by Alex Barclay
Sonny Bryant had got a perfect score in his EMT exams, so he knew exactly how he was going to die. He knew that the kind, smiling sheriff beside him knew how he was going to die. His limbs were crushed. As soon as the weight of the snow was taken away, toxins would rush to his bloodstream. His kidneys wouldn’t take it. There were no IV fluids. There was only a half-liter of water that was almost gone. That was it. It wasn’t enough. Bob Gage was holding his hand. Should he look him in the eye when they pulled him free? He didn’t really want to leave Bob with an image that could haunt him for life. But he didn’t want to stare into the blank white snow. Just in case wherever he was going was blank too.
5
The Summit County Medical Center stood on Highway 9 in Frisco. The Flight-for-Life helicopter hadn’t moved from its hangar outside. Two hours after the avalanche hit, an ambulance had carried Denis Lasco and Mike Delaney from the trailhead. Lasco’s deputy had arrived to take Sonny Bryant to the morgue in the van he used to call the Deathmobile.
Bob Gage stood by the window in Mike Delaney’s hospital room. Mike was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in a navy sweatshirt and baggy track pants, pushing his feet into sneakers.
‘We were pretty fucking lucky up there,’ said Mike.
‘No shit,’ said Bob. ‘No shit.’ He shook his head. ‘Christ Almighty, though, Sonny Bryant …’
‘Poor kid.’
‘Harve’s a mess. He wanted to know every detail. He was clinging to me, thanking me – for what, I don’t know – then asking me to go through what happened over and over again. I was half-thinking of saying that Sonny said to tell them all he loved them. Then I thought that would be a shitty thing to do. Then I thought yeah, it would mean Sonny would have known he was going to die, which would mean that that would have been absolutely frightening –’
‘Bob, Bob …’ said Mike. ‘Take a breath, OK? Take it easy. You did everything you could for Sonny, and I’m sure you’ll do everything you can for Harve, if he needs you.’
Bob didn’t say anything for a little while. When he finally spoke, his voice was showing cracks. ‘I just … don’t want to be elevated to some special status because I was the last person to see his son alive. Or he thinks I’m this great hero who tried to save him. I mean, there you were, Mike, with all your mountain experience; there’s Lasco, a guy who knows all about the human body. So when you think about it, I am literally the last person who could have saved Sonny Bryant.’
‘Bob, that’s bullshit. None of us could have saved Sonny. Look, it makes no sense, but someone up there thought it was his time to go.’
‘At nineteen,’ said Bob.
‘At nineteen.’ Mike stood up. ‘Life fucking sucks.’
Bob followed him to the door. They took the elevator to the floor below. In a room at the end of the hallway, Denis Lasco lay sleeping.
‘Damn that Heavy D,’ said Bob, looking through the window. ‘Here I am, giving a shit.’
‘The laxative of concern,’ said Mike.
‘Where’s my camera?’ Lasco shouted, trying to struggle up from his bed.
Bob and Mike rushed into the room.
‘Whoa,’ said Bob. ‘Lasco, lay back down for Christ’s sake.’
Lasco collapsed on to the bed, freaking out when he saw the IV line, the hospital bed, the incongruity of worry in Bob and Mike’s faces.
‘Hey,’ said Bob, putting a hand on Lasco’s. ‘You’re all right, you’re all right. Take it easy.’
‘Don’t cry on us,’ said Mike, smiling.
Lasco squeezed his fingers to his eyes. ‘Jesus. That was the worst … that …’ He paused ‘I’ve never …’
‘Damn right it was,’ said Bob. ‘And here we all are, OK? We’re good. We’re living to tell the tale.’
‘Have I been out long?’ said Lasco.
‘Not long enough,’ said Bob.
‘Where’s my camera?’
‘In a snowy grave,’ said Bob.
‘That was brand new,’ said Lasco. ‘Top of the range. And all the photos I took of the scene …’
Bob’s phone rang. He held up a finger to Lasco and took the call.
‘You have to be shitting me,’ said Bob. He paused. ‘Jesus Christ. Sit on this for now. I’ll call you.’ He snapped his phone shut. ‘Your camera’s the least of our problems,’ said Bob. He stared up at the ceiling. ‘It turns out the body’s gone too.’
‘What?’ said Mike.
