Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel)

by D. A. Keeley

“I think it’s time for you to decide where you want to be standing when it all comes down,” she said. “And don’t think it’s not going to.”

  “You can’t be sure—” But he didn’t finish. “How the bloody hell did this happen?”

  “Your English accent comes out when you’re anxious, Jerry. Talk to me.”

  “I need to bloody well think,” he said and stood.

  He crossed the room, rounded the counter, and opened the fridge. He took out a container of milk, poured a glass, and stood at the counter, thinking.

  “Jerry,” she said from the sofa, “you called me because you know you need protection. That comes with a price.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Watch me. What did Tyler Timms say when he was smacking you around?”

  He stood drinking his milk, staring at her, thinking. She crossed her legs, forest-green pants over black military-style boots.

  “I just don’t know how this happened.” He rinsed the glass, left it in the sink, and walked back to the sofa. “You believe me, right? I mean, I’m no criminal. We’re just helping people. You believe that, right?”

  “Kenny Radke said that too, then he tried to kill me.”

  “It’s just—what’s the word?—escalated, and now everything is going bloody haywire.”

  “One baby is dead,” she said. “A second is missing. Radke is dead. And Jonathan is also missing. Escalated is an understatement.”

  “But none of that’s me,” he said. “I’m just involved in the passports and the deliveries of the babies.”

  “Start at the beginning. Tell me everything.”

  “Can you offer me immunity?”

  “I can promise to help you get the best deal you can. Your lawyer McAfee will have to negotiate that.”

  “Fuck him. He’s not my lawyer. He sent Timms here last night.”

  “We’ll get you a lawyer, then,” she said, “but I want to hear it first.”

  He leaned back on the sofa and stared straight ahead.

  “Everything went smoothly with the first four kids. It was when Morris brought Jonathan in that it all changed. He only cared about keeping his own kid and making money.”

  Twenty minutes later, they had walked to her Expedition, and she took the radio receiver off the dashboard.

  “This is Bobcat Nineteen.”

  “I was just about to call you,” Hewitt said.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes with Jerry Reilly. We’ve got lots to talk about.”

  “Got it. I’ll be waiting.”

  She pulled out of the apartment complex driveway and onto Route 1. She was driving fifty-five miles an hour on the snow-lined road when the Chevy Silverado appeared in her rearview mirror.

  FORTY-SIX

  THE SILVERADO WAS NEARLY touching her rear bumper. They drove like that for a quarter-mile. Peyton hit the Expedition’s flashers, but the lights did nothing; the Silverado’s driver continued to tailgate.

  “Anyone know I was at your place?” Peyton asked Jerry Reilly.

  “I hope to Christ not. Tyler said they’d bloody kill me. He meant it, too. I could see it in his eyes.”

  She was driving sixty-five, too fast for the road conditions, she knew, and was accelerating when the Silverado tapped her bumper. Peyton felt her SUV begin to fishtail.

  The metal guardrail lining the road was like a cement wall when her side made impact, and her door was pinned shut.

  “Jerry, open your door. We need to get out.”

  His eyes were wide open in shock. “What happened?”

  “Quick,” she shouted and fumbled with her jacket to get to her holster strap. “Move! We need to get out!”

  But it was too late. The Silverado’s driver had leapt out and now stood facing the Expedition, gun drawn and leveled at Peyton.

  “Keep your hands on the steering wheel, Peyton,” the pickup’s driver said. “Don’t be fooled by what I did at your sister’s house. I don’t miss six feet high, believe me. Although I didn’t think your brother-in-law would run me over.”

  “I didn’t know it was you,” Jonathan Hurley called from the Silverado. “I already told you that.”

  “Now I need you two to get behind the chicken wire and sit in the back seat of the Expedition,” the driver said to Peyton and Reilly. “Jonathan, come out of the truck, take Peyton’s pistol, and cuff them to the metal loops on the floor.”

  That was how they proceeded—she and Reilly handcuffed to the Expedition’s floorboard, driven by Pam Morrison with Jonathan Hurley following them in the Silverado—for the half-hour drive to a cabin near the Crystal View River.

