Tucker Peak

by Mayor, Archer

  “What the hell was that?” Lester asked.

  “Sounded like a tray of glasses. Maybe a waitress dropped it.”

  I waited for thirty seconds before calling him again. “Willy. We heard a loud noise. You still on them?”

  Nothing came back.

  A cold dread swept over me. I told Spinney, “I knew this was a bad idea. Drive around to the front door. We’ll see if we can pick them up there.”

  Suddenly, Willy’s voice filled the car, almost drowned out by what sounded like a riot behind him. “I lost ’em. We got a bar brawl in here. I got cut off.”

  Spinney slammed on the brakes as a car pulled out of a parking place ahead of us. “Shit.” He rolled the window down and blew his horn. “Move it, goddamn it.”

  I laid my hand on his arm. “Quiet. Listen. Roll up the window.”

  Between us, Sammie’s voice was saying, “What’s happening back there?”

  “Beats me. Sounds like we got out just in time. Here, this way. I’m parked over here.”

  “I thought we we’re going to your place?”

  He laughed. “The dorm? No way, baby. First time I fuck you, I want it done in style. We’re borrowing a condo for the night.”

  The car ahead apparently stalled, since it stopped moving at a diagonal, blocking the exit entirely. Swearing, Lester threw the gearshift into reverse and began backing his way around the parking lot. “We know what he’s driving?”

  “Of course not,” I muttered angrily. “We didn’t take enough time to find out. Nor do we know where this condo is, assuming it exists.”

  Sammie was obviously aware of the same things. “That’s really cool. I used to have a Camry. And the same color, too—dark blue. I loved that car. I thought it had class.”

  There was a slight pause before he said, “It runs. That’s all I care about. Get in.”

  We heard the thud of two doors closing. Lester finally found an opening in which to turn around and began driving recklessly fast toward the front of the building.

  “But if you want class, baby,” Kurt told her, his voice muffled by the coat Sammie had been forced to put on, “you won’t be disappointed. This is some place we’re goin’ to.”

  “Sounds beautiful. Where is it?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Spinney squealed around the corner and almost collided with one of the mountain’s security cars, its bar lights flashing off the nearby trees and snowbanks. Just as we were about to speed by it, the driver’s door opened and an officer stepped out in front of us, shining his flashlight directly into Lester’s face.

  “Shit,” Lester yelled and hit the brakes again. He threw open the door and screamed. “We’re cops, you stupid son of a bitch. Get the fuck out of the way.”

  I used the radio. “Willy, you out yet?”

  I could hear him panting. “Almost.”

  “They got into a dark blue Toyota Camry. We’re blocked in around the corner.”

  “Gottcha.”

  Spinney was out of the car by that point, still yelling and showing his badge. I stayed put to listen to whatever else Sammie might tell us.

  “Wow,” she said. “Something’s happening back there. Lean back a little. I can’t see past you.”

  “What do you care? Just a bunch of drunks.”

  Spinney returned to the car. The security officer, looking grim, slammed his own door and stepped out of the way as we roared by.

  “She just said we’re on the driver’s side of Peterson’s car,” I told him. “Which means she’s headed up that road.” I paused and added, “I hope.”

  The radio blurted, “I’m out. I don’t see them.”

  “They’ve already left, Willy. Take the other car and head up… ” I stopped and looked around.

  “Summit Road,” Lester said.

  “Summit Road,” I repeated.

  It was dark and twisty and empty of traffic, including any taillights ahead.

  “We can’t’ve lost them already.” Spinney muttered angrily.

  “Doesn’t seems likely.” I said. “He implied it was nearby, though.” I leaned forward and narrowed my eyes, as if that might improve visibility. “Maybe they’re already there.”

  Spinney was twisting his head back and forth, talking to himself. “We’re passing side roads here… Come on, Sammie, talk to us.”

  As if she’d been eavesdropping, Sammie suddenly said, sounding distant and scratchy almost beyond comprehension, “Snowflake Circle? Where do they come up with these names?”

  Suddenly, there was that sound of the microphone getting mangled.

