by Jeff Carson
He sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. The haunting reminders of what he’d done were relentless.
Back in another lifetime, he’d killed while serving in the army. But only with the pull of a trigger, and from a distance. He’d never looked into the eyes of someone who knew it was coming. He’d never seen the job through to the end. Back in battle, some of his kills could have been wounds for all he knew. He never had to stand over the men as they died to make sure the job was done. He’d never had to put them out of their misery with a shot to the head, or a shovel to the neck.
The ping of the metal as it entered Levi’s flesh still echoed in his head. It was as if it happened moments ago. The tears in his eyes. The way his jaw clenched as he brought the shovel up for the tenth time.
“No,” Boydell looked to the sky and sucked in a breath.
After a minute of slow breathing, Levi’s image dissipated and his sanity returned.
He felt like a walking zombie—a corrupted, diseased version of his former self, wandering through the motions of life in a world where he didn’t belong. Killing these people had done it.
No, it had been eleven years ago, looking into the eyes of his son as he had taken his last breath. That had done it. That changed a man. That made every pliable thing in a man hard. Frozen. Brittle.
And when Jeremy had contracted the disease he had cracked.
Boydell was fractured like those bones in the ground down on that plateau. The only thing keeping him from falling into a million pieces was his grandson’s heroic fight.
He wiped his eyes and sucked in a cleansing breath.
The good night’s sleep had served him well and so had this hike. He always liked getting his blood pumping, his lungs heaving.
Standing on a rounded hilltop, he looked down at the shining windows of the visitors’ center below. It had been a week since he’d been here, where he could always count on getting some peaceful time with himself, away from the cluttered minds of the two young people he was stuck with every day in his dead-end job.
With that in mind, he checked his wrist and saw he had ten minutes until the 9 a.m. opening. It was time to unlock the place, make his excuse to the two kids, and head out.
He had a long day ahead of him. He had some shady individuals he’d have to do business with to help launder the cash and send it to Scotland via some means he still didn’t quite understand. Some way of manipulating online bank accounts and sending electronic payments.
He clenched a fist, thinking about the day, because he knew these men would be younger. They would think him a soft old coot and be out to steal his money, using electronic jargon to confuse him out of thousands of dollars.
Hitching up his belt, he felt the Beretta M9 he’d acquired in the army wedged against the waistband of his pants and his freshly showered skin. He pulled it closer to the tight spot next to his hipbone and began walking.
He paused, because a line of cars was already kicking up a plume of dust in the distance. He could scarcely remember the last time they’d had three visitors right at opening. And why were they following so close to one another? They were like a caravan, clearly together.
He squinted and brought up his hand to shield the sun. They were far away, but Boydell’s vision had always been sharp, and even in his old age he could clearly see that the three vehicles were identical.
Trucks.
With flashing lights.
Everything inside of Boydell’s body moved at once.
For five seconds he watched with constricted breath. His heart pumped wildly in his chest.
But it was strange. Because the trucks were all slowing down. Yes, he was sure of it. The three trucks were inching close to one another as they slowed.
The tension in his body melted as he saw them pull to a complete stop and the drivers’ doors open. They were at least a mile away, but Boydell could see the tiny dots of men milling about next to their trucks.
Maybe they were doing a search of the desert in that spot. But why? There was nothing there.
The hairs on his neck began crawling. They were convening, preparing something. The three stick-figure forms walked to one another and stood in a tight cluster in the middle of the road.
They were waiting for something.
Why were they standing like that? Were they blocking people from coming up, and waiting to move on him?
He came to his own conclusion and took off at a run down the hill.
Slipping every few steps, he landed on his ass and felt the gun dig into his hip.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
He forced himself to slow down to a manageable speed, which was tough because his thoughts were racing.
He needed to escape. He needed to get in his truck and drive. He knew this country better than all three of those deputies combined. There was more than one way to get off this plateau without passing along that road. He had the money stashed in his truck. He could get through, and he could get to Salt Lake City.