  Peyton didn’t bother to ask where they were going: Morris Picard had said McAfee owned a hunting camp near Garrett.

  They followed a truck hauling stripped trees, each the length of a telephone pole, and a black Ford F-150, which probably carried the logging team. A nondescript red cloth dangled from the trailer’s longest tree, offering pedestrian vehicles futile warning. Dirty slush dripped from the truck and trailer. She figured it had just come from the North Maine Woods, a 3.5-million-acre commercial forest.

  The camp road was designated by a plywood sign tacked to a tree. Two names had been painted cryptically on the sign, MCAFEE and ST. PIERRE.

  Two camps, Peyton thought, as they traversed the mile-long dirt road. That’s all. No one to hear shouts for help, and nowhere to run for help.

  The Silverado stopped at the end of the road in front of a small log cabin.

  Pam Morrison cuffed Peyton’s hands behind her back and said, “Come on, Peyton. And you, too, Jerry. Inside the cabin.”

  “Why was I cuffed to the floor?” he said, walking up the three stairs to the cabin.

  The door opened.

  “Why do you think you had to be cuffed?” Alan McAfee said.

  “I don’t know, but I’m offended.”

  “That’s really too bad. That really breaks me up. Hear that, Tyler? Jerry is offended.”

  Tyler Timms was at the counter. The cabin had one main room and two side rooms—Peyton guessed one was a bedroom and one was a bathroom—and an upstairs loft. Timms was cleaning a 9mm.

  Morrison entered and said, “Where’s Autumn?”

  “Tyler and Jonathan got her from the Gagnon home,” McAfee said. “But first things first. Peyton, you sit down on the sofa over there.”

  “I’m fine standing.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said, and raised her arms behind her, causing her to groan. He pushed her onto the sofa.

  “Remember our deal, Alan,” Morrison said. “Peyton for Autumn.”

  “Quiet,” McAfee said. “I can’t believe a simple poker game went this wrong. My mother always told me my gambling would get me in trouble.” A smile creased his lips. “Should’ve listened, I guess.”

  “There are too many moving parts,” Morrison said. “I don’t like all of us meeting like this.”

  “Things are getting simplified,” McAfee said, “right, Tyler?”

  “Yup,” Timms said and stood. He slid the 9mm in his belt and said, “Come on, professor, eh. We’re going fishing.”

  “What?” Reilly said.

  “Fishing, Jerry,” McAfee said. “You’ve never fished? The poles and tackle boxes are in the shed, Tyler.”

  “I know where everything I need is,” Timms said and nudged Jerry Reilly toward the front door.

  Arms behind her, Peyton leaned forward uncomfortably. A fire was blazing in the large stone fireplace on the far wall. She tried to reach the pepper spray on her belt, but it was no use.

  “Pam,” Peyton said, “what the hell are you doing? What do you mean, me for the baby?”

  Morrison looked at her. For the first time since they had met, Peyton saw something close to anger in Morrison’s face.

  “Alan had a buyer for her,” Morrison said. “I had to remind him why we’re all doing this—not for money, for the children. And I had to remind him that he promised Autumn to me. And now
I want my baby.”

  “I don’t need to be reminded of anything,” McAfee said.

  “You took my baby, Peyton,” Morrison said. “I’ve been helping Alan for a year—all for a baby.” She looked at McAfee. “Then, when I wanted out, he asked me to bring you here. And now I’m really out of all this, Alan. Is Autumn en route?”

  “Don’t ever accuse me of doing this for the money,” McAfee said. “You have no idea how many families we’ve helped. I screen these people probably more thoroughly than Social Services.”

  “So why were you leaving Autumn in a field?” Morrison said.

  “For the middle man,” McAfee said, “and only for ten to twenty minutes.”

  “You trust Hurley as the middle man?” Morrison said.

  Peyton was trying to piece it all together.

  “It’s his child,” McAfee said. “Who would you trust? All he had to do was pick her up and bring her to me. Kenny did his part. He left her there, but …” McAfee looked at Peyton.

  “But I found her first,” Peyton finished.