‘Search and Rescue weren’t able to locate it,’ said Bob. ‘That’s it. Swept away in the slide.’
‘What?’ said Lasco. ‘What? It was on top of me! How’d you get me out without pulling the body off of me?’
‘It wasn’t there when I checked on you,’ said Bob. ‘I guess you blacked out when it landed on you. It probably slid right over your head, kept on trucking.’
Lasco turned his head into the pillow, pressing his hand to his stomach.
Mike turned to Bob. ‘Are they going back up there to get it?’
‘Hell, no. They got us out. Hung around as long as they had to. But it’s way too unstable. They won’t risk anyone else.’ He shrugged. ‘Shit. No body. We’re going to have to have a press conference.’ He shook his head. ‘So … let’s get in agreement about a few things. OK. Victim – female, aged between thirty and forty –’
‘Or male,’ said Lasco.
‘What do you mean “or male”?’ said Bob.
‘The body was wedged right in. We could only see from the chest up, really.’
‘So you’re saying you didn’t see tits and a va-jay-jay, so it could be a male? Give me a break. This noncommittal thing of yours is starting to get ridiculous.’
Lasco looked patiently at him. ‘Well, I’m still not sure you’re getting it,’ he said. ‘How many scenes have I been to where you guys have messed with shit before I show up? Pulling up people’s pants, taking weapons and laying them on a night stand … You guys walk in and take a guess at what happened. What you need to do is go on exactly what is there in front of you. Not what you’re adding to the picture. I could imagine all kinds of things happened to that body, but it doesn’t mean I would be correct.’
Bob stared through him. ‘FEMALE, aged thirty to forty, maroon jacket, white stripes down the arms. A navy blue wool hat?’
‘Fleece,’ said Lasco.
‘Fleece,’ said Bob. He was writing as he spoke. ‘What about eye color?’
‘Hard to say,’ said Lasco. ‘I wouldn’t be happy making that call.’
‘Hair?’
‘Hat.’
‘Nothing sticking out?’
‘I don’t recall.’
Bob looked patiently at Mike.
‘Obviously, neither do you,’ said Lasco.
‘Yeah,’ cos you’re so good about letting us get close to the body.’ He paused. ‘So,’ he said, ‘in conclusion, we have … fuck all.’
‘Oh,’ said Lasco. ‘Flashback: her hair went up my nose. Blonde.’
Bob sucked in a breath.
‘Oh,’ said Lasco. ‘Gunshot wound. Massive exit wound through her back.’
‘Holy shit,’ said Bob. He paused. ‘But why gunshot? You sure that wasn’t a puncture wound, a tree branch …’
‘No. It was a GSW,’ said Lasco.
‘You sure?’ said Bob. ‘It wasn’t a hole made by some chopsticks, a broom handle? Let’s keep one of those open minds here.’
‘Ha. Ha,’ said Lasco.
‘Ha. Ha. Ha,’ said Bob. He sat on the edge of the bed and closed his notebook. ‘I’m not looking forward to this shitstorm,’ he said. ‘Not one bit.’
There was a knock on the door. Bob walked over and opened it a crack. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How you doing?’ He turned back to Lasco. ‘It’s a special visit from some Special Agents.’
The Summit County Sheriff’s Office and the FBI were friends with benefits; one had local knowledge, the other had extra manpower, big budgets and technical resources. There were four hundred FBI residen
t agencies – RAs – across the United States, usually with one to three agents. The closest one to Breckenridge was in Glenwood Springs, one hundred miles west in Garfield County.
‘We were on a call-out to Frisco,’ said Tiny Gressett. ‘We heard the report, thought we’d stop by, see how Mr Lasco is … see if there’s anything we can do.’
There was no irony in Tiny Gressett’s name – a hair cut would have put him under the FBI height requirement. He was in his fifties with the lined, papery face of a smoker and the wind-burn of a mountain man. He had wavy black hair and razor-shy sideburns.
‘You enjoy the snow today?’ he said to Lasco.
‘Total blast,’ said Lasco.
Todd Austerval stepped a shy foot toward the patient. He was tall, blond and in his early thirties, straight-nosed with sharp cheekbones. He should have been more handsome, but he had a snarly mouth and blue eyes two shades too pale to ever warm. He spent his life trying to soften his appearance with good humor. ‘Heard you were snowcorpsing.’