  “Hey,” she said loudly, “Hands off. What do you think you’re doing?”

  Kurt Peterson burst out laughing. “You need a blueprint? Jesus, Greta, loosen the hell up. I’m getting in the mood. If you weren’t selling, you shouldn’t have advertised, wearing that sweater.”

  “You’ll get what I want to give you when I want to give it. You’re the one who turned this into a business deal, Kurt. Keep your pants on.”

  Careful, I thought.

  “What the fuck is it with you, girl? You can’t make up your mind? I’m not sure this is worth the hassle.”

  From the way Lester was driving, I could tell his frustration was building to a boil.

  A small element of panic crept into Sammie’s voice, “What was that sign? I missed it.” Her transmission was now breaking up so badly, I had to guess at half her words.

  “I don’t know. I don’t pay attention to the stupid signs. Why do you care, anyhow? This isn’t a tourist ride.”

  She tried to laugh casually. “I just like the names—they’re so corny.”

  “So call it Corny Row.”

  Peterson’s tone indicated some of his previous passion was dulling.

  “We must’ve missed it somehow,” Lester growled. “Shit. Can you understand a goddamn thing they’re saying?”

  I held up a hand to quiet him. Sammie had picked up on the same mood change I had. Her voice soft and caressing again, she said, “I’m sorry, Kurt. One toot and I’ll be okay. I’m just a little strung out. I am looking forward to this… Ooh, what a beautiful house—a log cabin. I love those. Is that where we’re going?”

  Peterson sounded slightly mollified. “Nah. That one’s nothing in comparison.”

  Spinney slapped the steering wheel with his hand. “Damn. We blew it. I knew it. We haven’t passed any log cabins. We’re on the wrong road.”

  I picked up the radio. “Willy. She’s off Summit Road, somewhere below… ” I flashed a light out the window at a sign, “Pine Ridge. She said she saw a large log cabin. It must be on one of the three roads we just passed.”

  His answer was tightly controlled, almost deadpan. “Roger that. I’ll take Powder Lane.”

  I could only imagine what he was going through. “Okay, Lester,” I said calmly, “Let’s take the next one down and see what we find.”

  “Must be nice to live in one of these houses,” Sammie told us, as best as I could piece it together. “Look at that—I can see right down to the base lodge. Who owns the condo, by the way?”

  Peterson laughed. “He doesn’t. He’s the caretaker. He gave me the key. It’s like a frigging palace, though. You’re really gonna love it: huge windows, master bedroom like a football stadium. It’s even got a marble bathtub with water jets in it, right next to a picture window. I thought maybe we could put that to use, too—light a few candles? That sound good?”

  She poured the honey on once more. “Oh, yeah. You really know how to treat a girl.”

  Spinney shook his head. “Christ, what movies does she rent? That stuff’s terrible.”

  “Maybe,” I murmured, “but at least it’s coming in clearer. We must be closing in.”

  “This it?” Sammie finally asked.

  There was more rustling of clothes and the sound of doors opening and closing. From a slight distance, he said, “Yeah. What d’ya think?”

  “It’s ama
zing. Cedar shingles, slate roof… and look at the porch. Number 68—it’s like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. I could get into that.”

  “Yeah, right. Don’t kid yourself, Greta. You and me, this is as close as we get to this life—stealing their keys at night and putting up with their shit the rest of the time.” He paused and added, “Maybe that’s what makes this so sweet. Ladies first.”

  “Willy?” I said into the radio, “Wherever she is, it’s Number 68: huge place with slate, cedar shingles, and a porch. You seen the log cabin yet?”

  “Negative.”

  I looked over at Lester. We’d been driving along our road long enough to have seen the same landmark twice. “Double back,” I told him. “We must be parallel to them.”

  “Willy? We’re heading for the middle road. So far, she seems fine. They just got there.”

  There was no response.

  “Holy cow,” Sammie’s voice said. “This is incredible.”

  Peterson’s voice was husky. “You’re what’s incredible.”

  “Hold it, Kurt,” she warned him, forcing a laugh. “First things first. Where’s my nose candy?”

