d think of something important but neglect to write it down, and then the only thing I could remember the next day was that it was, indeed, something important.
I looked up at the black sky and watched as the flakes of snow swirled and danced down out of it, but my eyes slipped to the faded, dry pigment of the Scout. The color reminded me of the summer sky, and I thought about the warmth of the sun’s cascading rays, about waves of grass stalks, and women in cotton dresses.
The Ford crashed into the stack of vehicles like a wrecking ball, bucking and kicking until the International slipped sideways from the top of the crushed station wagon. It fell onto the hood of the tow truck and the upper edge of the massive grille guard—powder blue, just as if the hoped-for summer sky were falling.
EPILOGUE
I had been trying to keep my head down for the last three days; not that I hadn’t had to do that before, being married once and having a lawyer for a daughter, but this was for medical purposes.
I had a round, donut-shaped pillow that I used to rest my face, which Ruby had acquired when she’d had a bout with hemorrhoids; this provided no end of levity for the staff of the Absaroka County Sheriff ’s Department.
“It seems appropriate; I mean, he is the biggest pain in the ass we have on duty.”
The eye doctor whom Andy Hall had sent me to in Billings had opted for the pneumatic retinopexy, during which an air bubble was injected into my eye that pushed the rip in my retina back so that a laser could seal the tear. Consequently, I had to stay in one or two positions for the next few weeks so that the air bubble continued to push the retina and wouldn’t cause cataracts or high pressure in my eye.
“Just what he needs is more hot air.”
They also said I wasn’t allowed to fly anywhere, which was the one thing I was thinking about, if for no other reason than to escape the grief I was getting. I had about six weeks of medical leave saved up, but I’d gotten bored at home after two days and had decided to come into the office and just rest my head on my desk a
nd try to assist Henry in getting my daughter’s wedding plans cemented.
“I don’t think most people have noticed any difference in your performance.”
I wasn’t supposed to, but I raised my head and looked at Vic. “You’re in a good mood.”
“I bought a house today.”
The Bear was studying me, but I ignored him. “Where?” “The one I was looking at, the one on Kisling.”
I lowered my head onto the pillow to further avoid Henry’s gaze, but it did little to avoid his voice. “I thought that one got sold.”
“The other buyer couldn’t get a mortgage, so the realtor called me, and I got it for the asking price. Then John Muecke at the bank called and financed it, so I didn’t even have to borrow the money.”
“Wow, imagine that.”
I knew that he was actually talking to me and, if he didn’t cut it out, I was going to be forced to throw my circular pillow at him. I cleared my throat and spoke into the surface of my desk as I reached down and petted Dog, who was sleeping on my boots. I changed the subject and not too gracefully. “So, did the ballistics on Gina’s gun match up with Ozzie?”
It was quiet. “Did you hear me? I said I just bought a house.”
“I did. Congratulations.”
There was a longer pause, and her voice changed. “Yeah, the .32 was a dead match, and so was the equestrian needle she used to kill Geo that we found in with her stuff. As near as we can figure, she changed the clock in Duane’s room to throw him off and even wore his boots out into the junkyard when she killed Geo. She must have worn the same boots when she killed Ozzie.”
I was going to be in trouble for changing the subject, but trouble was the better alternative to her finding out the truth. “Who’s transporting Gina?”
She continued talking in a strained tone of voice. “Me.”
“Don’t you need to get going?”
“I guess so.” Quiet again. “David Nickerson got her patched up. She’s milking it for all it’s worth, but in twenty minutes she’s headed for the more luxurious female facilities in Casper where she’ll await trial.” There was a rustling of papers. “I’ve got the faxes from San Quentin. The PO says that during Polk’s—”
Henry interrupted. “Are we calling him Polk or Poulson?”
“We’ll just call him Polk.” Vic sighed. “Polk’s only contact after he was in San Quentin was with his old buddies from the Aryan Brotherhood, who told him that they knew the whereabouts of his granddaughter. Of course, they knew that she was dead and had gotten Gina to be the substitute. She’s got a history with The Order, a motorcycle gang associated with the AB. If I was going to place a bet, I’d say that this was to be Felix’s blood in, blood out, and Gina was supposed to watch over the operation for the guys inside. Polk would be allowed to go into semiretirement as long as he kept providing product for the Brotherhood.”
The Bear folded his arms and covered half his face with a hand. “So they were not really related.”
“Nope.” Vic shifted in the chair by my desk. “Polk had a daughter, but she died of an apparent suicide two years before he got out, and the real granddaughter died in a car accident shortly after that. Polk never knew about the granddaughter, and as near as we can tell, Gina started writing to him to establish some sort of bullshit family bond. Polk was about to go rogue, and the whole fake granddaughter thing was a way to keep tabs on him.” She rustled some papers, and I assumed she was reading from a report. “The PO says he disappeared about ten months after release, which would’ve placed him here about seven months ago and that coincides with Gina’s contact with the Stewarts.”
I ignored the temptation to raise my head. “Did she really meet Duane in Mexico?”
She took a deep breath and sighed. “She might’ve met him in a Mexican restaurant, but that’s about as far south as that goes. She’s a poster child for fucked-up—in and out of foster homes, finally living on the streets, and prostitution. Then she got hung up with this motorcycle gang. The only way a female gets anything in that gang is by putting out sex, information, drugs, and all of the above.”
“How’s Duane doing?”
The desk jostled, and I was pretty sure she was now resting her boots on the edge. “Who the fuck knows? He’s back at the big house.”
