Russell looked up. Ferret was two-handing his sandwich, chin low.
“I think this was a real bad idea. I think that car is bad news.”
“Nobody said it wasn’t.”
“We should take it to the police. I mean, who the fuck are we working for?”
“Who cares? Seriously.”
Whatever Ferret had to say next, he thought better of it and took a big bite. By then, Hunter was back, slurping. “This time, it’s half Mountain Dew.”
Russell kept his eye on Ferret a little longer, until Hunter started telling Ferret about some radio station full of weird preaching he had found out on the road, all about the demons in Revelation, and blood up to a horse’s bridle and other wild shit. Russell had told him to turn it off, but Hunter said, “It’s my turn to drive, my turn to pick the station.” They kept eating, Ferret still ignoring everything the idiot in front of him had to say. Another five minutes, though, and Ferret left his food and said he needed to take a piss. Left the Russells alone. Good Russell didn’t like the way that looked one bit.
*
Who were they really working for? And why should Ferret care as long as he was getting cash money, right?
Russell had taken the backseat, spread out across it with his head on the seat and his knees bent weird. It gave him a nice view of the stars out the back window, washed out whenever they passed some lights at the exits. Ferret was the passenger, head lolled towards the window, so he was probably out. Hunter had Van Halen’s 1984 on the tape player—yes, this car still had a tape player, and it just happened to have 1984 with those occasional patches where it sounded wiped or crinkled. Hunter declared it the “best late-night driving album of all time.” Whatever. Every once in a while, Hunter would try the AM again, looking for those screaming preachers.
Russell didn’t think he could sleep, not with the bumpy Interstate and David Lee Roth’s hoarse wailing. He thought about what he’d done tonight. He had followed orders. He had covered up something that might as well be murder—no, shit, it was murder now. It was all on him. Merciful, by the time he’d picked up that towel, but still goddamned murder. Fucking Pancrazy. The stars through the back window helped put him in the zone. He could ignore Hunter’s mumbling, singing, whatever. I mean, doing what they did to the Baptist, Glen Ramsey, that was some funny shit. Even funnier when they finally got a chance to show the man the footage. The girl was bad enough. One, because he was too passed out to remember it, and he would’ve appreciated being conscious for that. Two, because, yeah, if this got back to his wife...
...which made the little squeal he made when he saw the stuff with the fag all that much better. How he had crossed his arms over his chest, covering himself like he was naked right there at the table in the same chicken place where they’d filmed it all out back. He had made retching noises and doubled over.
That was a laugh. The man was begging, whatever it would take for the Russells to burn the tape, make sure no one else ever saw it. They delivered the message about leaving Ferret alone, sure enough, but then improvised, giving themselves a bit of folding money every pay day.
Even rounding up some dealers to sling Pancrazy’s meth, even that felt like it was any other business. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just some guys needing money, that was all. Weren’t they all just some guys needing money?
But the girl...the girl...
*
Russell had joined the National Guard right out of high school because, yeah, that’s what men did. It wasn’t really the Army, but shit, it sure as fuck wasn’t duck hunting, either. He had thought he would join up, do basic, then get himself a job while taking some community college classes, exactly what his friends were doing. He hadn’t expected to get shipped out to Iraq right after basic. He hadn’t expected to walk the streets of Baghdad waiting to get his ass shot by teenagers looking to impress clerics who sat inside fine-looking mosques and expected everyone to bring them whatever they wanted, be it cash or hands covered in American blood.
It was an easier gig than he had feared. It wasn’t full-on combat. He didn’t get in a firefight. Russell did what he was supposed to do and counted his days. And then they extended the tour. That was when the shit had started.
Some buddies got into a Humvee and were headed to the airport, and boom. The noise came just as Russell had turned and saw the black cloud rising, the smell of the burn sharp after that.
He watched his fellow soldiers shoot a man who was trying to get home quickly because one of his kids had gotten hurt. He didn’t understand English, didn’t slow down when soldiers shouted, and they killed him. Russell hadn’t fired, but hadn’t tried to stop them either. Hindsight, right? It was fear that helped squeeze those triggers. Not hate. Stupid fear.
