Chapter 22
The moon was huge and bright. It shone into Steamboat Rock Canyon like a gigantic spotlight. When I stepped out of Estelle’s patrol car in the campground parking lot, I could see my shadow. Garcia and Martinez waited.
The moon-washed air was dead. I hitched my gun a little higher under the overhang of my gut. Not a stir through the pine needles, not a whisper down the halls of the canyon. Nothing. I sighed.
“They better be sound sleepers,” I muttered and watched Paul Garcia thumb five fat cartridges into his shotgun. He was nervous and that would keep him alert. Martinez fidgeted. He didn’t much like staying behind.
Except for the three vehicles and Al Martinez, the campground was deserted as we started up the trail through the silent forest. We reached the fork of the trail, and then we veered even farther to the north, cutting away from the trail and following the granite spine of the ridge that paralleled the creek. I tried to breathe quietly, but after a few yards I was rasping like an old steam engine. Estelle slowed some, and when we reached a rock outcropping fifty yards above the trail fork she stopped.
I sat down on one of the ledges with a grunt. My pulse slammed in my ears, and out of habit I counted it for a minute.
“This is crazy,” I whispered.
“We’ll take it easy,” Estelle murmured.
“It’s still crazy.” I took a deep breath. The banging in my ears receded a little. The smells were rich, floating up from where our boots crushed the pine needles, grasses, and herbs. “When we reach the top of this ridge, it’s going to be rough. If one of us kicks a single pebble, the sound’s going to carry.”
Estelle nodded and repeated herself. “We’ll take it easy.”
I stood up and looked ahead. “I’m ready.” We faced perhaps a hundred yards of open rock slide and then the timber capped the granite ridge.
One rock at a time was my pace. I made sure of my footing before trusting my weight to wobbly ankles.
I reached the trees, and both Estelle and Paul made motions as if they were ready to move on. I held up a hand. Tour guides were all alike. They rushed ahead to the next attraction and waited for the old tourists who were poking along behind. When everyone caught up, it was time to be off again. The guys bringing up the rear, gasping because of bad hearts or recent hernias, never got to stop and rest. “We should have called for a helicopter,” I said.
“Are you all right?” Estelle asked, and I waved a hand.
“Just fine. I love hiking, don’t you? Especially in the middle of the goddamn night when I can’t see where to put my goddamn feet.” I turned and surveyed the hillside. The terrain swept up steadily, curving off slightly toward the east.
Estelle whispered, “If we just stay on the highest line, we should be just right.”
“Let me lead,” I said. I was under no illusions that I was the most competent woodsman of the group or even that I had the best nose for direction. But I hated being there more than the other two did, and because of that I might make fewer mistakes.
Hell, Estelle had time to take up knitting lessons while she waited for me to select steps. But we made progress. I passed a big, mistletoe-twisted ponderosa and saw rocks jutting out to the right toward the canyon.
I turned and held a finger over my lips. Both Estelle and Paul stopped. I made my way in slow motion out on the outcropping. I could see, off to the south, where the two canyons joined down by the creek. If my distance judgment was correct, the hot springs were less than a quarter mile away.
I remembered…it seemed a year now rather than a day…seeing Finn and little Daisy walk down through the timber. The slope hadn’t been extreme. That was the route we should take, coming in from the north behind the tent site.
I grunted up from my squatting position and waved for Estelle and Paul to follow. As we drew away from the terminus of the ridge and worked toward its root where it joined the mesa top, the pines were widely spaced, a park stand that would have been lovely to a Forest Service timber cruiser.
The ridge’s spine curved to the right, and I knew it circled behind the campsites below. I stopped. Estelle stepped so close I could smell the faint aroma of the shampoo she’d used.
“We’ll come in right behind them,” I whispered. She nodded. I motioned to Paul Garcia and laid a hand on his shoulder. “We don’t want to go down the hill as a group. Spread out and watch your footing. You on the left, Paul, with Estelle over on the right. Don’t get ahead of me. Don’t rush.”