  McAfee ignored her. “I know I promised her to you, Pam. But the offer was thirty-five thousand dollars. It’s called overhead. But I’ll honor my promise. As you said, we have a lot of pieces to this puzzle. And not all those pieces are as altruistic as I am.”

  “Save the bullshit, Alan,” Morrison said, getting more agitated. “I was promised a baby. I’m not waiting any longer. You said you could get Autumn from Jonathan. Did you?”

  McAfee nodded. “Of course. I’ve listened to his rants long enough for him to trust me. He thinks the baby’s still in New Brunswick, but she’s on her way to California.”

  McAfee turned and looked out the window.

  “Jonathan and Celia have been going to England,” Peyton said, “posing as he and my sister. They’ve been bringing back babies from the orphanage you and Morris Picard and Jerry Reilly are affiliated with. That’s why Jonathan went back to his house Saturday night, to get a folder that said St. Joseph’s Orphanage. Leaving it would have tied him to all of this.”

  McAfee turned back to her.

  “I’m genuinely impressed,” he said. “Everyone has a role. I bet you never knew Kenny Radke had duel citizenship.”

  How hadn’t she known that?

  “That’s why Jonathan and Celia flew to and from Canada,” Peyton said.

  McAfee didn’t reply. He was looking out the porch window, presumably at Reilly and Timms. They’d been hiding the babies in Canada, using Radke to drive them across the border when a buyer had been found.

  “Did you recruit Jonathan?” Peyton said.

  “He taught my son, told me he was moving here,” McAfee said and shrugged. “I like the way he thinks.”

  “Meaning you’re both right-wing nuts?” Peyton said and heard the boat’s motor burp and spit before roaring to life. “Let Jerry go. Keep me.”

  “They’re just going fishing,” McAfee said. “Be terrible if an accident happened on the water, like a handgun with a silencer went off and a college professor with an anchor tied to his leg and a bullet hole in him fell overboard, though. That would be really unfortunate.”

  “Don’t do it,” Peyton said. “What do you want?”

  “To know what else Jerry told you.” He was looking at her now. “But if you know about St. Joseph’s, I guess I know what you know already. Kind of a shame to have to …” He didn’t finish.

  The boat’s engine grew faint and then cut out.

  “She was on the St. Joseph’s Orphanage website most of yesterday,” Morrison said, “and for an hour this morning.”

  Peyton started to deny it, but then looked at Morrison, the station’s resident computer expert.

  “You’re not real computer savvy, Peyton,” Morrison said. “Took about three minutes to access your computer remotely.”

  “You hacked into my computer?”

  “I imagine it’s covered under the Patriot Act,” Morrison said.

  Through the window over the kitchen sink, Peyton saw a car stop in the driveway next to the Silverado. Morris Picard climbed out.

  “Gang’s all here,” McAfee said.

  In the distance, the boat’s motor fired up again and grew louder as it approached.

  Picard walked in the front door. “What’s going on? I don’t like being called out of school.”

  “Something has come up, Morris.” McAfee pointed to Peyton. “She seems to have befriended our weak Englishman.”

  “Where’s Hurley?” Picard said. “He’s the loose cannon in all this. And there’s a black truck parked along the side of the road about a quarter-mile from here. Is that Tyler’s?”

  “Too many damned loose cannons, if you ask me,” Pam Morrison said.

  “Jonathan!” McAfee shouted.

  Jonathan Hurley came in from the screened-in porch.

  “You still have Peyton’s gun?”

  Hurley held it up.

  “Okay, stay on the porch.”

  “What are we doing?” Hurley said.

  “You’re staying on the porch for a while. Maybe you’ll shoot another agent.”

  Peyton thought of Miguel Jimenez. On Sunday, he’d been upgraded to Stable condition.

  “That was an accident,” Hurley said.

  “Really?” McAfee said. “That’s what you call it?”

  “I didn’t want to do it,” Hurley said. “I thought he saw Celia. What’s going on, Alan?”

  “You tell me,” McAfee said.

  Hurley looked uneasy. “Tell you what I think’s going on?”

  “Yes. I’d love to hear it.”