  “Give me a squeeze first.”

  “I’ll give you a squeeze you won’t forget—later.”

  “God, I like your tits.”

  “Very romantic. You come up with that?”

  Ouch, I thought. Ever since we’d turned around, reception had worsened, heightening the feeling we might lose her altogether.

  His voice hardened. “Fuck you, too, bitch. What makes you so goddamn special?”

  I heard Spinney murmuring, “Come on, come on, come on,” as we slithered along the snowy road, moving dangerously fast.

  Of the options available to her, Sammie took what I thought was the boldest. She screamed at him. “You are such an asshole, Kurt. We have the whole fucking night ahead of us. I’m going to do things to you you’ve never even dreamed of, and you’re about to screw it all up because you won’t hold up your end of the bargain. Give me my god-damn coke.”

  It worked. “All right, already. Save some of that for later, for Christ’s sake. I got it right over here.”

  “There it is,” Lester suddenly said.

  “We got the log cabin,” I told Willy, and gave him directions.

  I heard Peterson and Sammie moving around, at last quite clearly, presumably positioning themselves so the coke could be lined up and then snorted. She made a cooing sound as Peterson tore something open.

  “It’s super good shit,” he said, “hardly cut at all.”

  After a slight pause, Sammie said, “Yup, tastes like the real deal.”

  “Go ahead,” Kurt urged. “Let’s get this party going.”

  “There’s the view of the base lodge,” Spinney announced. “Gettin’ close.”

  Sammie’s voice had dropped to a familiar, stronger, more authoritative range. “The party’s not going anywhere, Kurt. You’re under arrest—”

  His response cut her off. “What? You bitch. I knew it. I fucking knew it. You goddamn bitch. I knew you weren’t going to put out.”

  In the background, we could hear her monotone, “… You have the right to an attorney. Should you… ” But there was something about his outrage she wasn’t hearing. He wasn’t angry that she was a cop, he was upset about not getting the night he’d been hoping for. That his fantasy was still holding sway had me worried.

  There was a sudden loud report.

  “Put it down, Kurt,” she said warily. “I’m a cop. You mess with me now, you’ll never get out of jail.”

  “Mess with you? That’s exactly what I’m going to do. You promised me that much, and that’s what I’m going to get.”

  Headlights appeared behind us. Kunkle driving at breakneck speed, threatening to put us in the ditch.

  And then Sammie’s mike went dead.

  “That’s it,” Spinney said, shouting now, the adrenaline making us all crazy. “Number 68.”

  He cut into the driveway, fishtailing. Behind us, Willy didn’t bother breaking—he just smashed into the rear of the Toyota. He was halfway to the front door before Lester and I had gotten out of our car.

  “Willy,” I shouted, “think.”

  He wasn’t in the mood. He wrestled with the locked door for all of two seconds, pulled his gun out and shot it five times, finally kicking it open. He, Lester, and I all ran into the house like we were storming a beach and found Sammie, her skirt hiked up and her sweater torn, resting with one knee in the small of Peterson’s back, holding his wrist at an excruciating angle. He was facedown on the floor, semiconscious.

  She blew a strand of blonde hair out of her face, “Where the hell’ve you been?”

  Suddenly calm, Willy holstered his gun, extracted a pair of handcuffs, and walked over to her. As he bent over and slapped the cuffs on behind Peterson’s back, he gave Sammie a quick kiss on the cheek. “Nice job, kiddo.”

  Chapter 18

  OLD STOMPING GROUNDS—I WAS IN THE BRATTLEBORO police department’s closet-size interrogation room off the detective squad area, sitting at a small table against the wall, catty-corner from Kurt Peterson. He was looking a little the worse for wear, Sammie having given him a sizable black eye, a mild concussion, and a kick between the legs that still made him limp.

  Introductions, Miranda rights, and other amenities had already been dealt with.

  “Kurt,” I began, sounding sorrowful, “you’ve made a real mess of things. You’re looking at some serious time behind bars.”