Russell was finally sent home when he fucked up his back helping to build a checkpoint outside of town. Or he told them he’d fucked it up. He acted the part. They bought it. He went home.
Never again, he had sworn. Never a soldier again. He didn’t mind the accolades, the “Thanks for your service” around town, all that. He didn’t mind taking advantage whenever the chance arose. But he was a veteran. Past tense. Never anyone’s soldier again. Maybe that was why he took off for Bakken after another nine months back home. His friends, his family, his old high school teachers, they made him feel like a permanent soldier when all he wanted to do was raise hell, smoke some shit, get drunk, make easy money and spend it on whatever toys he wanted instead of on this “growing up” thing the folks were always on him about. Jesus, it was all “Your Uncle Gene was in Vietnam, and he was okay afterwards. Why can’t you get over it?”
Was it even about PTSD? He’d seen worse gore on videogames. Was it about facing mortality? He really didn’t know those guys who died really well. They were just people to kill time with. He never felt...what was it? Targeted? Yeah. Never felt targeted.
But these days, he was puking his guts out every morning before going to work. Not drunk puking either. This was worse. This was real. Whatever moments of terror he had felt in Iraq, they were nothing compared to how he felt working for Pancrazy. In fact, he felt his stomach boiling thinking about the bastard. And the girl was crouched right behind the driller in Russell’s mind. Always right behind him, always moaning.
*
He tuned back in to the talk between Hunter and Ferret, almost pushed himself up to tell them he needed to pull over, fast, but caught the end of Ferret saying, “—ever again, I will fucking kill you without warning.”
“Dude, dude, I didn’t—I didn’t mean anything. I was being friendly.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you were being. You ever see my wife, my girl, you go the other way. I don’t even want to hear you’ve been looking at her.”
“I would never. Never. She’s not even my type. She’s, I was just, she was, she was—”
“What were you even doing at that carnival? You don’t have any fucking kids. You don’t have any fucking family. Were you looking for candy? You looking for kids?”
“Take that back. I’m trying to say I’m sorry, but you keep it up—”
“—some sort of sick shit are you into? Is that what gets you off? Somebody needs to lock you the fuck up—”
Hunter was quiet a beat, then, “You’ve got to trust me. If you don’t, you won’t see it coming either, boyo, I’m telling you—”
Russell didn’t even have time to process it. He leaned forward and heaved all over the console between the front seats. Hunter slammed the brakes and nearly skidded into the ditch, but he caught himself and slid across the gravel on the shoulder. Ferret nearly fell out of the passenger door gagging.
Russell kept his hands on the wheel, looked over his shoulder at his friend, and said, “You could’ve said something first.”
*
By the time they were back at the man camp, Russell’s guts were boiling again. Hunter was pissed about the car. He would have to pay to have it cleaned, if he could even find someone to do it. Ferre
t didn’t give a shit. He got out, got in his car, drove away. Well, good riddance. Fuck that guy.
“You okay?” Hunter’s hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t feel so good. Food or something. Stomach flu, maybe.”
“Aw, man, now I’m going to get that shit.”
Nothing more as they got inside the camp, walked through the common areas towards the hallway leading to the dorms. Right before they split up, Hunter said, “You need help with this? Like, want me to get you some Gatorade? See if they’ve got popsicles?”
Good Russell shook his head. “Just need some sleep.”
“Yeah?”
“So, one thing. Listen.” He was thinking about what Ferret had said in the car, about Hunter and Ferret’s wife, his little girl. Thinking about how pissed off he was. But...never mind. “Aw, it’s nothing. I’m good. But tell the boss I might not be in tomorrow.”
“You got it. I’ll check on you.”
That was that.
*
One day wasn’t enough, and Russell had shouted at Hunter through the door when he came back the next day, “I don’t want you to catch it!”
