Kidd and LuEllen: Novels 1-4

by John Sandford

  “Why did you do it?” I asked. My voice grated out, angry and cold. I wasn’t pretending.

  “I didn’t,” she said urgently. “I knew you’d think so. But it was Rudy. He was so frightened of what we did to Whitemark and what could be done to us, that he panicked. He’s sick. He’s in the hospital, and he may not get back out. They’re not sure, but they think now it’s a brain tumor. But believe me, I had nothing to do with it. Dillon didn’t either.”

  “Huh.” LuEllen, standing with her ear close to mine, turned her head and mouthed “Dace.”

  “What happened to Dace?”

  “He was killed,” Maggie said simply. Her voice sounded low and hurt. “These assholes shot him and killed him. They would have killed you, too, and LuEllen. When you called Dillon, Dillon confronted Rudy. The argument brought on the breakdown, or whatever it is. As soon as we figured out how to do it, we called these men off. They’re already out of the country.”

  I let the silence build until she said, “Hello?”

  “What happened to Dace’s body? Is it still in the apartment?”

  “No. I was told they . . . disposed of it. I really don’t know the details.” LuEllen squeezed my arm and closed her eyes. Tears started around the lashes.

  “Explain how they knew where we were,” I said, pressing. “How they got up past Philadelphia, if they weren’t tipped off by Dillon.”

  She had the answer. “They put some kind of radio signal device on your car,” she said. “They couldn’t follow you exactly, but they knew when they were close. They tracked you up north, and then, they said, you picked a motel out in the middle of nowhere. They followed the signal right in. They took the beeper off the car when they got there, so if they . . . found you . . . the police wouldn’t find it on your car.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  I let the silence hang for a moment, then said, “I don’t know. It sounds okay. But I don’t know.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t want to tell you that. Not yet. I’ve got to talk to LuEllen. I’ll call you back.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “Half an hour.”

  “I’ll wait,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry about Dace. It’s awful. But I had nothing to do with it. Goddamn it, Kidd, you’ve got to believe me.” Her voice cracked. I could see her standing over the desk, one hand on it for support, her head bowed, talking into the phone, pleading.

  “I’ll get back,” I said, and hung up.

  “WHY NOT TELL her now?” LuEllen asked.

  “So she’ll think we’re talking about it. She’s going to be suspicious anyway. If we hold out for a while, she may be less suspicious.”

  “She was awful good,” LuEllen said after a while. “Would you have believed her? If we hadn’t left your car at the airport?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. I’d kind of believe her. But I’d still be careful.”

  DURING MOST OF the attack on Whitemark, I’d gone to bed late at night, after three o’clock. One night Maggie woke up and rolled onto her back as I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off my socks.

  “You wouldn’t ever hurt me, would you?” she asked.

  The question was a stopper. I turned and looked toward her in the dark. “Hurt you? You mean beat you up?”

  “No, you dope. I mean dump me for a sixteen-year-old with up-pointy tits.”

  “Your tits are up-pointy.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “We’re not going to come to that,” I said. “I do what I do, and you do what you do. They don’t mix. Neither one of us will change. We’re too old. Too committed. When you get back to Chicago, I’ll come and see you. You’ll come to St. Paul a time or two. Then it’ll start to take up too much time, there’ll be other people, and eventually we’ll fizzle away.”

  “You’re really the great romantic, aren’t you?”

  “I’m trying not to bullshit you,” I said. “You’re not stupid. You know all this. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you came through St. Paul every once in a while and got laid. In between the other-people relationships, I mean. We could be friends for a long time.”

  She might have agreed, or she might have demurred, or might have said something about the abstract nature of the analysis. She might have laughed. She didn’t. What she said was, “You’d never beat me up, would you?”