  He’d been staring at his feet but looked up at me. “I know it looks bad, sir. I don’t know what got into me.” His tone of voice reminded me of an insincere bully toadying up to the principal.

  “You tried to rape a police officer, among a raft of other things, so you can stuff the choirboy imitation. And while you’ve never done time, you have been in trouble before, which makes me think our prosecutor’ll throw the book at you. She’s a woman, by the way, very sensitive to how other women get treated by guys like you, and she’s not overworked like a state’s attorney. She only gets our cases. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I sat back and crossed my legs. “Which is not to say I can’t be useful to you.”

  A silence filled the air before he asked timidly, “How?”

  “I’m the guy who advises this prosecutor, who testifies in front of the judge, and who’s the boss of the officer you tried to rape.”

  “I didn’t really try to rape—”

  I smacked a hand flat on the table and made him jump, but when I spoke, I did so softly, “I smell any more bullshit coming from you, I walk straight out that door and we never meet again. Do you understand?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I can influence how people see things.”

  Again, I let silence prompt him to ask, “What’s that mean?”

  “You tell me something you know and I don’t—and which I find useful—and I’ll ask our prosecutor to maybe knock off one of the offenses we have against you. Small offense for small news; bigger offense for bigger news.”

  He looked at me pleadingly. “I don’t know anything.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Kurt. You’ve got half a dozen things up your sleeve I’d like a look at. Try this: Where’d you get the key to that condo?”

  His eyes widened slightly. “The key?”

  “Yeah. Who gave you the key to get in?”

  “Rusty Warner,” he blurted out. “He’s the caretaker.”

  I nodded. I already knew about Warner. We’d dealt with him just an hour earlier. “Very good. Rusty Warner. See? I can use that—very helpful. How’d you two meet?”

  “I don’t know. You work on the mountain long enough, you get to know almost everybody, sooner or later.”

  “Especially if you’re a social butterfly, right? And the instructors tend to get around. You had a good guide there, didn’t you?”

  Reinforcing my schoolyard image earlier, he even squir
med a little. “I… guess.”

  “Richie,” I prompted him.

  He broke into a smile. “Oh, right. Yeah. Richie. He cruised all night. You’re right there.”

  “And he tucked you under his wing, from what I heard.”

  His pride stirred slightly. “We hung out. I don’t know about tucking under any wings.”

  I feigned surprise. “You were the ring leader?”

  “No, no. Ring leader… Jeez. No. I guess if I think about it, I suppose he sort of took charge… sometimes.”

  I scratched my head. “Huh, this may be tougher than I thought. If I’m going to put you in a good light, I got to know in my gut how you fit into all this. There’re a lot of people involved, after all—we need to know who does hard time and who gets a slap on the wrist.”

  His forehead began to glisten. “What do you mean, ‘all this?’ You make it sound like I’m part of some mob or something.”

  I downplayed his panic with a wave of the hand. “Oh, a simple foot soldier, you and I know that. Small fry. Still, we had to kill Richie—he’s history. You, you’re a bird in hand.”

  He began speaking rapidly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really don’t. I mean, I know I did a bad thing, being drunk and all, and she did kind of lead me on, if that’s okay to say. But you’re putting me somewhere I don’t belong.”

  I got up and walked around the tiny room a couple of times, as if totally befuddled. “Kurt, you had the drugs, you had access to the house, you kept company with a known bad guy, you attacked a police officer after she’d identified herself, and I’ve got a small army of witnesses willing and ready to tell the judge that this wasn’t just some isolated night-gone-bad. You were a dealer, Kurt—plain and simple. Maybe not a top player, maybe just selling what fell between the cracks, but still a dealer. If you’re going to tell me you did this all on your own, how am I going to tell our prosecutor to go easy? She’ll bury you alive.”

  I stopped and leaned on the table, so my face was inches from his. “You need to tell me where the bigger fish are swimming, Kurt.”

  His face was now covered with sweat. “I can’t.”

  I stayed put. “Before, it was, ‘I don’t know.’ Now, it’s, ‘I can’t.’ I translate that as, ‘I won’t.’ Is that what I’m hearing?”