357 Sunset

by Jude Hardin

  Which was a good possibility, but not a certainty.

  If Decker wasn’t there, Wahlman would go back to his original plan. He would wait until it was dark outside and break into the repair shop and get his keys and haul ass. But if Decker was there, he needed to take care of that situation first.

  Walking as quickly as he could through the tangles of wild vegetation, it took him about thirty minutes to make it to the town limit sign. He kicked away some of the underbrush and sat down and leaned against the trunk of a pine tree and waited for the sun to go down. It took a while. Over an hour. When the first stars started showing over the horizon, he got up and put his Navy watch cap on and followed the highway into town. It wasn’t nearly cold enough to be wearing the wool toboggan, but Wahlman figured it would keep the streetlights from reflecting off his forehead. He needed to keep a low profile, and he figured every little bit would help.

  He crept around in the shadows and made his way to the auto repair shop. There was a light on in the office. A guy was sitting there at the counter with a stack of receipts. Finishing his paperwork for the day. Wahlman could see him through the big plate glass window in front. It was the guy with the weird glasses, the same guy Wahlman had handed a hundred dollars in cash to yesterday, to expedite the repair on his SUV. With everything that had happened since then, Wahlman had forgotten about that little detail. But now he remembered. Maybe Mr. Conscientious wouldn’t leave any money on the counter after all.

  The doors to the service bays had been secured for the night, and Wahlman’s SUV was parked in a fenced-off area adjacent to the office. Which probably meant that the work on it had been completed.

  Probably, but Wahlman needed to know for sure. He ducked behind a bush at the far end of the parking lot, pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number on the business card he’d been given yesterday. The man sitting at the counter answered the call.

  “Reality Auto Repair,” the man said.

  “Just checking to see if my car is ready yet,” Wahlman said.

  “Which one is yours?”

  “The white SUV.”

  “Yeah, it’s ready. You’re going to need a new battery soon. We can go ahead and take care of that for you first thing in the morning if you want us to.”

  “Okay,” Wahlman said.

  “I’ll add it to the work order. You should be good to go by nine, if not sooner.”

  “I’ll give you a call in the morning before I come, just to make sure,” Wahlman said, knowing that he wouldn’t really give the man a call in the morning, or ever again, knowing that he and his vehicle would be hundreds of miles away by the time the shop opened for another day of business, whether Decker was in town or not.

  “You’re staying at The Reality Hotel, right?” the man sitting at the counter said, his voice taking on a tone of congeniality Wahlman hadn’t noticed before. Like an old friend who wanted to meet for a cocktail or something.

  Wahlman didn’t answer the question. He wondered why the man was suddenly interested in where he was going to sleep tonight. It was an odd thing for a mechanic to ask a customer.

  Extremely odd.

  Wahlman clicked off and slid the phone into his pocket and walked across the parking lot and entered the office. The man sitting at the counter still had the landline receiver he’d been talking into in one hand and he was punching a number into the keypad on the base of the phone with the other. Wahlman grabbed him by his greasy shirt and pulled him across the countertop and slammed him on the floor and pressed the barrel of Boyfriend’s revolver against his forehead.

  “Did someone come here looking for me?” Wahlman said.

  The man’s eyes got big and his lips curled into an extreme frown.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he said. “I don’t know anything about anything.”

  “Did someone come here looking for me?” Wahlman repeated.

  “He gave me a number to call. It’s on the counter. I don’t know anything about anything. I was just trying to—”

  “What did he want?”

  “He asked me where you were staying. I told him I didn’t know for sure, but that most likely you would be at the—”

  “What kind of car was he driving?”

  “It was a sedan. Black, with tinted windows. I’m not sure of the make and model. Seems like I would know, being a mechanic and all, but cars look so much alike these days it’s hard to—”

  “Shut up.”

  Wahlman grabbed the telephone the man had been using and ripped the cord out of the wall and used it to tie the man’s wrists and ankles.

  There was a patch sewn to the man’s shirt, just above the breast pocket. It said GERRY. Wahlman hadn’t noticed it before. If he remembered correctly, Gerry had been wearing a plain white t-shirt yesterday. Maybe all of his shirts with nametags had been at the cleaners or something.

  “You can’t just leave me here like this,” Gerry said. “There won’t be anyone here until seven o’clock in the morning.”

  “Would you prefer I leave you here unconscious?” Wahlman said. “Because that can definitely be arranged.”

  Silence.

  Wahlman ferreted through the papers on the counter until he found a blank business card with a phone number written on it.

  Then he exited the office and walked back out into the night.

  18

  It only took Wahlman a few minutes to walk to the hotel. He saw the black sedan in the parking lot right away, but he didn’t know if Decker was inside the car or not. The car was too far away, and the windows were too heavily tinted.

  Wahlman crouched behind the sculpted row of hedges growing along the edge of the sidewalk and considered his options. He had a hunch that his status had changed from Wanted: Alive and Healthy to Wanted: Dead or Alive. As a general rule, Decker didn’t take cases that required suspects to be breathing when they were brought into custody. As a general rule, he would petition for your status to be downgraded if need be, and then he would stalk you until he found you.