Out of breath, his feet stomping the ground with hurried steps, he reached the bottom of the hill behind the visitors’ center and began jogging.
“Mr. Boydell?”
He froze at the sound of Megan’s voice, and reached back for his gun, but stopped himself short of pulling it.
He forced a smile. “Hi, Megan.”
“Everything okay?” she asked.
She was standing near the rear door to the visitors’ center, and only then did Boydell realize she was waiting for him to unlock the door and begin the day inside the building.
“Are you going to open up?” she asked.
Boydell stared at her, trying to gauge her expression. Was she messing with him? He looked toward Phil’s yurt. It flapped gently in the breeze. The door was still closed.
“Where’s Phil?”
She smirked. “It’s Tuesday, remember? He’ll probably sleep another five hours.”
Was she in on this whole thing? Was she trying to trap him? It would’ve been dumb to think otherwise, so he pulled out his pistol and pointed it at her.
She held up her hands and backed into the wall of the building. “What are you doing?”
“You are,” he said. She was trapping him.
“What?”
“You’re in on it, aren’t you?”
“In on what? Mr. Boydell, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please. Don’t.”
He walked to her and waved the pistol to the left. “Let’s go. We’re going to take a drive.”
She stood frozen like a dumb deer.
“Move!”
Stumbling, she thrust her hands up and walked around the building, all the while whimpering.
“Into my truck. You’re driving,” he said.
Chapter 41
Wolf slid to a stop next to the scarred ring of earth that used to be Levi Joseph’s campfire and shut off the engine.
Levi’s tent and the table with his personal effects were still there; in fact, the whole campsite looked unchanged, despite the law-enforcement activity the night before. The only indications they’d been there were the new footprints and yellow crime-scene tape around the perimeter, which was fastened to poles and bouncing in the wind.
“Etzel, come in,” Shumway said into his radio as he climbed out.
Wolf let Jet out the back of the truck and ducked underneath the tape.
“Go ahead.”
Shumway followed Wolf and Jet. “We’re at the camp.”
“Copy that. Let us know when to move.”
“Will do.”
Shumway put the radio back on his duty belt and jogged up next to Wolf.
They trudged up the path out the rear of the camp to the top of the plateau in silence. Shumway hadn’t said much on the way up the two-track road, and neither had Wolf as he concentrated on avoiding boulders, trees, and cacti.
The plan was simple: sneak in from the rear and get into position, making sure neither Megan nor Phil were in harm’s path,
then bring in the cavalry and move on Boydell.
Still silent, Shumway was already breathing hard halfway up the sandy rise that flanked the rear of Levi’s camp.
“You all right?” Wolf asked.
Shumway picked up his pace and passed him.
Wolf felt the strain in his lungs and legs. He’d let himself get too soft over the past year, and he vowed then and there to change that. Adrenaline helped power him forward, though, and he kept the new pace easily enough.
At the top, the slope leveled and they entered a maze of juniper trees and man-sized sage bushes. Though the land was flat as a pancake, the foliage obscured their view as they walked. But despite the plants and trees, they could see the top of the visitors’ center jutting above it all in the distance, giving them a bearing.
Wolf estimated the distance at a half-mile, and checked his watch. “Can you pick up the pace?”
Shumway shot him a hard glance and grunted in response. Then he upped his speed to a labored jog.
Jet trotted behind them, happily stopping at holes and bushes of interest, then running briefly to catch up before doing it all again.
They swerved between bushes and trees for five minutes, catching glimpses of the building as it grew closer, and all that time their crunching footsteps and huffing breath were the only sounds. Until there was something else.
“Wait,” Wolf said pulling to a stop. “Stop.”
Shumway ignored him for a few steps than stopped and turned. He put his hands on his hips and bared his teeth. “What?”
“Hear that?”
A car engine revved and there was a squeak, then another staccato burst of gas followed by more squeaking.
