by Frank Hughes
I pocketed the cash and put everything else back before sliding down to the remains of their snowmobile. I went a little too far and my left foot ended up in the ice choked water. Yanking it out with an appropriate curse, I stepped onto the sled and gave it the once over with the flashlight. There was a small plate screwed to the dash that read “Property of Ranger Ridge Resort”. Above that was the number fourteen painted in yellow rubberized paint. I dug out the registration. The owner was “Verdugo Properties, dba Ranger Ridge Resort”. Well, well, small world.
Above me the light was moving closer to my sled. I scrambled back up to the shooter. A quick search of his clothes revealed another five hundred or so in cash, a duplicate trail map, a throwaway cell phone, and his own pair of USP mags. I took the cash and cell phone before climbing back up to the trail.
A heavyset man was running laboriously towards me, a hissing Coleman lantern in one hand and a flashlight in the other. I snatched up the helmet and put it back on. No need to make the description any easier for him. He stopped about six feet away, fixing the beam of his flashlight on the dents in my snowmobile. Then he shifted the light to my face, blinding me.
I put up a hand. “Can you take that thing out of my eyes?”
“What? Oh, sorry.” He lowered the light. “What happened?”
“There’s been an accident.” After a moment my eyes readjusted a little. It was an old man with a snow-white beard wearing an old fashioned wool hunting coat over red pajamas. His feet were shod in half-buckled rubber snow boots. All he needed to complete the picture was eight tiny reindeer and a bottle of Coke.
“Anyone hurt?” He was a little short of breath.
“I’m okay. There are two down there that weren’t so lucky.”
“Gosh,” he said, “gosh. My goodness.” He peered into the woods, flashing his light around, looking for more casualties. “I warned them. More than once. Always knew something like this would happen, way these kids come through here.”
Damn whippersnappers probably played their rock music too loud as well.
“You have a phone?”
“What? Oh, yes. Well, Ann, that’s my wife, she already called the 911.”
“Good.”
I tried the motor, while he went back to searching, but I’d crashed the beast one too many times. I took off the helmet and sat down on the sled. To pass the time I went through the throwaway cell. Only two calls had been made, both to the same number with a 970 area code, the same area code as the numbers on the Spanish Mountain website. I memorized the number, but these guys were pros and I doubted it would trace back to anything solid. I checked if the old man was watching before flinging the cell into the woods on the side opposite the wreck.
He was still flashing his light into the ravine below, and it came to rest on the body of the sniper. “My goodness gracious,” he said, “this is just terrible.” A thought hit him. “Should I go get my first aid kit?”
“That depends,” I said. “You got a really big one?”
15.
Soon we were knee deep in cops and first responders. A fire engine and two ambulances arrived, accompanied by two local patrol cars and a swarm of state police. Not long after, a coffee truck arrived. Then the federal government made its presence felt in the persons of Briggs and Stanton. Soon there were so many competing strobe lights of different colors and rhythms I feared additional casualties from epileptic seizures.
Initially, I was the center of attention, but after I just kept giving them name, rank, and serial number they handed me over to a gigantic, stone-faced Vermont State Police corporal and the amiable looking Bedford police chief. They walked me down the hill to where all the vehicles were parked and sat me down in the back of an ambulance under the watchful eye of a young local cop. The paramedic, starved for something to do, examined me for injuries.
An SUV with the logo of the Bedford Press on the door arrived, driven by an elderly gentleman with a Nikon and a steno pad. He ambled up the trail to the crash site, where firemen and paramedics, starkly illuminated by emergency lights, were dragging one of the bodies up on a rescue sled. The chugging of the little Honda generators, the overlapping chatter from all the competing radios, and the frantic recovery effort gave the scene an air of urgency it really didn't need. Those two guys weren't going anywhere.
