The Contract

by JM Gulvin

  The Contract

  A John Q Thriller

  JM Gulvin

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Also by JM Gulvin

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  For my wife, Kim

  In memory of Gary Hirstius

  1956–2012

  ‘Always have, always will’

  One

  A dry heat drifting on a northern breeze, Franklin drove into town from the east. Cold blue eyes and cropped blond hair, he wore an open-necked shirt and slacks. Halfway along Main Street he saw the Oldsmobile parked outside the Dairy-Ette.

  Inside the diner, Scott Henderson perched on a stool with a cup of coffee before him; he toyed with a sugar spoon. Floppy hair and red in the cheek, his gaze seemed to shift from the other patrons to the middle-aged waitress in a candy stripe outfit as she worked the counter with a dampened cloth. Wiley was watching TV. Long greased hair, he wore a combat jacket with the collar high. The TV was loud enough to hear Muhammad Ali tell the interviewer he didn’t care if they stripped him of his title, he wasn’t going to Vietnam.

  ‘You done?’ Henderson said.

  Wiley got to his feet. ‘He is. Sonofabitch don’t want to fight for his country then he won’t be fighting at all.’

  Franklin watched from his car as they climbed into the Super 88. Wiley driving, they followed an old farm pickup till it turned into the TexGas Station where fuel was twenty-one cents a gallon and they doubled on Texas Gold.

  ‘You ever buy anything with them stamps?’ Wiley indicated the weak-looking neon sign.

  Henderson shook his head. ‘My mom used to collect them, still does most probably; used to have us the catalog and all.’

  They drove almost the length of Main Street then slowed as they came to Hemmings gun store. Pulling into a parking space two doors down Wiley shut off the engine and stared at the window where a lackluster display of hunting jackets was beginning to fade.

  The stub of a cigar in his mouth, old man Hemmings was halfway from the counter to the door when the two men stepped inside. Late sixties, he was heavy set with a grizzled mop of graying hair. ‘Lunchtime, fellers, I’m about to close.’

  Briefly Wiley looked at him then he dropped the dead bolt on the door. When he turned he had a thirty-eight in his hand and he cracked the old man over the head. Hemmings went down with a moan in his throat and his eyelids working like the wings of a butterfly. Breath harsh, the remains of his cigar lost to the sticky red blood that was beginning to form a pool.

  ‘Fetch one of them duffels yonder.’ Wiley pointed to a shelf holding a stack of heavy-duty canvas bags.

  Leaving the old man where he lay they moved behind the counter and Wiley’s gaze settled on a Garand M1C. Pressing the butt to his shoulder he worked the bolt action and dry-fired before dumping the rifle in the bag. Back at the rack he reached for a shotgun, stowed that then reached for another and shoved it in the bag as well. Using the butt of his pistol he smashed the glass cabinet where the handguns were displayed. A shadow at the window made Henderson look up and he saw someone pause on the sidewalk outside. The middle-aged waitress who had served them at the lunch counter was at the door with a hand cupped to her eyes. She saw the man on the floor. She saw the blood. Finally she spotted the two men and scurried across the road.

  Stowing the last of the weapons Wiley grabbed two boxes of double-ought cartridges and picked up his thirty-eight. Stepping over the stricken storekeeper he unlocked the door and popped the trunk on the Olds. Grabbing one of the shotguns he threw the duffel inside.

  Henderson was fumbling for keys as a state trooper’s Plymouth turned onto Main Street coming from the north. Wiley stepped into the road with his eyes a little glassy and the shotgun held hip-high. The trooper slammed on his brakes, but the shot rang out and the front of the Plymouth just seemed to explode. The radiator popped and water spewed, the hood crumpling up with bits of metal tearing off and glass from the windshield littering the road. Wiley let go a second time and flames whooshed from spilled gasoline.