“He knows he’s got a sentencing tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Vern says he’s going to do some time and maybe some community service. I guess the judge figures a dead grandfather is enough of a burden.”
Henry wanted a ruling on the paternity issue. “So, Duane is the father after all?”
“Nope.”
I listened as Henry’s chair squealed. “No?”
“She’s not pregnant.”
I raised my head to join the conversation. “She’s not?”
“Betty Dobbs was a little disappointed; I think the old broad was planning on adopting the little bugger.” She sighed. “Ozzie ran the business into the ground, but Betty’s got her own money and will be all right. I heard the whole development sold to investors.”
“How is Morris?”
“He’s recovered, and from what we’ve heard he’s taken his brother’s place and was out on the roof this morning.”
I thought about it some more and lowered my head; it felt like I had been staring at the surface of my desk for months, not just days. “And the marijuana?”
“Well, Gina and Polk were the long-term deal, but Gina saw a short-term scam in Ozzie. She had a lot to lose, but she had a lot to gain pitting both against each other. As for Geo, I guess he was getting a little too close for comfort on the ganja deal, and she figured she needed him out of the way. She must’ve seen him heading back with Betty and thought it was an opportunity to get him after he dropped her off. When she overheard the argument between Geo and Ozzie and saw the fight, it must’ve seemed fuckin’ perfect.”
Henry interrupted. “So, Ozzie called Polk at the Chicken Shack and then Polk called Gina to tell her to get rid of Ozzie?”
“Yeah, if Gina hadn’t gotten greedy they might’ve pulled it off.”
The intercom on my phone buzzed, and I hit the button. “Yep?”
Ruby’s voice sounded tinny in the plastic-ribbed speaker. “Mike Thomas just called the Fire Department and said there’s a chimney fire out on TK Road. They want to know if we want to send someone along.”
Vic was the first to answer. “Why would we want to do that?”
“It’s the Stewart place.”
My head came up, and the three of us stared at each other as Vic smiled. “Must have been the kerosene. Fuck it, let it burn.” There was a pause as she stood. “I have to go take a prisoner to Casper.” She didn’t move and continued to glare at me. “By the way, I let Dog out at the junkyard—I figured he could find you faster than I could. Oh, and when I have my housewarming party? He’s invited but you’re not.” With that final salvo, she turned and left.
I allowed my head to stay up so that I could watch her shapely derriere with one eye as she departed my office. There was another welcomed half-sight there in the doorway.
I hadn’t heard from him in almost a week, but Ruby said he’d been in a couple of times to check on me. Neither of us said anything for a moment, and I was pretty sure he was looking at my damaged eye.
“How are you feeling, troop?” The Basquo looked more rested, and I was glad to see a little bit of that wayward spark in his eyes again. There wasn’t much of it, but enough to give me hope. “Sorry, but I’ve got to keep my head down.” I spoke into the surface of my desk again. “That was some pretty fine detective work, figuring out that Polk was Poulson.”
I listened to the chair creak as he sat in the spot Vic had vacated. “You seem kinda shorthanded.”
“We are.”
“Um . . . I was wondering if I could have my star back?”
I smiled; it wasn’t like anybody was going to see it. “Yep, and you can have your gun back too, as soon as Joe Meyer finishes the inves
tigation in Cheyenne.” In all actuality, the state AG had already told me he figured Saizarbitoria’s case was a walk-through and that I could reinstate him anytime I wanted. “How’s the family?”
“Good.” I listened as he took a deep breath. “We’re good. Antonio’s sleeping more, so we’re actually getting some rest.”
He said his son’s name this time, and I continued to grin at the surface of my desk. I reached into one of my drawers, which made Dog move just a little, and thumped the Beretta, still in the duty holster with the Basquo’s star attached, onto my desk alongside the back of my head. “Here.” I raised said head and glanced at him. “Please go make sure the Stewart place doesn’t burn down.”
He laughed, picked up his goods, and departed.
I began lowering my head back onto the pillow, but the little red light on my phone began buzzing and blinking again. I punched the button, my blind hand educated by practice. “Yep?”
Ruby’s voice rang through the tiny speaker. “I’ve got Comox, Vancouver Island, on line one.”
“Got it.”
I started to punch the button, but she continued speaking. “Also, I thought I should point out that Felix Polk’s thumb is still in the commissary refrigerator.”
“Do me a favor and ship it up to Billings with the rest of him.”
“Also? John Muecke wants to know why you had him transfer funds to buy a house over on Kisling just so you could sell it through the bank.”
I thought about my Valentine’s gift that hadn’t come with any card.
“Tell him to mind his own business.” I raised my head a little and looked at Henry. “What?”
He smiled. “Nothing.”
I punched line one and the speakerphone button. “Mr. Cook?”
The connection wasn’t great. “Kingfisher Lodge.”
“Is this Pat Cook?”
“Speaking.”
He sounded old. “Mr. Cook, this is Sheriff Walt Longmire, and I’ve been trying to track you for a few days.”
The line was quiet for a moment. “Concerning?”
“Well, I’m the sheriff of Absaroka here in Wyoming.” It was silent as I studied the phone and pulled the base in closer. “Mr. Cook, were you a deputy with our sheriff ’s department in 1970 when Lucian Connally was sheriff ?” He didn’t say anything, but I could hear him breathing on the other end. “I know that it wasn’t a particularly pleasant experience for you.”
Junkyard Dogs Page 24