  WE GAVE IT a half hour, sitting in a greasy spoon in a nondescript West Virginia hill town, idling over coffee and cheeseburgers. It was the afternoon coffee hour, and the local merchants drifted in, said hello to each other, casually looked us over and drank coffee and ate lemon meringue pie. The pie was listed on the menu as the pie du jour. The joke was, the city folks would wonder whether it was a joke. . . .

  “I WANT TO talk,” I told Maggie. “LuEllen doesn’t but she’ll go along. She’s afraid of you and the Anshiser people. And we have a gun. We bought a gun. We’re at Dace’s cabin in West Virginia, and there’s only one way in, and we’ll be watching it. You fly into Washington, rent a car, and come up alone.”

  “You don’t believe me,” she said.

  “We kind of believe you. We’re not sure about Dillon,” I said. “We’re not going to take any chances, after what happened to Dace. We want to talk. Bring the money.”

  I told her how to get to the cabin. “When you turn off that road, follow the electric wire. There’s only one, and it ends at Dace’s place.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “I’ll bring the money. You’ve got to believe me.”

  Chapter 18

  BEFORE WE LEFT town we bought a seventy-dollar boom box from an appliance dealer. Crossing the street to a hardware store, we picked up two light timers, the kind used in greenhouses, and two hand-held CB radios. As we were checking out, I went back and got a shovel. At a discount chain store we bought insulated coveralls in a camouflage pattern, day-packs, cheap rectangular sleeping bags, plastic air mattresses, and two pairs of binoculars. At a convenience store we bought bread, lunch meat, mustard, cupcakes and cookies, and a twelve-pack of Coke.

  “Even if the shooters were in Washington, they couldn’t get here before dark,” I told LuEllen on the way back. “And I don’t think they’ll come in the dark, in unfamiliar territory. Dillon will research it for them, find a map, and see that the road goes through. The shooters will probably come in one car, from the top end of the road. Maggie will come up the way I told her, from the bottom. If she comes at all.”

  “You think she might not?”

  “If they see this purely as a clean-up, she might not risk it. But I think she will. They’ll want to talk, to find out if we’ve tried to protect ourselves—you know, letters to the FBI, that kind of thing. I don’t think she’s scared of me. She might be scared of you.”

  “She should be,” LuEllen said, with a dangerous rime of bitterness in her voice.

  “She’ll probably have a radio in the car. When she sees us, she’ll signal that we’re in sight. Then they’ll come in. She’ll try to get us down in the vicinity of the cabin. They’ll hit us there. Talk first and then shoot. Or just shoot.”

  “What do we do?”

  “The first thing we do is cool off.” I looked over at her. Her mouth was tight and her chin was up, ready for the fight. “If you go after her too soon, we both might wind up dead.”

  “I’m cool,” she said. I looked at her and she gazed back unflinchingly.

  “All right. You’ll be up on the hill, above the bottom of the road, covering Maggie. It’s possible that Dillon won’t find the map, and the shooters will trail her in. You see her coming, you call me on the radio. We’ll work out some codes. If she’s alone, I want her to see you. Just a glimpse, and it has to be convincing. Run across an open space, down toward the cabin; let your upper body show. Wear that light-blue shirt of yours. After you’ve given her a couple of chances to see you, sneak back up the hill and get back in the
camouflage.”

  “What if there’s somebody with her?”

  “Lie low and call.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I’ll be on the top end of the road. I think that’s where the shooters will come in.”

  The shooters, I thought, would show up a few minutes before Maggie, moving into position around the cabin. They would leave their car a mile or so out and walk in, following the creek. They would stay off the high ground because it was too open. The woods along the creek would give them good cover.

  Some seventy yards out a rough, steep-walled gully, too small to show on even the largest-scale topo maps, carried a feeder creek down the ridge. The shooters could jump down the ten-foot walls, wade the stream, and climb the rocks on the other side. Or they could slip back up the road where the gully was crossed by a low-railed wooden bridge. The bridge was only twenty-five feet long, and it was well out of sight of the cabin. I thought they would take the chance.