His head bobbed with excitement, but I didn’t release my grip on his shoulder. “When we’re about a hundred feet from the camp, I want to stop and listen. You watch for my signal. And we’ll stay there for a while, so don’t get in a hurry.”
The footing was easy. I kept the inchworm pace, giving each boot toe plenty of time to find twigs or sticks that waited to let out rifle-shot cracks. Like three ghosts, we moved down through the timber.
The moonlight was broken into soft patches by the forest canopy, but before long I could make out Finn’s tent. The black rectangle was a geometry out of place in the tapestry of irregular shapes.
I held up a hand and stopped. To my right, I could see Estelle. She stood at the base of a ponderosa that was thick enough to hide three of her. With the authority of her uniform stripped away by the night, her figure was almost that of a child. The outline of her Stetson reminded me of the flat brim of an Easter bonnet worn by a girl a century ago.
I twisted at the waist and for a moment Paul Garcia remained invisible. Almost all the images in the nighttime forest were vertical…everything else disappeared.
My eyes clicked from tree to tree until I found him. He was leaning against a pine as if he were taking a breather during a Sunday afternoon stroll. He must have taken off his Stetson, because I could see the curved outline of the top of his head.
He pushed away from the tree and took a half step forward. I stopped breathing as I saw the moonlight touch the blond hair that swept down to his shoulders.
Chapter 23
When I realized the ghost off to my left was Robert Arajanian and not Deputy Paul Garcia, I took an involuntary step forward.
The object in his right hand wasn’t a flashlight. He held the heavy automatic pistol with its muzzle pointing up. I could see the bulbous silencer.
Maybe Arajanian had deliberately chosen the young deputy as his first target. Garcia was carrying the shotgun and would appear to pose the most obvious threat. Maybe Arajanian had been padding along behind us, just keeping tabs. I had my answer soon enough.
When he knew I’d seen him, Arajanian twisted at the waist. The silenced automatic pistol swung toward me. I didn’t have time to shout at him or plead or reason.
Arajanian’s mistake was shooting at me. I was the least threat. I’d been on the planet long enough to be cautious…and that was coupled with reactions and physical abilities far from athletic. But my instincts were honed, even if the old body didn’t provide much backup.
The blond-haired killer wasn’t there to talk. I knew Arajanian was going to shoot before he pulled the trigger, and I threw myself sideways toward the nearest ponderosa. The bullet gouged pine and spat bark in my face.
The automatic didn’t make much noise…just a nasty little sneeze with some clattering as the slide jarred backward to fling out the empty case and ram another cartridge into the chamber. But in the silence of the pines Robert Arajanian might as well have fired a howitzer.
Deputy Paul Garcia’s nerves were wired. He was less than six months out of the academy, where instructors teach the rookies all the right moves. He was young and athletic.
Robert Arajanian wasn’t allowed a second mistake. Garcia crouched and pivoted in one fluid motion. One knee hit the ground as support even as the twelve-gauge came up. He had enough moonlight and a clear target. Arajanian’s arm was outstretched, the big automatic and its silencer flashing moonbeams. I scrambled for cover.
I heard the shotgun’s pump action only as a
n extension of the explosion. The muzzle flash of the big gun lit up the hillside. Instinctively I ducked my head. Off to the left I heard a thump as Arajanian’s pistol flew out of his hand, and then an awful gurgling and choking.
“Christ, no!” I gasped. My intake of breath was so violent I sucked pine duff and choked. I spat and panted for breath, at the same time trying to draw my own magnum. I lay motionless. Arajanian might not be alone, and I didn’t know which way to turn. To make matters worse, I knew Garcia’s finger was still tense on the trigger of the shotgun.
I moved my head a fraction. I could see only Arajanian’s legs from the knees down.
“Paul,” I said, keeping my voice low and even, “hold your fire. Nobody move.” I pulled myself up beside the pine trunk. Garcia was crouched thirty feet downhill.
Beyond, the tent was dark and quiet. Where the hell was Finn? I cursed eloquently. What a goddamn mess. Any hope of surprise was gone. But maybe the camp was empty. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck, and I ducked and looked uphill, scanning the hillside. Nothing.