“Someone’s driving toward us.”
Shumway turned away from Wolf and walked around a juniper to get a look. Just as he reached a clearing, he stopped and hurried back to Wolf. “There.”
After a long squeak the engine revved and then shut off.
“Shit,” Shumway said. “It was a quarry truck. I think it was Boydell. Fifty yards that way, coming straight at us.”
Wolf pulled his pistol and Shumway did the same.
Peering through the gaps in the foliage, they heard the thump of a car door.
“He’s out,” Wolf said. “You go left, I’ll go right.”
Wolf skated right, keeping his gaze focused through the branches of the nearest juniper. He saw a shiny bumper, and then the front of a quarry pickup truck, and then the whole vehicle. Wolf paused, because both doors were ajar.
“Come out, Shumway! I saw you! I know you’re with Wolf, too! Come on out!”
Wolf and Shumway locked eyes and held still.
“Daddy!”
Wolf’s stomach dropped and so did Shumway’s face.
“Got your daughter here, Shumway. You have five seconds to come out in the open or I shoot her in the head. Five, four, three …” Boydell counted with barely a second’s pause between numbers. “Two.”
“Okay, okay! Hold up, Bradley!” Shumway held his hands high in the air and ran out into the clearing. “Please, Bradley. Don’t hurt her.”
“Drop the gun.”
Shumway lowered his gun and dropped it with deliberate, slow movements. “Now your buddy. I know he’s with you.”
Wolf clenched his teeth. Damn it. He wondered if Shumway was bluffing.
Jet appeared from behind a sage and trotted toward Wolf, oblivious to the gravity of the situation. He stopped and jammed his nose into an animal hole.
“I’ll give you three seconds! Three, two—”
Wolf ran into the clearing with his arms up, pistol aimed at the sky.
“Okay. There you are,” Boydell said. “Drop it.”
Wolf dropped the pistol on the sand.
Boydell had Megan in a headlock, a pistol to her temple.
Her head was tilted to the side as the barrel of the gun pushed hard against it, and she was on her tiptoes, held that way by Boydell’s wiry-armed chokehold.
“I’ll give the other deputies three seconds to show themselves now.” Boydell’s eyes darted from bush to bush.
“There aren’t any, Bradley,” Shumway said.
Boydell narrowed his eyes. “Three! Two!”
“There aren’t any! It’s just us!”
“There’s no one else!” Wolf said at the same time.
“One!”
Wolf closed his eyes and held his breath. The few seconds of silence that followed were the deepest he’d ever witnessed.
“Okay then,” Boydell said.
Megan began to sob.
“You,” he pulled on Megan’s neck, “shut up. You two, turn around slow and show me your belt-lines,” Boydell said.
Shumway turned, keeping his arms high.
Boydell kept his pistol against Megan’s head.
“You too.” Boydell aimed his gun at Wolf.
Wolf turned slowly and lifted his own arms, half expecting the punch of hot lead in his back at any moment.
None came, and he turned full circle.
“Now, walk toward me. Slowly.” Boydell’s voice shook.
Wolf and Shumway exchanged a glance and inched forward, one foot in front of the other, like they were approaching a cornered bear.
“Please. You don’t want to do this, Bradley,” Shumway said.
“Walk!”
They were forty yards from Boydell.
Wolf kept his eyes on Boydell’s as they walked ten paces forward. The man was alternating between steely resolve and ultimate despair, all the while keeping his hold on Megan.
Her face was dark red, trending purple, and she hung her hands on Boydell’s arm.
Shumway held his hands out. “Bradley, please. We know why you’re doing this. We know you just want to help your grandson. But it’s over now. Don’t take away my daughter.”
“And what? That would be a fair trade? This alive hooker for my dead grandson?” Boydell’s lips glistened with saliva. “Walk at me, boys. Keep coming.”
They continued their slow steps toward Boydell.