  Fifty yards up the road Franklin saw it all unfold through the windshield of his car. He saw the cruiser go up and the long-haired man jump into the Olds. Walking the block he came to a drugstore and made his way to the phone booth in the back. ‘I’m in Deacon’s Mount,’ he said when the call was answered. ‘The gun store, I think we have a problem here.’

  Two

  Ten miles south Quarrie swung off the highway into Hank Miller’s Diner, half-listening to a show on the radio where some old guy from New Orleans was talking about the number of young black men swapping the church for the Nation of Islam. Twisting the dial he switched stations to a discussion on how the drought was so severe right now ranchers and farmers had to slot coins at designated street pumps if they were to have any water at all.

  Turning off the engine he had the window rolled down as a car hop came over and took his order for coffee with sugar and crème. She brought it on a tray she fixed to the door and a couple of minutes later the shortwave crackled with static.

  ‘Two-Eleven, Deacon’s Mount. Officer down, repeat: officer down . . .’ The voice was breathless and panicked. Quarrie lifted the handset and pressed the transmit button.

  ‘Trooper, this is Ranger Sergeant Quarrie. I’m outside Hank Miller’s Diner on 287 about ten miles south of your position.’

  ‘Car’s on fire,’ the man gasped. ‘Glass from the windshield stuck in my shoulder, two suspects headed your way . . .’ The voice tailed into static again and Quarrie changed channels. ‘This is Ranger unit Zero-Six: dispatch, do you copy?’

  ‘Roger that, Zero-Six, go ahead.’

  ‘Did you get all that?’

  ‘Yes, we did, I’ll get an ambulance out there and have backup with you as soon as possible.’

  Returning the transmitter to its hook Quarrie flipped the sun visor forward and reached to where his sunglasses were folded. Behind them was a photo of Mary-Clare taken twelve months before she died. For a moment he studied her picture then fired up the engine and pulled out onto the road. Minutes later he picked out a pale colored dot heading his way against two lanes of shimmering blacktop.

  *

  Henderson was driving. He looked sideways where Wiley lighted a cigarette, the shotgun upright between his knees.

  ‘That went well,’ Henderson said.

  ‘Quit worrying, kid.’ Wiley blew smoke. ‘Couple of miles down the road we’ll have us another set of wheels and they’ll be looking for this here Olds.’

  Henderson had both hands gripping the wheel; foot hard on the gas he was touching ninety miles an hour. Up ahead he saw a car coming the other way, the first they had passed since town. Gray, unmarked, a Buick Riviera with a clam shell grille. Henderson caught a glimpse of the driver a
s they flew by. Picking up the hunted expression in his eyes Wiley laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Do you know that guy?’

  Peering in the mirror Henderson saw the car pull to the side of the road then spin all the way around.

  ‘What’s up, Scott?’ Twisting where he sat Wiley glanced over his shoulder. ‘Who the hell is that?’

  Henderson let a breath creep audibly over his teeth. ‘I think that’s a Texas Ranger. The other car you talked about, we have to get this rig off the road.’

  A hundred yards behind, Quarrie had the Riviera shifting through the gears. He was thinking about the landscape ahead, how they would pass Hank Miller’s place again pretty soon and after that there were a couple of ranch roads but that was all. Flipping the switch for the red light he set the siren to howl. Stepping on the gas, the car surged forward as cold air was sucked through the intake and within seconds he was tailgating the Olds. If he had recognized him correctly that was Scott Henderson behind the wheel.

  Backing off a fraction he pulled across the yellow line and then accelerated to come alongside. Jabbing with pointed fingers he indicated for Henderson to pull over and briefly the boy glanced his way. He did not slow down and the long-haired man in the passenger seat had the shotgun levelled at the window. Instinctively Quarrie lifted his foot off the gas and the Olds carried on for another hundred yards before Henderson braked sharply then swung across the opposing lane. All but on two wheels the car rattled between fence posts and leapt a cattle guard, dust flying as it hit the dirt road.