Neither, it appeared, was I. The senior on scene representatives of each law enforcement group trooped down from the cold of the crash site to the relative warmth near the coffee truck. They did not look happy. From the staccato puffs of frozen breath, and the occasional baleful glance thrown in my direction, it was a turf war, with me as the prize. I couldn't hear what they were saying over all the noise, but it certainly wasn't about who was giving me a ride to the airport.
The paramedic smoothed a butterfly bandage across a cut on my forehead I hadn't noticed, no doubt the result of one of my many tumbles off the snowmobile.
“You should come down to the hospital,” he said, “that might need a stitch.”
“I'm a fast healer. Don't worry about it.”
“Well, you should still go in.” He peeled off his green latex gloves with a snapping sound. “You can’t be too careful with head trauma. Might have a concussion. You should get your head examined.”
“You have no idea how often I hear that.”
The local police chief, sixtyish and stocky, disengaged himself from the others and came over to the ambulance. He moved slowly, but he didn’t look stupid.
“Give us a moment, Ted?” The paramedic nodded and went over to the coffee wagon. The townie said, “Sure thing, Chief” and followed him.
“I’m Chief McAllister.” He was idly chewing a wad of gum. “I’d appreciate you coming down the station. I understand you were an eyewitness.”
“Is that how the old man with the Winchester described me? Eyewitness? You know, the guy who shot at me?”
He glanced up, then looked down at the ground, nodded, and chewed his gum some more.
“He doesn't say he saw you shoot those two. Only that he heard shots, came out, found his employer lying dead and you riding away.”
“And he shot at me... why?”
“Heat of the moment. Shock. George ain't so quick anymore, if you know what I mean. Eyesight's not so good.”
“Lucky for me.”
“Look, I only want to clear this up.”
I stood up. “And the fastest way to clear this up is to pin it on me.”
He didn't bat an eyebrow. “You don't know me, so I am not taking that personally.” He sighed. “I'm a hunter, son. Get a deer every year. Since I was twelve.”
“So you're Natty Bumpo. How does that help me?”
He was a patient man; I had to give him that. A city cop would have smacked me by now. “I've been over there to see Mr. Epstein and that other fella. I know when someone's been shot with a high-powered rifle. And I can tell just by looking it wasn't done close up.”
“I'm happy for you. Problem is facts are often not as important as political expediency. I'm sure your D.A. is planning to run for reelection someday. I'll wait for a lawyer, if it's all the same to you.”
He nodded again, unwilling to be hurried. “I figure, all things being equal, I should get first crack at clearing this up. Our friends over there, however, all want you badly. Those FBI fellas are particularly keen. They’re floating the idea you are some kind of terrorist.”
“Allah be praised.”
He looked at the toe of his right boot, with which he was gently pushing around a piece of wood.
“I detect,” he said, in a reasonable tone, “that you are one hell of a funny guy. But, you see, I’ve got four dead bodies, all within my jurisdiction. I got Feds and state police and the mayor, all exploring my alimentary canal. And pretty soon I figure I'll hear from the governor, too. It's shaping up to be just that kind of a night.” He looked up at me. “And on top of all that, I got you. Near as I can tell, you have been in town less than one day a
nd in that brief span of time about a hundred forty years of peace and quiet have become a distant memory. My little corner of the world, where I had hoped to spend my twilight years issuing parking tickets and sobering up the town drunk, is starting to look like the Ice Follies version of Fallujah. Now, I have no problem, no problem whatsoever, locking you up as a material witness for as long as it takes until I get some answers. So, what do you say, can I get your cooperation? Can we modify the attitude and stop your Improv act for a few hours? If I find no reason to hold you, you can be on your way tomorrow morning. How’s that sound?”
I smiled brightly. “I’m your man, Chief.”
“Thank you. I'll have Gordy run you down to the station.” He waved over the young cop who had been guarding me.
A flash of headlights distracted him. A black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows squeezed through the emergency vehicles and passed right by where we stood, continuing just into the darkness beyond. The brake lights glowed for a moment. There was a brief rectangle of light, followed by the sound of a car door. Moments later, a tall, slim man materialized out of the night.