‘Nothing is sacred around here,’ said Lasco.
‘Sure isn’t,’ said Gressett.
There was another knock at the door.
‘Let me get that,’ said Gressett.
The door pushed open anyway and one of the new recruits from the Sheriff’s Office walked in. He paused when he saw the two men in suits and looked, panicked, to Bob and Mike.
‘Uh, we got an ID,’ he said. ‘One of the Search and Rescue guys found it. Where you were at, Mr Lasco.’ He turned to Gressett and Todd. ‘I’m sorry. Are you guys FBI?’
They nodded. ‘Yes. From Glenwood.’
Lasco had an instant stab of memory – he had held that ID in his hand. He had waved it at the others: FBI creds.
6
Denver, Colorado
The Livestock Exchange Building was over one hundred years old with a history that had nothing to do with law enforcement. In skinny white type on the first-floor directory of offices, individual letters spelled out The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force, up there with the Colorado Brand Inspectors and Maverick Press. Behind the building was the Stockyard Inn and Saloon.
Gary Dettling sat in his office, reading an angry-wife email addressed to Stupid Stupid Asshole. After a while getting his breathing under control, he picked up the phone.
‘Yeah, OK, I get it. Supervisory Special Agent: Stupid Stupid Asshole. Do I get a prize?’
His wife bitched about her being his prize, something about playing with the box. Gary rolled his eyes, then let them wander to the photo on the wall beside him. It was a group shot of the twenty-six agents he had trained, all of them with paper bags over their heads; the UCEs – Under Cover Employees. He wanted a paper bag for his wife. Or a plastic one.
‘Gotta go,’ he said. ‘Something urgent is happening somewhere urgent. Urgently.’
‘You asshole.’
‘Stupid Stupid.’
She hung up. He loved her deeply, the crazy bitch. And he always fought for the things he loved. Gary was a violent crime expert and five years earlier had set this up – the FBI Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. He had fought the FBI, the chiefs of the local police departments – everyone who thought it was wrong to create a multi-agency task force and house it in a nine-dollars-a-square-foot non-federal building. The nine men and one woman who made up the unit were a mix of state troopers, local detectives, sheriff’s department investigators and FBI agents, all sharing the old-school bullpen next to Gary’s office. Egos were checked at the door and no one gave a shit who was from what agency. They worked robberies, kidnapping, sexual assault on children, serial killers, violent fugitives and crimes against persons in federal prisons, military bases, national parks and Indian reservations.
‘Hey, where’s our beloved Ren Bryce today?’ said Robbie Truax, the youngest – twenty-nine, toned, tanned and talky; Aurora PD’s contribution to Safe Streets. He was kneeling on a chair by the window looking out at the fire escape. A hawk was slicing back and forth through the entrails of a dead pigeon like he was stitching up a wound.
‘Nice work, buddy,’ he said. He turned around. ‘So where is she?’
‘Stout Street?’ said Cliff. Cliff James was fifty-two years old and had spent twenty-five-years with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office. Stout Street was the FBI federal building in downtown Denver, a high-security, bulletproof-glass-fronted, charmless offensive.
Robbie shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘Where was she last night?’ said Cliff.
‘What do you mean?’ said Robbie.
‘Drinks at Gaffney’s. She didn’t show,’ said Cliff.
‘I wasn’t there either,’ said Robbie.
‘Yeah? You weren’t invited,’ said Colin. Colin Grabien was a short, dark-haired angry bulldog who had transferred from the FBI’s White Collar Squad. He had a gift for numbers and for letting people know he had a gift for numbers.
‘Yeah, I was,’ said Robbie.
‘Yeah, I was,’ whined Colin.
‘Shut the hell up,’ said Robbie, always dodging the F-word. ‘Anyway, she didn’t say anything about not showing today.’
‘She’s probably too busy fucking Vincent,’ said Colin.
‘In fairness,’ said Robbie, ‘Vincent is never going to be the one doing the … you know.’
Cliff gave a gentleman’s chuckle.
Robbie looked up and saw what Colin Grabien was about to do.
‘Aw, screw you,’ said Robbie, scrambling back to his desk. ‘Screw you.’
Ren walked into the bullpen. Robbie hadn’t made it as far as his desk. He was curled on the floor with his hands over his face. Red rubber bands bounced off him from Colin’s desk. And Cliff’s.