  “All I know is that my wife won’t adopt because she’s a dyke, so I’m leaving her.” He looked at his sister-in-law. “I really did love Elise. None of this would have happened if she’d just adopt. I had it all worked out. We could’ve had Celia’s baby. Then Elise said no. Alan said she’d go to a good family. I said okay, but then I couldn’t—I couldn’t let her go. I went to the field to get her, but I guess you beat me to her.”

  Peyton turned to McAfee. “So you promised Jonathan and Celia’s baby to Pam, but then had an offer for thirty-five grand, so you wanted to sell her instead.”

  Jonathan looked confused.

  “That’s enough,” McAfee said.

  “So I took her back,” Jonathan said. “Now she’s waiting for me across the border in Youngsville.”

  “You’re crazy,” Peyton said. “You know that?”

  “You’ll never understand,” Hurley said.

  “Understand how you can cheat on my sister, knock up a student, and then think you could trick Elise into adopting your own baby?” Peyton said. “You’re right. I won’t ever understand how you thought that could work.”

  “It’s not like that,” he said.

  “Go back to the porch,” McAfee said. After a few long moments, Hurley left.

  Morrison glanced at McAfee.

  “You did get the baby from that lunatic, right?” Morrison said.

  “I already told you I did,” McAfee said.

  “And I already told you I’ve been waiting for a year, Alan.”

  The front door opened again, and Timms entered the cabin, went to the fridge, and took out a bottle of beer.

  “Didn’t catch nothing, eh,” Timms said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Peyton said. “You didn’t. Tyler, you sonofabitch.”

  “I need to get out of here,” Morrison said. “My resignation is in. Autumn is supposed to be with my cousin in Los Angeles tomorrow.”

  “She’ll be there tomorrow afternoon,” McAfee said.

  “How do I know that for sure?” Pam Morrison said.

  “Because I said she will be. You’re forgetting that you have as much on me as anyone. I want you to have that baby. It gives me something on you.”

  Morrison looked at him, considering. Then she nodded once.

  “I’m going now. You have Peyton. I’m out of this forever.”

  Peyton watched Morrison
move toward the front door, but she heard a chair scrape on the back porch and Hurley say, “No. Don’t.”

  The first shotgun blast sounded like an explosion.

  Peyton didn’t need to see Hurley to know he was dead. She heard a sound like a sandbag dropping and saw her .40 skitter across the floor.

  Timms had ducked behind the kitchen counter, his beer bottle overturned. McAfee was across the room from Peyton, back pressed against the wall and fumbling in his jacket pocket. He retrieved a .357. Morris Picard was on the floor cowering. The front door swung shut behind Pam Morrison, who dashed outside.

  No one moved. The cabin was silent.

  Then Peyton heard a floorboard creak on the back porch. The shooter had entered the cabin.

  She knew more shots would be coming and leaned forward, knelt, and shuffled to the side of the sofa, trying to wedge herself between the sofa and the wall.

  When he leapt across the porch doorway, she recognized the color—forest green—before she recognized the man. Scott Smith was crouched at the window along the back wall of the cabin. He fired once, and the glass in front of him shattered.

  Smith saw Timms duck beneath the counter.

  Peyton didn’t expect what Smith did next.

  He leveled the 12-gauge at the base of the counter and fired three times—first at the right side, then at the center, and finally at the left. Plywood shards flew, and the structure’s two-by-four framing posts were exposed. Shotgun pellets clanged and ricocheted, but there was another sound like a long sigh.

  Then Timms stood. Dazed, he staggered into the middle of the cabin, bleeding badly from his stomach. He raised his 9mm, but Smith’s shotgun blast knocked him off his feet.

  Picard was whimpering on the floor.

  McAfee, along the far wall, fired toward the window, but he had no angle.

  Peyton knew McAfee had to move into the doorway and face Smith head-on or move to the center of the cabin.

  He did the smart thing, and now they were looking at a hostage situation.

  “Come out where I can see you,” McAfee said, squatting behind Picard.

  She heard Smith reload the 12-gauge.

  McAfee pulled Picard up to a seated position by his hair and used him as a shield.

  Smith didn’t move.

  “Okay, you sonofabitch,” McAfee said, “we’ll do it another way. Peyton, get over here.”