“Paul, are you all right?” I said quietly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Estelle, stay put,” I said, a little louder. I glanced over my shoulder at the spot where I’d last seen her. She hadn’t moved, but I could see moonlight glint on her service revolver.
“Paul,” I said, “hold position.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a little tremor in his voice, but he wasn’t going to do anything stupid.
I pulled the small flashlight out of my coat pocket. With the revolver in my right hand and the light held well away from my body with the other, I crouched and stepped toward Robert Arajanian.
My light caught the glint of the automatic, and I detoured cautiously to pick it up, then shove it into my belt. It was a heavy frame Beretta…no kid’s gun.
Arajanian lay on his back. His heart was still beating, but he’d stopped struggling and he’d stopped breathing.
The blast of double zero buckshot had hit him a terrible, slashing blow at the base of the throat. Even as I knelt with the light I saw the pulse subside in the torn left carotid artery. His left hand lifted, opened wide, and then slowly drifted down to rest lightly on his blood-soaked chest. His eyes stared up into the night.
The kid wasn’t going to give us any answers. That left H. T. Finn.
I straightened up. There was still no sign of life in the tent. Would the son of a bitch just let us walk into camp? Was he waiting in the musty darkness of the tent, weapon ready, with one hand clamped over Daisy’s mouth to stifle whimpers? Or was he waiting for us, hidden behind a black tree trunk, invisible and deadly?
I whispered a withering curse at my own overactive imagination. In all likelihood, Finn was long gone with Daisy pulled along for the ride.
I took a deep breath. I blinked the light at Estelle quickly, then held it so that it illuminated my own right hand. I beckoned her over, then turned the light off. I moved off to the side a little and waited.
Garcia hesitated, then crept slowly up the hill. He wasn’t in a hurry to see what he’d done. When he was within whispering distance, I reached out and touched his shoulder.
“You did the right thing,” I said. He stared down at Arajanian, then looked away. I could hear Estelle’s quick breathing.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s Arajanian.”
“Was he going to shoot?”
“He did shoot,” I whispered. “Once at me. That’s all he had time for.”
She looked downhill at the dark blob of the tent.
“I want you two to stay up here for a minute,” I said. “Arajanian knew we were coming…there’s no way of telling how long he was on our heels. Maybe all the way from the parking lot. But if he knew, then that means Finn does, too.”
Estelle shook her head. “Listen,” she said and her whisper was almost harsh. I couldn’t see her face under the brim of the Stetson, but I knew her black eyes were drilling mine. “If he’s down there, then there’s a better chance with the three of us. We stay spread out, just the way we were.”
Garcia’s whisper was filled with tension. “And the more Finn knows that he doesn’t have a chance, the better the odds are that he’ll give it up.”
I might have agreed with the deputy almost any other time. But Finn was no panic-stricken teenager cornered in an alley after hitting a convenience store. That sort of mentality I could understand. But Finn? He was an unknown.
I thought of another chilling possibility.
“Maybe Arajanian killed Finn,” I said.
“No,” Estelle said. “Arajanian did as he was told. I could see that. And nothing else makes sense.”
I hesitated. I wanted a plan without risk. There wasn’t one, except to wait until dawn and ring the place with troops. And then the only person who’d suffer would be Daisy…if she hadn’t suffered already. “We’re wasting time,” I muttered.
Estelle motioned Paul Garcia into position. In the moonlight I could see that his face was as pale as Arajanian’s. His forehead was shiny with sweat, but he clutched the shotgun at high port, trigger finger out of the guard. He’d be all right. We turned and started down through the trees.
The three of us were spooked…but probably still thinking we could control events if we were careful enough. We reached the bottom of the slope where it splayed out into the narrow swale. I held up my hand and we stopped. The tent was twenty feet in front of me, the entry flaps on the opposite side, facing downhill.