When he was sure most of the men were either at work or sleeping, he went down to the shop and got an overpriced bottle of Pepto that he drank straight from the bottle. He had chills. He had sharp, jabbing pains in his abdomen. He hadn’t eaten since that Subway in Fargo. But when he finally got to sleep, it was a relief. He didn’t dream about work, or Iraq, or the girl. Instead, he dreamed about being on Hawaii Five-O and driving around with Scott Caan in that sweet Camaro. Or maybe he was Scott Caan. Maybe it wasn’t even Hawaii. No, it was Oklahoma, the Western side, out at his grandpa’s “ranch,” even though he now knew it wasn’t a real ranch. His grandpa was there. It was nice to see him again, hang out with him like they did before the man died when Russell was fourteen.
Then the explosions started. He thought the Camaro was backfiring at first. But then his grandpa was shouting at him, angry, in a voice that wasn’t his own.
“Russell! I know you’re here, Russell! You’re not sick. You’re not anything! Open the fucking door!”
So Pancrazy had come knocking. Pounding. Shouting. Russell blinked gunk out of his eyes and checked the clock on his cell phone. Three-twelve in the morning.
“Russell! You fucking prick!”
He didn’t move. Stayed absolutely still. No rustling covers. He held in a cough and tried to breathe through his nose, even though it tickled.
Other men up and down the hall started banging on their walls, a chorus of “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” that made Pancrazy shout more loudly, bang harder. Finally, some of the security guards caught up with the driller and threatened to taze his ass. The chorus changed to “Do it! Fucking taze the fucker!”
Russell kept his mouth shut.
Pancrazy started in with the guards on “You know who I am? You know this is one of my guys? I need to see if he’s alright.”
“There’s a better way to do this. Let’s all calm down.”
“Has anyone even checked on him? Could be dead in there! Could be stone cold dead!”
“Maybe he’s not there.”
“Call him. I know he’s there. I know it. Now open up this goddamn door!”
It sounded as if there were two guards, and some other men had gotten up, come out into the hall. The second guard was telling them to go back inside, shut their doors. And another set of footsteps, another voice, this one from one of the higher-ups from the company who ran the camp. How’d they get him down here so fast? Russell had never met one of them.
The conversation dropped in volume, and Russell couldn’t make out what anyone was saying anymore. He worked on clearing his throat without making a sound, but failed. He started coughing and he couldn’t stop. A dry, wheezy, bone-aching cough. When he was done, there was a lighter knock on his door.
The higher-up. “Hey, Russell? You alright in there, buddy?”
Shit. He had to answer. Just had to. Or they were coming through that door. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Got a stomach bug real bad.”
“Your boss is looking for you.”
“I told a friend of mine to tell him I’m sick.”
“We need you to talk to a medic here, okay? I’m going to get a medic.”
“No, wait,” Shit. Shit. Shit. “All I need is a bit more sleep, alright? What’s a doctor going to do? Tell me to drink fluids? I’m fine.”
More mumbling. If they called that doctor, Pancrazy would insist on staying. And when they found out it was nothing but a case of nerves, Jesus, he remembered the skull on that girl, cracked like a boiled egg.
He could tell when they made their decision, because Pancrazy said, “Oh, for God’s sake.” Russell listened to him bitch as they escorted him down the hall and out of the camp. Another light knock on the door.
“Yeah?”
“So, listen, Russell, I’m going to let you sleep the rest of the night, but I’ve got to get a medic down here in the morning. That’s the rule.”
One you just made up. “Okay, fine. Please leave me alone until then.”
“And so you know, we have the right to open your door.”
And drugs. They think you’re on drugs now. “Yeah, yeah, please, come on, man.”
Maybe the guy said something else to him, and maybe Russell answered, but fifteen minutes later he couldn’t remember any of what was said. He was back on Grandpa’s farm—not a ranch this time—asking the old man to help him get back home.
But the old man squinted and said, “Where’s that?”