  If they crossed the bridge they were dead men. I’d be in the brush on the hillside, twenty-five yards away, with the M16.

  “What about Maggie?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “She’s not a pro, so she’ll probably make a run for it. You can try to hold her, but we can’t worry about her until the shooters are down.”

  “You mean dead.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What if the guys who show up are completely different people? What if they aren’t the people who shot Dace?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “They’d be killers. They’d be there to kill us.” She was troubled.

  “Yeah.”

  We turned off the blacktop highway onto a gravel side road, and she watched the landscape rolling by, the tan fall grasses in the roadside ditches, the fat milkweed pods, the wild marijuana.

  “I’d let them go,” she said finally.

  I nodded. “That would be best. We lie in the briar patch like Brer Rabbit, and we never come out.”

  At the cabin we ate and made sandwiches for the next morning.

  “We stay on the hillside tonight, just in case,” I said. “We’ll put the lights and the boom box on the timer. If they come in early, they’ll see the lights changing around and hear the boom box go off and on. Not too loud.”

  Half an hour before dark I took the M16 and a sheet of paper outside, pinned the paper to a tree, and fired four shots at it from twenty-five yards. I’d have to hold it just a bit low. I fired a few more shots at a hundred yards and at 150, and found that the rifle was, as advertised, dead-on at 150.

  When I finished, I reloaded the clip, and we walked up the hill and found a comfortable nest in the deep grass. We were eighty yards from the cabin and a hundred feet above it. In the dying light and cool still evening air, the sound from the radio drifted up the hill. We’d chosen a rock classics station. Most of the music was distinctly non-classic and in some cases barely rock, but there were interludes of Pink Floyd and the Doors and REM.

  “You remember way back, when Ratface first showed up, and I did that tarot spread, the magic spread, for you and Dace?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “The cards that came up were the Emperor and the Seven of Swords. I just figured it out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Emperor is Anshiser. The Seven of Swords is a betrayal card. I didn’t even think about it at the time.”

  “Too late now.”

  WE TALKED ABOUT the next day, setting up radio voice codes and practicing them. At 11:15, a timer turned off the light. A few minutes later, the other one shut down the radio.

  “What’s the worst thing that could happen tomorrow?” LuEllen said in the sudden silence.

  I thought about it for a minute. “If they are deeper into killing than I think, it’s just barely possible that they’ll come over the hill with a helicopter and a half dozen guys in camies and flak jackets and automatic weapons with the experience to use them. They’ll take both the hillside and the woods and sweep us right out in front of them.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Run, if we can. Fight if we can’t.”

  “What’s the best thing that can happen?”

  “Jesus, LuEllen. The best thing that can happen tomorrow is that we kill some people.”

  We sat in silence until LuEllen stood up and shivered and said, “I’m cold.” We pulled on the coveralls and lay back on the sleeping bags and looked up at the stars. We were far out in the countryside, away from the lights, and the Milky Way looked like a huge illuminated milk-bowl.

  “You know any of them? The stars?”

  “Some. Everybody who goes outdoors knows a few. The North Star, Polaris.” I pointed it out. “And there’s Cassiopeia, the W. And that’s Orion. The three bright stars are Orion’s belt. You know the good thing about them?”

  “What?”

  “The belt’s very close to the celestial equator. When the middle star hits the horizon, either coming up or down, it’ll be almost due east of west. Within a degree or two.”

  “Did you learn this stuff when you were a teenage nerd?”

  “Right,” I laughed. “That’s when I learned it.”

  We were quiet again for a while, and finally she said in a small voice, “Where’d you put the shovel?”

  “Beside the outhouse,” I said.

  We slept off and on until daylight. My watch alarm beeped, and I woke to find LuEllen watching me. She had circles beneath her eyes but she said she was okay. We ate from the cooler and drank Cokes, and we packed Cokes into our day-packs with the extra ammo. The radio handsets had pagers so we could beep each other.