  Reaching to the dashboard Quarrie lifted the radio handset. ‘Dispatch, this is Zero-Six. Light green Olds exited 287 at Ranch to Market 835. Am in pursuit, have ambulance and wrecker standing by.’

  Bringing the Buick around he swung across the blacktop and split the fence posts, staying far enough back from the Oldsmobile so as not to be blinded by dust. He knew this road, nothing much up here save an old wreck of a house that should long since have been torn down. It was possible this was part of their plan and they had another car ready to go. He thought about how the road cut through stands of oak and zig-zagged around the hill before carrying a trestle that forded the creek. There was another option rather than follow them and he considered the hunting rifle he had in the trunk. Just ahead the road forked, and instead of tailgating the Olds Quarrie took the other trail.

  Pulling up to the side of the hill he got out of the car and unhooked the rifle where it was clipped to the underside of the trunk lid. He checked the pair of three-fifty-seven Blackhawks he wore western style on his hips then slung the rifle over his shoulder and started up the slope. Trees grew in patches, the trail a little scaly underfoot; in leather-soled boots it made the going slick. At the top of the rise he took off his hat and worked a palm through the sweat in his hair. It would take a moment for them to make it all the way around and from this vantage point he could see the old trestle built across the dried up creek. Beyond it was a battered-looking house. Using the rifle scope he picked a lean-to and a station wagon partially hidden by rusty-looking roofing tin.

  The car came into view and Quarrie could see that Henderson was driving more slowly. Directly in front of where he was standing a boulder jutted and he secured his left foot then rested his elbow on his thigh. If memory served him right that boy had done two years in Ferguson and was barely out of pre-release now. Wrapping the shoulder strap around his left arm he sighted. Seven millimeter with the Mauser action; he paused long enough to allow his breathing to shallow then took out the near side front tire. The driver lost control, the car slewed to the right before slamming into a tree.

  They were walking. As he came up on the incapacitated vehicle he could see its doors were open and the two men were hauling a canvas hold-all between them. They stopped when they heard the rumble of the Buick’s engine and the wild-looking guy dropped his side of the bag.

  Crossing the bridge Quarrie came on with the engine at barely more than an idle. He stopped thirty yards from where they stood and switched the motor off. Then he opened the door. Henderson looked at him and he looked back where the boy had an automatic trailing from his hand. He was wearing blue jeans and a denim jacket with a ten-dollar transistor radio protruding from the breast pocket. Henderson dropped the gun on the ground then placed both hands on top of his head while the other man stared wide-eyed.

  ‘Wiley, we’re done here,’ he stated. ‘There’s but one road out and you can see how it’s blocked. We’re looking at assault with a deadly weapon, robbing a gun store and I’m still on parole.’

  Quarrie stepped out from behind the door and Wiley’s gaze drifted from his face to the pistols strapped on his hips.

  Wiley racked a round into the shotgun’s chamber and Quarrie stood his ground. Left hand hooked in his belt, his right hung loose at his side. ‘You need to listen to your buddy,’ he said. ‘There’s no way out. That other car, the one at the shack, you ain’t going to make it that far.’ Still he held Wiley’s gaze. ‘Things might not be as bad as you figure. I talked to the trooper on the radio just now and his car is wrecked all right but he ain’t shot up so you got that much going for you.’

  ‘We clubbed old man Hemmings, John Q,’ Henderson piped up. ‘Pistol whipped him, bleeding when we left out he was.’

  Quarrie did not look at him. He kept his eyes on Wiley. ‘Hemmings is a tough old bird. He can survive a pistol whipping.’ He spoke to Wiley again. ‘You want to shoot at me you can do that. I die and it’ll be the chair you got to look forward to, but the odds are I put you down.’

  Wiley did not speak and he did not look at Henderson. His gaze was fixed on Quarrie and he stood with a hip thrust out where he rested the butt of the shotgun. For a second he seemed to waver and Quarrie thought he might just do as he said. But then he saw the way his shoulders hunched, how his eyes dulled and the corner of his lip seemed to pucker just a fraction. He saw the twitch of his knuckle in the trigger guard but before Wiley could squeeze he drew a pistol and covered the hammer.