Russell didn’t have an answer for it. He woke up again and stared at the ceiling for the next five hours.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When Slow Bear first met Gene Handy, he wasn’t an oil worm yet. It was May, and the big man had found Slow Bear on patrol, meaning sitting his ass in a parking lot near one of the bars where the ladies walked to and fro in short dresses and flip-flops. He was also a little more classy—same haircut, but shaved, in clean jeans and cowboy boots, crisp department store dress shirt and a too-tight suede jacket. Walked right up to the squad car door, thumped the window, flashed his ID.
Well, shit.
It started out as a friendly enough conversation. I mean, some of these bounty hunters had real good stories. Then Gene Handy said, “Heard you guys were having a time up here, all the oil folks moving in. Rough?”
After a bit more of that, Slow Bear got suspicious. Something about that smirk on Gene Handy’s face.
Then he told Slow Bear, “You do realize you’re way up Shit Creek, right? I mean, at the source of Shit Creek.”
There was no mention of Pancrazio that first night. Nothing about meth or bikers or Bosnia. This wasn’t the pitch. This was simply the cage. Like that crab-fishing show, what did they call them, the pots? Drop the pot, the crab crawls in, and it can’t get out again. The boat comes by later and drags it off the bottom.
Slow Bear sat and listened to this redneck tell him everything he had done wrong in a uniform, even the stuff he didn’t know anyone knew about. Someone in his own department must’ve spilled to Gene Handy, maybe for the price of a few drinks.
While Gene Handy is going on and on—“Witness tampering, bribery, alleged blackmail, protecting prostitutes, hiring prostitutes, encouraging prostitution, fraud, reckless endangerment of minors...”—Slow Bear was wondering if he could get away with killing him. Guy hopped into his squad, no warning, then BANG, oops, how was I supposed to know? Gene Handy wouldn’t see it coming. Who in his right mind would suspect that a cop talking to a bail enforcement officer would be reaching for his pistol instead of cigarettes?
But he shoved the crazy shit back into the part of his brain that knew better and finally said, “I didn’t do anything.”
Gene Handy shrugged. “I don’t care. But, yeah, you did.”
“Prove it.”
“Make me.”
Here came the boat to pick up the crab pot. “No
w what?”
“Well, I haul out that proof you don’t think I have, and I let your superiors decide what to do with it. It won’t be a hard choice because I’m going to send it to some TV news people, too. Either that, or you work for me.”
“I can do my time.”
Gene Handy said, “No, you can’t. Not the way I’d rig it.”
That was pretty much it. Handy had said he would be in touch for an answer, and it took about three weeks. The whole time, Slow Bear had wondered if he’d dreamed it, or if it had been a bad joke. He worked on flushing out the rat in his department, then tried to find something on a bounty hunter named Gene Handy, and came up blank on both.
Then Gene Handy showed up again looking like he had spent the last three weeks working on an oil rig for ten years, telling Slow Bear a story he barely believed. But if that was what it would take to keep that sword from dangling over his head, he was in.
Sort of.
One thing he had learned as a cop was to never accept one side of any story. There was truth in both, omissions in both. Same with solutions. Never stick to one when two would do.
That was why he was driving a lime-green Ford Fiesta back from where the idiot Russells had stashed it, exactly where Ferret told him it was waiting. Slow Bear had a spot picked out on the Rez where it would be safe until he needed it. First, he would take photos of the car parked somewhere else, then he would show Pancrazio those photos when the time was right. He didn’t really care who got hurt in the end as long as it wasn’t him. As for the girl the car belonged to, well, she was in the back. He knew where the dumbass kids had buried her. Not deep at all. Hell, not even in dirt. He had taken photos of her in the grave while she was still recognizable. If he was lucky, the cold would keep her from getting too gross in the car.
If Gene Handy was right, then the three of them would get rid of Pancrazio or Blow-Joe or The Cock, whatever his name was, and they’d get paid. He liked that. But let’s say Gene Handy was wrong, or he never got the proof he needed. At least Slow Bear could still get rid of Pancrazy and the Russells on drug and murder-for-hire charges and make himself look real good. One way or another, he was going to skate scot-free.
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