  And then he would gun you down with no warning.

  That kind of aggressive—and in Wahlman’s opinion, barbaric—method of law enforcement had been made possible by the Capital Crime Control Act of 2087. Wahlman had been a Master-At-Arms in the United States Navy at the time, and had been bound by the Uniform Code of Military Justice, so he’d never been in a position to deal with the controversial legislation firsthand, but he’d voiced his opposition to it in letters to elected officials, and it was one of the reasons he’d never signed on to work for a state or city law enforcement agency after leaving the Navy.

  It was a bad law. It allowed people like Decker to cash in on people like Wahlman for the price of a bullet. All it took was a judge’s signature on the bounty decree. Then it was open season on your ass. It was a terrifying direction the country had gone in, and Wahlman hoped someone would put a stop to it soon.

  But nobody was going to put a stop to it tonight.

  Which didn’t give Wahlman much of a choice about what he needed to do next.

  He pulled Boyfriend’s .357 from the back of his waistband, stood and stepped over the hedge and started walking across the parking lot, toward the black sedan. He stopped when he was about thirty feet away from it.

  The driver side door opened and Decker climbed out.

  He had a pistol in his hand.

  He pointed it in Wahlman’s direction.

  “On the ground,” he shouted. “I’m not going to tell you twice.”

  Wahlman pointed the revolver in Decker’s direction.

  “You get on the ground,” Wahlman said. “I’m not going to tell you twice either.”

  “You’re coming with me,” Decker said. “I can cuff you and put you in the back seat, or I can kill you and put you in the trunk. Either way is fine with me.”

  Before Wahlman could respond, a pair of RPD cruisers squealed around the corner, screeching to a stop in the area between where Wahlman was standing and wher
e Decker was standing.

  Two uniformed officers climbed out of the car closest to Wahlman, and two more climbed out of the car closest to Decker.

  The two officers closest to Wahlman aimed shotguns at him and told him to drop his weapon and get on the ground.

  He dropped his weapon and got on the ground.

  He didn’t have a choice.

  The two officers closest to Decker did likewise on that side. They told Decker to drop his weapon and get on the ground.

  “I’m a professional tracker,” Decker said. “My credentials are in the—”

  “Drop it,” one of the officers shouted. “Now!”

  Wahlman heard Decker’s pistol hit the pavement. Two minutes later, Wahlman and Decker had been cuffed and shackled and were now standing next to each other against one of the police cars.

  The other cruiser was parked directly in front of them. Someone was sitting in the back, on the passenger side. One of the officers opened the door, and a man climbed out.

  A man with tan leather work boots and a bloodstained shirt and a big bruise on his forehead.

  19

  A third cruiser steered into the parking lot, and then a fourth. Now there were eight cops on the scene.

  Boyfriend’s hands were cuffed behind his back. Wahlman guessed that he’d been taken to the hospital, and that the police had found the barn full of stolen property while investigating the shooting death of Partner In Crime.

  A shooting death that would now be blamed on Wahlman.

  He would be taken into custody, and it would only be a matter of time until the Reality Police Department found out that his driver’s license and vehicle registration were fake, and it would only be a matter of time until they learned his true identity and the troublesome baggage that went along with it.

  If the RPD did a good job with their investigation—with interrogation and forensics and ballistics and so forth—it might eventually be proven that Boyfriend actually fired the shot that killed his friend. It was possible that Wahlman would be exonerated for that particular crime, but whether he was or wasn’t, he would eventually be extradited to Louisiana, where he would be forced to face the charges that had been brought against him there.

  Big case, lots of publicity.

  Wahlman was an obvious flight risk, so there would be no chance for him to get out on bail. His general location would be known to the public, and Colonel Dorland would find a way to get to him. Make it look like an accident, or maybe a gang-related hit. A shank to the gut while he was sleeping or standing in the chow line. Dorland had the resources to make something like that happen.

  Which basically meant that Wahlman’s life was over.

  One of the officers took a couple of steps closer to where Boyfriend was standing.

  “Well?” the officer said.

  “That’s him,” Boyfriend said. “That’s the man who shot Vernon.”

  “Which one?”

  The officer was now standing about an arm’s length from where Boyfriend was standing. The officer looked familiar. Short and round and balding. Wahlman squinted, focused in on his nametag. It was Sergeant Tingly, from yesterday. He’d shaved his mustache. Maybe he’d gotten tired of combing the doughnut crumbs out of it.

  Wahlman stared down at the pavement for a few seconds, trying to think of a way to get out of this. But there was no way. This was it. The end of the line.

  “I don’t have time for this shit,” Decker said. “Take these chains off of me right now, or I’m going to—”

  “Shut up,” Tingly said.

  “Do you even know who I am? You’re going to be in deep shit when I get through with you. Heads are going to roll. I can tell you that right now.”

  Tingly shrugged. He sidestepped a little closer to Boyfriend. Now they were almost shoulder to shoulder.

  “Which one?” Tingly repeated.

  Wahlman looked up and gazed directly into Boyfriend’s eyes. He saw anger. Fear. A need for revenge.

  And maybe just a little bit of gratitude.