I listened, my head cocked slightly. Nothing. No wisp of smoke rose from the ashes in the stone fire circle. A slight breeze was stirring the tops of the ponderosas, a signal that dawn wasn’t many hours away. I turned and caught Paul Garcia’s eye. I pointed to a spot between me and the tent. He nodded. I moved slowly to the side, toward Estelle. I wanted her off to the side of the door flaps. If I angled in from the other side, that would give us the best coverage.
With infinite care and listening so hard my ears hurt, I circled the tent until I was looking directly at the front flap. Again, I stopped. The silence was so deep that the normal ringing of my ears was a scream of head-noise.
I narrowed my eyes as if that would help me see through the tightly woven nylon. Just about the time when I had decided the place was deserted, I heard the noise. It wasn’t a cry, nor a whimper. Just the faintest sniffle, like a person would make when his nose is tickling. Estelle heard it, too, because she immediately took a step toward the tent.
I held up my hand sharply, and she stopped. We waited, and after a minute Estelle shifted position restlessly. As if that motion were a signal, we heard the noise again. Someone was in the tent. And whoever it was hadn’t been as patient as we were.
Estelle Reyes made her decision before I had a chance to move. She took three quick steps to the tent. She held her flashlight to one side and jerked the tent flap, hard. A frightened whimper greeted her. And this time I recognized the voice as a child’s.
“It’s Daisy,” Estelle said, turning toward me so that I would hear.
I took a step forward. The first rifle shot came from behind me, so loud that it numbed like a dynamite blast. Paul Garcia’s shotgun pinwheeled through the air, hit the side of the tent, and bounced to the ground. If the deputy made a sound, I didn’t hear it. He disappeared behind the tent.
“Get down!” I shouted. Estelle was crouched in the doorway of the tent with nowhere to go. I was out in the open, without a target. I thumbed the hammer of my revolver back, turned, and saw motion downstream by the boulders. I snapped off a single shot and then tried to sprint off to the right to draw fire away from Estelle and the child.
My right ankle collapsed, and I staggered sideways, fighting for balance. The rifle blasted again, and this time I saw the flash out of the corner of my eye. Something tugged hard at the back of my vest. I fell awkwardly and lost my grip on the revolver. Three rapid shots cracked out from my left, and I heard one of the slugs from Est
elle’s revolver ricochet off the boulder and whine into the timber like a demented insect.
I was looking at the rock when the rifle fired, and I saw the massive corona of muzzle blast. The front corner of the tent collapsed, and it took an awful eternity for me to realize that it had been Estelle Reyes’s body spinning into the rope and support rods that brought the tent down.
Chapter 24
I screamed something—I don’t remember what—then lunged for my revolver, snapped it up, and yanked the trigger. I fired twice, so blinded by the muzzle flash from the two-inch barrel that I lost the target.
I tried to stand, lost my balance, and fell to my hands and knees, the revolver digging into the dirt. I heard the scuffle of feet on pebbles. I straightened up and held the revolver in both hands. I saw the ghost of motion and fired twice. The rifle crashed out again, and this time the blast corona was perfectly symmetrical, with me in the focus.
The rifle bullet jerked me backward. The revolver flew off into the night. I landed hard on my back and felt an agonizing stab of pain as the automatic pistol I’d picked up and shoved into my belt dug into my spine.
I heard scuffling in the rocks down by the first of the springs. I tried to inch my right hand around to the automatic, but that arm wouldn’t work. Someone cleared his throat and I froze, waiting.
His feet on the pine duff didn’t make much noise. A circle of light poured over me.
I heard a “tsk,” like a man sucking on a toothpick as he surveys the remains of a big feast.
“Ah, you people,” H. T. Finn said passively. He “tsked” again. The light moved out of my eyes, and I could make out the rifle that he now rested on his shoulder as a deer hunter might. Both my hands were in sight and they both were empty.
He bent down and picked up my handgun, then flung it so hard I heard it clatter on rocks on the other side of the swale. “Such a waste, isn’t it?” he murmured and then moved off. I was able to twist my head a fraction and grimaced against the pain. He walked to the tent. He looked down at Estelle Reyes for a brief moment, then nudged her out of the way. He bent down, picked up something, and threw it off into the darkness.
Bitter Recoil Page 14