  “I thought of something during the night,” I said. “There’s a good chance they’ll come in early, earlier than we should expect. Like in the next hour. Trying to catch us off-balance. But there’s also the possibility that they’ll come later than we expect, like two o’clock in the afternoon. Hoping that we’ll break cover to talk it over, or to eat, or get a drink, or pee, or whatever. When you get up there, stay put. I’ll call if we should move. Victory goes to the iron butt.”

  She waved and went off to her hiding place.

  MY AMBUSH SITE was a shallow depression on the edge of the ravine, behind a clump of brush and dried-out weeds. I retrieved a three-foot chunk of rotted log from the ravine and placed it on the edge of my hole, so I could brace the M16 6 on top of it. I settled in, using the sleeping bag as a cushion, and got comfortable. The camouflage coveralls were warm, and I was tired. I drank a Coke for the caffeine, and then another. A fat black-and-yellow bumblebee floated around me for a few seconds, and I started to worry that I might be on his nest. He left, and I settled back again, more awake now.

  They came neither early nor late. It was eighteen minutes after noon when I saw the motion in the trees below. It was hard to follow, and at first I was uncertain whether it was really there. Then I saw it again, and then another movement, again slow, but farther up the hill and closer to me. Two of them, at least. In camouflage. I let out the breath I was holding.

  Moving like molasses, I eased the binoculars up to my eyes and found them. They were walking unaccountably slowly, until I realized they were trying to pick their way silently through the fallen leaves. Given the choice between the woods and the open hillside, they chose the cover, but the leaves underfoot were giving them fits.

  I beeped LuEllen and said, “Two. Two.” She returned with, “Two.” A few minutes later she beeped back and said, “Blonde.” I returned the call. The Blonde code meant Maggie was on the way in, alone, as far as LuEllen could tell. I looked at my watch. Two minutes since I spotted the first movement. I began scanning the woods behind the two men I had already spotted, looking for a backup. LuEllen should be running down the hill. . . .

  The shooters were only sporadically visible as they moved closer, about fifteen feet apart. Then one of them lifted a handset from his belt and listened. I clicked around the channels on my CB,
but there was nothing. Their sets were more sophisticated than ours and probably used dedicated channels.

  Their conversation went on through several exchanges. It meant, I hoped, that Maggie had seen LuEllen running across the hill and believed we were at the bottom of the road. The man with the handset hung it back on his belt, said a few words to the other, and they moved up, a little quicker now. They were only fifty yards away, coming up to the ravine. They stopped on the lip, looked down at the creek, talked for a moment, then turned uphill.

  As they got closer, I eased the M16 into position over a low tangle of vines and brought it to bear on the bridge. My heart was thumping wildly, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

  The first one stopped below the bridge, where I could see only his head, and waited for the second one to come up. When he arrived, they talked for a second, and I was afraid they would decide to cross the bridge one at a time, providing cover for each other. Then they both scrambled up on the road, crouching, their heads turned down toward the cabin. The big guy dangled an Uzi from his right hand. Ratface was two steps behind him, carrying a police shotgun with a pistol grip below the stock. With my cover, the Uzi was more dangerous, so I decided to take the big guy first. Once on the road, they moved fast. Staying low, they scuttled onto the bridge, using the low railing as concealment from the cabin.

  I let the big one get two-thirds of the way across the bridge, held the M16 at waist height, and when he was about to intersect the sight, I pulled the trigger. An M16 doesn’t roar so much as clatter; it clattered in my face, and the first squirt pitched the big guy over. I tracked back to where Ratface had frozen for a split second, and I was almost there when he simply leaped off the bridge, head first.

  The move was so startling that I half stood and instinctively dumped the rest of the clip under the bridge, punched out the used clip, and fed in a new one. There was no thrashing around in the brush below the bridge, and I said, “Shit,” and started sliding to my right toward the road.