  If Wahlman hadn’t called 911, it was very likely that Boyfriend would have died. A lot of things had gone wrong for Boyfriend over the past ten hours or so. His career as a thief was over now, and his life was in shambles, and he would be dealing with some very serious problems for a long time to come.

  But at least he was alive.

  And the fact that Wahlman had played a part in that was the only possible explanation for what happened next.

  “That one,” Boyfriend said, gesturing toward Decker. “He was the one who killed my friend. Shot him right in the head. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

  An expression of astonishment washed over Decker’s face.

  “Bullshit,” he shouted. “I don’t even know what he’s talking about.”

  Two of the officers grabbed Decker and forced him into the back of the fourth cruiser that had shown up.

  Tingly pulled a set of keys out of his utility belt and walked over to where Wahlman was standing.

  “I could still take you in if I wanted to,” Tingly said, unlocking the handcuffs and the ankle cuffs and the chain connecting the two. “You realize that, right?”

  Wahlman nodded. He’d been holding the .357 revolver when the police showed up. That was a crime in itself. And he’d been pointing it at Decker’s chest. Which was an even bigger crime.

  But Sergeant Tingly and his crew had apprehended a suspect in a murder case. A suspect that had been unequivocally identified by an eyewitness. Decker would get off. There was no doubt about that. But right now Tingly was probably thinking that he and his guys had solved the case, and that they’d done it in a matter of hours. It was the kind of thing that led to big pats on the back from the chief. It was the kind of thing that led to promotions.

  So right now, in Tingly’s mind, Wahlman had helped the Reality Police Department capture a killer. Tingly wasn’t going to arrest Wahlman. He was more likely to recommend him for a medal or something. Those notions would undoubtedly change by morning, but Wahlman would be long gone by then.

  “So I’m free to go now?” Wahlman said.

  “We’re going to need a written statement. Are you still staying here at the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can do it here, or we can do it at the station.”

  “Here would be good,” Wahlman said.

  “All right. A couple of our guys will come by your room in an hour or so. We have your driver’s license on file now, so—”

  “Don’t worry,” Wahlman said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  But of course that was a lie.

  Wahlman didn’t know exactly where he was going, or what he was going to do when he got there, but he planned on being as far away from Reality as possible by the time the officers knocked on his door.

  20

  Wahlman got his things out of his room and left the hotel without checking out. He walked over to the repair shop and entered the office. Gerry was still on the floor where Wahlman had left him.

  “I want to pay you for the work you did on my car,” Wahlman said.

  “Untie me and we’ll call it even,” Gerry said.

  “Not going to happen. What was the total on the fuel pump replacement?”

  “A million dollars.”

  Wahlman walked over and rested his right foot on Gerry’s right kneecap. Lightly. Just to send a message. Gerry told him the real total. Parts and labor and sales tax. Wahlman counted out some cash and slapped it on the counter.

  “I subtracted the hundred dollars you tried to scam me out of,” Wahlman said. “Where are my keys?”

  “Behind the counter. Top drawer.”

  Wahlman walked behind the counter and found his keys. He went outside and climbed into the SUV and started it and took a right out of the parking lot, toward the interstate. When he got to the turnoffs for the on-ramps, he decided to go east, for no particular reason. It was a random choice. He had nowhere to go. Nobody to see. He’d been t
hrough the wringer on multiple occasions, and he was no closer to achieving his goal that when this whole thing had started.

  And apparently the woman he loved was out of the picture now. He wanted to hear the sound of her voice. Touch her. Kiss her. Hold her in his arms. He longed for her, and it broke his heart to know that he might never see her again.

  He realized—from a logical standpoint—that it was probably for the best. It was totally understandable that Kasey had chosen the safety of her family and herself over trying to maintain a romantic relationship with a man in Wahlman’s situation.

  But it still hurt.

  It was almost more than he could bear.

  He traveled fifty miles or so, and then he exited the interstate and took some side roads and some two-lane highways, continuing east for the most part, ending up at a truck stop somewhere between Bowling Green, Kentucky, and Nashville, Tennessee. He bought some gas, and then he walked inside, past the souvenir stand and into the restaurant area, which smelled like greasy meat and mop water.

  He sat at the counter. A waitress came and asked him if he wanted coffee and he said yes. The waitress had a nametag. Her name was Sally. She brought the coffee in a ceramic mug.

  “You want something to eat?” she said.

  “No thanks,” Wahlman said.

  “You’re going to need something. You can’t drive all night on an empty stomach.”

  “How did you know I’m going to be driving all night?”

  “Almost everyone who comes in here is going to be driving all night.”

  Wahlman shrugged.

  “I guess I’ll take a cheeseburger,” he said.

  “Fries?”

  “Okay.”

  Sally walked to the other side of the counter and punched the order into a computerized cash register.

  Wahlman sat there and stared into the oily blackness of the coffee in front of him. He was tired. Beat. He didn’t know what he was going to do next. He thought about how close he was to the lake house, where Kasey and her parents and her daughter had been staying. Less than a hundred miles, probably. He thought about driving down there. Maybe Kasey and Natalie and Dean and Betsy hadn’t really left yet. Maybe he and Kasey could work things out, somehow.