Wolf’s muscles were tense, because Boydell had a crazed look in his eye and he seemed to be rehearsing something very bad in his mind. And as Wolf got nearer, with no weapon at his disposal, he was coming up with no plan other than to dodge if the bullets started flying.
“It’s over, Bradley,” Wolf said. “Let Megan go.”
Boydell lifted his gun and Wolf froze mid-step.
Then Boydell slammed the butt of the gun onto the top of Megan’s head.
There was a dull thud and she dropped instantly to her side without using her arms to break her fall. As she lay motionless in the dirt, blood streamed across her forehead like a red lightning bolt.
“No.” Shumway stepped forward and stopped as Boydell aimed his pistol at him.
Boydell tracked his pistol to the side and aimed at Wolf’s chest.
“What do you think we’re going to do, Bradley?” Wolf said. “Get you a helicopter? A jet to take you to Canada? You know that’s not gonna work.”
The pistol quivered in Boydell’s hand.
There was movement to Wolf’s right, and without looking directly he could see it was Jet. The big German Shepherd loped through the bushes and sat a few yards away, resting in the shade of a juniper.
“There’s no way out of this,” Wolf said. “You don’t have to kill more people. The FBI is talking to your sister right now. They know you killed Talbot. They found him in his back yard. We know everything, Bradley. Let’s not make this even worse.”
Boydell’s eyes whirled for an instant and his face slackened. He brought the Beretta to his own temple and screwed his eyes shut, then scratched his head with it and lowered it to his side.
Wolf glanced at Shumway.
Shumway looked preoccupied with Jet. “Drop it!” he yelled out of nowhere.
Wolf watched in disbelief as Shumway walked toward Boydell.
“Whoa.” Shumway stopped just as suddenly as he’d start
ed. “Look what Jet has. Just put down the gun, Bradley.”
“What?” Boydell said annoyed. “Look what Jet has?” Boydell aimed the gun at Wolf. “Where’s that huge dog of yours?”
Wolf shook his head. “He’s not here. He’s back at the station.”
Boydell stared at Shumway and blinked. “Are you messing with me?”
Wolf stole a glance toward the shade of the Juniper.
Jet panted, sitting on his haunches, staring at Wolf and Shumway like he wanted to know what game they were playing but didn’t quite have the energy to join in yet. Jet closed his mouth and lowered his head, and finally Wolf saw it. Sitting in the sand near his paws lay a slobbery Glock 17.
Boydell wavered his aim, looking tormented by thoughts.
“Just say when,” Shumway said, gesturing to Boydell with his hands.
“What? Why are you messing with me?” Boydell aimed at Shumway, seemingly ready to fire.
“Now!”
Wolf lunged toward Jet. Boydell’s gun popped an instant later. A bullet zipped through the air above him as he ran.
“Ahhhhh! Over here! Over here!” Shumway screamed like a crazy man.
Wolf reached Jet and dropped to a knee. He grabbed the Glock, throwing up a cloud of warm dirt as he raised it, and aimed for the center of Boydell’s chest.
Boydell took his second shot, this time at Shumway. The sheriff was already running at him, arms flailing, hell-bent on taking him down.
Wolf fired just as Boydell’s hand kicked from the shot.
Boydell spun and dropped. Shumway stumbled forward and landed on top of him.
Jet joined the mayhem, bounding toward the two downed men with thunderous barks.
“Heel!” Wolf yelled, and Jet looked thoroughly dejected as he obeyed the command.
Both men lay motionless, heaped on top of one another.
Wolf rushed to the two men heaped on top of one another and pried a Beretta from Boydell’s hand. Tucking the pistol in his waistband, Wolf bent over Megan, pulled aside her blood-soaked hair and felt her neck for a pulse. It was strong.
“Is she all right?”
Wolf turned and raised his Glock.
Shumway rose to his hands and knees.
“Yeah,” Wolf said, holstering his gun. “She’s just knocked out.”