  Wiley lay face down on the ground with his hair scattered across the dust and blood snaking a crimson trail. Henderson stood a couple of paces away with no color in his face and Quarrie stared at the dead man conscious of the metallic taste in his mouth. ‘Are we done here, Scott?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Henderson’s voice was barely more than a murmur. ‘Been that way since I put the piece down.’

  The duffel lay on the ground a little way from where Wiley sprawled. Quarrie holstered his gun and settled the hammer clip. Unhooking a pair of handcuffs from his belt he tossed them over to Henderson. ‘Fix yourself up in front then set on that rock where I can see you yonder.’

  Henderson did as he was told and Quarrie dropped to his haunches to check the contents of the duffel: shotguns and handguns. His eyes narrowed as he saw the rifle.

  ‘So talk to me,’ he said. ‘I know how you only just got done with prison already. What the hell were you thinking?’

  Henderson did not say anything.

  Feeling in his shirt pocket for cigarettes Quarrie shook two out and lit them both then passed one across to Henderson. ‘So who is this guy and what’s with all the hardware?’

  Henderson released a breath. ‘Wasn’t my idea, John Q, I only met him after I got done with pre-release. I guess we split us a pitcher. He’s a Veteran, been in country for a couple of tours. All he told me was how he needed to get hold of a rifle. Never said nothing about no other guns and I figure he fixed on taking all he could carry.’

  ‘What did he want with the rifle?’

  ‘Beats me, weren’t any kind of talker and I know how not to be asking.’

  ‘So why hook up with him in the first place? What did he promise you?’

  ‘Five hundred dollars.’ Henderson sucked on his cigarette. ‘Asked me if I knew a gun store where the pickings were easy and promised me five hundred bucks.’

  Crushing his cigarette carefully in the dirt Quarrie went back to the dead man
and rolled him over. In the distance he could hear the wail of a siren. Wiley had taken two bullets about an inch apart and his shirt was coated with blood and dust. Quarrie went through his pockets and found thirty dollars in cash, a driver’s license and a card from the Veterans’ Association. In his wallet was a slip of paper with the word Jacinto scribbled on it.

  ‘What’s this?’ He showed the paper to Henderson. ‘Out of San Jacinto County is he or are we talking Dallas?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I got no idea.’

  Stuffing the paper inside his own wallet Quarrie fetched a piece of tarp from the trunk of his car and laid it over the dead man. Picking up the fallen shotgun he took both Henderson’s pistol and the one from Wiley and wrapped them in a sheet of see-through plastic. Stowing that and the duffel in the trunk he drove Henderson back to the wrecked Oldsmobile. Settling him in the driver’s seat he unhooked one of the handcuffs before securing it again through the steering wheel.

  Three

  Leaving the highway patrol to deal with Henderson he drove to Deacon’s Mount and pulled over by the state trooper’s wrecked vehicle. A couple of city cops were looking on but most of the rubberneckers had been and gone. Squaring his hat on his head Quarrie took a good look at the vehicle.

  ‘Just a hell of a mess, Sergeant, ain’t it?’ The younger of the two cops had sweat staining his shirt at the armpits.

  ‘How’s old man Hemmings?’ Quarrie said.

  ‘Took him a whack on the head but he was conscious when they loaded him into the ambulance.’

  Walking down to the gun store Quarrie nodded to a third officer as he ducked under the ‘Do Not Cross’ tape. The floor was covered in glass where the handgun cabinet had been smashed and he was careful to avoid blood where it stained the linoleum. On the wall behind the counter a few rifles still hung on hooks as well as a couple of shotguns. Quarrie thought about the M1C he had found in the bag. There was nothing else to see in the store so he went back outside and shook a Camel from his pack. Offering one to the city cop he asked him where he’d find the woman who called this in. The cop directed him up the road to the Dairy-Ette.