“Holy fucking shit,” I said, softly.
“What is it?” said McAllister.
“An asshole in a Cossack hat.”
Richard Imperatrice, the aforementioned asshole, approached my fan club and introduced himself. Rich had always loved the winter, because it gave him a chance to wear his Burberry scarf, and that frigging Cossack hat. I had to admit he did stand out amongst the polyester uniform coats and off the rack suits. From this distance, the aquiline features of that matinee idol face appeared unchanged from the last time I'd seen him. His expression was still a placid look of suave self-confidence that made women want him, and men want to kick him in the nuts.
“I take it you know each other,” said McAllister.
“He used to be my boss. A long time ago.”
Briggs, Stanton, and the state police captain paused in their discussion to speak briefly with Imperatrice. He nodded and stepped away. As the arguing resumed, Imperatrice looked over at me. No hint of surprise, no flash of recognition disturbed his calm facade. He strolled over to where I was standing.
“Hello, Nick,” he said, extending a hand, “been a long time.” We shook hands, briefly. He was wearing a pigskin glove, so I wasn't worried about catching anything.
“You don't seem surprised to see me, Dick” I said.
“Richard,” he said,
“To me you’ll always be a Dick.”
He gestured with his thumb back towards the limo. “Your name came up on the police radio.”
“On the other hand, imagine my surprise. What the fuck are you doing here?”
He ignored my question and turned to McAllister. They shook hands. “Hi, Chief. Richard Imperatrice. We met at a reception a year ago.”
“I remember,” said McAllister. “I assume you're here about your snow machine.”
“Yes. As you probably know, we reported it stolen today.”
“We?” I said.
“Mr. Imperatrice is head of security for Ranger Ridge.”
“Actually, for all of Verdugo,” said Imperatrice, who, as he had already reminded me, liked correcting people. “And please, Chief. Call me Richard.”
The Chief nodded. “Gordy told me about the report your people called in. Any idea who might have taken it? Or when?”
Imperatrice shook his head. “No. It's one of about two dozen. They're kept in a yard, of course, with the Cats and other equipment.”
“Surveillance tapes?” I said.
He smiled the way you smile at a small child who ventures into an adult conversation unbidden. “No, Nick. It really doesn't warrant that kind of security.”
“Hello!” I said, in my best valley girl voice.
He smiled again and turned back to McAllister.
“So,” said the Chief, “you're not even sure when it was stolen.”
“No. We don't use all the snow machines every day, so it's impossible to say when this one went missing. We've never had anything like this happen before. And to be involved in something like this, well, it's just a tragedy.”
“Hamlet's a tragedy,” I said. “This is a clusterfuck.”
He smiled, displaying perfect teeth whiter than new snow. “Nice to know you haven't changed, Nick.” Then he turned back to McAllister. “Anything we can do to help clear this up. I just feel horrible.” To me he didn't look all that broken up, but then he never did.
“I'll let you know,” said McAllister.
“Chief!” It was Briggs, calling over from the huddle. He held up a cell phone and gestured McAllister over.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Imperatrice and I stood in silence for a moment. Finally, he said, “I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your wife. She was a fine woman.”
“She thought you were a prick.”
“I'm sure you're exaggerating.”
“Nope, that was the word. Prick. Dick the prick.”
“If only I'd known she was in there that day,” he said, as if I hadn't spoken. Nothing fazed the guy. “I'd have done whatever I could to make sure she got out safely.”
“Got yourself out PDQ, I heard.”
He nodded, a solemn look on his face. “I wasn't taking any chances.” His expression changed to one of mild curiosity. “I was surprised to learn you weren't there that day. That was lucky for you.”
“If you say so.”
“I hope you’ve found peace, Nick.” His expression became reflective. “I know I did, thanks to Jesus.”
“Say what?”
“Yes, I was born again, Nick.”
“I’m still upset about the first time.”