‘Agent down, agent down,’ said Cliff.
‘You got my eye, dude,’ said Robbie. ‘My eye.’
‘Here’s Ren, she’ll make it all better,’ said Colin.
‘Ren, you’re coming out with us tonight,’ said Robbie through his hands. ‘I can’t be alone with these freaks.’
‘Hmm. I think I need to … go talk with Vincent,’ said Ren.
‘Get him to come in,’ said Colin.
‘You would love that,’ said Ren. ‘So you don’t have to talk to me.’
‘I don’t have to talk to you anyway,’ said Colin.
‘Yeah, you’ll be too busy with the sparkly tramp from Coasters,’ said Ren.
‘One night is all,’ said Colin. ‘It wasn’t a prolonged attack on anyone’s sensibilities like you are. Although, I did find glitter on my –’
‘Don’t,’ said Ren, holding up her hand. ‘Jesus.’
‘And in my –’
‘Shut up,’ said Ren. She sat at her desk.
Robbie climbed up off the floor. ‘I’m frickin’ sweating here,’ he said, shaking his shirt away from his body. ‘Hey,’ he said to Ren. ‘What do you mean, you need to “go talk” to him? To Vincent? You live with him.’
‘Hmm,’ said Ren. ‘Not since a week or so ago …’
‘What?’ said Robbie. ‘Why?’
‘Well, he walked out.’
‘On you?’ said Robbie.
Cliff and Colin were doing silent laughs behind his back.
‘Yes, me,’ said Ren. ‘Can you imagine?’
‘I seriously cannot,’ said Robbie.
Ren smiled at him. Her mother would be thrilled if she brought Robbie Truax home. He was fit, clean and shiny. He wore perfect blue shirts and beige pants and polished shoes. He was probably a deviant.
Ren went to the bathroom with her makeup bag. One day she would put these trips on a résumé to signify her ambition; the mirror was distorted and the lights were fitted by a man who had never been in a bathroom with a woman. The guys got the famous Safe Streets walk-in urinal, a monster the size of a shower. Ren got horror-movie lighting and no shelf for her supplies. She leaned into her reflection and did a half-assed touch-up. She didn’t ask the question, but she knew she wasn’t the fairest of them all tod
ay.
‘Coasters it is,’ she said, walking back into the bullpen.
‘What time is it?’ said Cliff.
She pointed at him with her cellphone. ‘Drinking time. Jalapeño poppers and beer all round.’
‘How about we wait a little while and try eight p. m.?’ said Cliff.
‘Borrrring,’ said Ren.
‘I don’t know if that’s a good time,’ said Colin, pointing a thumb toward Robbie. ‘Hollywood here did his third piece to camera as the face of the FBI Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. It airs at eight.’
‘Hey, I’m just one of the faces,’ said Robbie.
‘Ah, but the cutest,’ said Ren. ‘Apart from Cliff, obviously.’ Women adored Cliff; big hands, big heart, bright-eyed and warm.
Robbie turned to Ren. ‘You’re next for the small screen.’
‘Not unless I’m being wheeled from a shoot-out in a body bag.’
‘Have you seen her near a camera?’ said Cliff. ‘She can make herself even smaller.’
‘And you’d look good on television,’ said Robbie.
Ren shook her head. ‘Never gonna happen.’
‘Well, anyway,’ said Robbie, ‘we can get Coasters to switch on the news …’
‘You love it,’ said Colin.
Gary walked in. They all stopped when they saw his expression.
‘I’ve got some bad news. An agent from the Glenwood Springs RA – Jean Transom – has been found dead.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Ren.
Gary nodded. ‘I just got a call from the Sheriff’s Office in Breckenridge.’
‘What happened?’ said Robbie.
‘Her body was found in the mountains. Up on Quandary Peak. GSW.’
‘Holy moly,’ said Robbie. ‘When?’
‘Just this afternoon,’ said Gary.
‘What the –?’ said Ren.
‘That’s all we know,’ said Gary. ‘SAR responded to an anonymous tip – probably someone somewhere they weren’t supposed to be. The Summit County Sheriff, Undersheriff, County Coroner were at the scene with one of the volunteers when some idiot triggered an avalanche, swept everything away. Including the body.’
‘What?’ said Ren.