He smiled. “That anger. The Lord can help you with that.”
“How has he helped you?”
“Well, for one thing,” he said, looking directly at me, the lotus eater smile fading, his voice taking on an edge, “I know whatever I do I’ll be forgiven.”
The smile came back and he turned away. I looked over where McAllister was having an exchange with Stanton. McAllister shook his head. Briggs was a little off to the side, with the State Police captain, who was on a cell phone. He finished and handed the phone to Briggs. Briggs passed the phone to McAllister, who looked at it as if it might bite him.
“So,” I said to Imperatrice, “civilian life seems to be treating you well.”
“I can't complain,” he said.
“Verdugo, huh?” He nodded. “What do they do?”
“High end resorts, construction.”
“Sweet.”
He brushed a snowflake off his lapel. “It's a living.”
“Until they find out what an incompetent bastard you are.”
He gave me a weird smile. “We’ll just have to hope that doesn’t happen.”
McAllister handed the phone back to Briggs, who said his good-byes and snapped it shut. McAllister started strolling unhurriedly back to me. Briggs and Stanton made to follow, but the Chief stopped and held up his hand. When the two halted, he turned and continued over to me.
“Excuse us, Mr. Imperatrice.”
“Certainly. And again, Chief McAllister, please call me Richard.” He patted McAllister lightly on the shoulder as he walked away. McAllister watched him go.
“That young man seems a mite slippery.”
“He comes by it naturally. His father was a snake.”
“Yeah, well anyway.” He shuffled his feet. “I've been outranked, son.”
“Who was that on the phone?”
“The governor, just as I predicted. Seems you're to go with the FBI.”
“Oh, goody.”
“You don't know the half of it. The governor mentioned the Patriot Act.”
“Oy vey.”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “Seems like they use that thing for whatever they please.” He sighed. “Look, someday, assuming you are ever heard from again, can you let me know
what this was all about?”
“Sure,” I said, “but, in case I don't get mail privileges in Uzbekistan, the rifle is up along the power line, under the third tower from the tracks. They rented a car at Albany airport. Hertz. And one of them spoke German to me before he died. They struck me as ex-military.”
“Thanks,” he said, “I appreciate that.”
I leaned in closer. “One of them had a cell phone. It’s in the trees on the opposite side.”
“You like to play things cute, don’t you?”
“It’s a good time to be cute. If you choose to push this investigation, Chief, be quiet and careful. Might be safest to just leave it alone.”
He nodded and we shook hands. I started towards Briggs and Stanton. As I approached, Stanton pulled out his handcuffs
16.
The ride to New York City was long and uncomfortable. Briggs drove, even though he was clearly senior, which didn't speak well of Stanton's driving skills. They stopped once at the Thruway rest stop in Suffern to get themselves some coffee and let me pee. Stanton insisted on handcuffing me to the urinal. He learned a valuable life lesson about strategic positioning when I pissed on his shoes.
A combination of accidents and construction made the Tappan Zee crossing, normally about three minutes, take an hour and a half. Things just went downhill from there. By the time we arrived in lower Manhattan, it was after 10:00 AM. Briggs pulled into a secure underground parking lot and we rode the elevator to the twenty-third floor of 26 Federal Plaza, where the New York field office of the FBI is located. When we entered the bullpen, all activity seemed to stop and everyone froze.
“Why is that man in handcuffs?” said John Roma, the words coming in a staccato burst.
“I-we,” said Briggs.
“Take them off,” said Roma.
John Roma was not a large man. In fact, he was less than average height, but his slight build only accentuated his large head, giving him an oddly commanding presence. His Italian heritage was clear in the wiry black hair combed straight back and the big features of his long face. A pair of reading glasses was affixed - permanently, legend held - to his large fleshy nose. He was peering balefully over the half lenses at Stanton, who was frantically digging out his cuff key. Briggs just stood there trying to figure out what he’d missed. Roma turned on him, pointing at the manila envelope in Briggs’ hand.
