by Mark Stevens
“Whatcha doin’?”
Colin stepped outside on the porch. Boyd was behind him, only his legs visible.
“Thinking,” said Allison.
“Noisy way of thinking,” said Colin.
“It helps,” said Allison.
“Can I get you a sledgehammer or maybe a crane and a wrecking ball?” said Colin.
“You’re not pissed off ?”
“I was the one with a gun to my head,” said Colin.
A mumble came from inside the house. “What did he say?” said Allison.
“He said he wasn’t going to use the gun,” said Colin. “If I had known that, I would have hit him earlier.”
“Hey!” said Boyd. And then another mumble.
“What now?” said Allison.
“He said he was helping his country. He’s a patriot in case you didn’t know.”
“Patriot?” said Allison. “He said patriot?”
“His word,” said Colin.
Allison was up on the porch and she passed Colin in a flash.
“You know anything about hunting dogs?” she said.
“Seen them in movies,” said Boyd. “Brits chasing the fox, that sort of thing. Blowing horns.”
“Around here?” said Allison. “Ever seen them? Heard them? Heard about them? Nasty games with hunting dogs?”
Boyd’s face was a dull dead blank. “No,” he said.
“Then how about this?” said Allison. She pulled the half-envelope from her back pocket. “Is this a number you recognize?”
Boyd studied it like an algebra problem. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Look at it.” Her order was an uppercut.
“I don’t know,” said Boyd. “I never could remember numbers. But I’ve got a cheat sheet in my wallet.”
Colin helped Boyd to his feet, gingerly pulled the wallet out of Boyd’s back pocket.
Like Boyd’s car, the wallet was an overstuffed home for crap. Worn papers jutted from the main billfold compartment, notes and receipts and newspaper tidbits.
“Not much of an organizer,” said Boyd. “I can find the paper if you—”
Colin opened the wallet upside down. Papers and junk fluttered down on the couch like confetti.
“Hell,” said Boyd. “Never going to find anything again.”
“Where are your numbers?” said Allison.
“I laminated the card,” said Boyd. “It’s still in the wallet in an inside flap.”
The business card encased in plastic sported a list of phone numbers.
No names.
No instructions.
A dozen or so numbers altogether, handwritten.
All 970 area code.
The fifth number down was a dead match.
fifty-two:
friday afternoon
Bloom called Coogan, let him know the cops were still dead in the water. He logged into IRB again and scoured for any detail he could find on Troy Nichols. Trucks passed, cars passed, nobody looked over. Trudy listened and followed along. She could blink and sense Bloom’s calm. She could blink again and dread was right there, shot up from the depths. The two lived side by side.
“Troy Nichols’ business is InterWest Distribution,” said Bloom.
“That’s the one,” said Trudy. “He pressed Jerry to open an account—several times. Nichols wanted his business badly.”
When she spoke, she worked to add to the confidence. And calm.
Bloom punched the name of the business into Google. “Big operation,” said Bloom. He stared at the screen like a watchmaker.
“Here’s a link about InterWest down in New Mexico,” he said. “Truth or Consequences—the town, that is. The local paper is called The Herald. According to their slogan, there is nothing more powerful than the truth. In case that’s news to you.”
Bloom’s phone buzzed. A 212 area code.
Bloom put the caller on the speaker so she could hear.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of a call from television’s most intrepid reporter?” said Bloom.
“Well, since you’re an old pal and not really competition, I wanted to make sure you have your eyes on the right national evening news broadcast.”
Bloom didn’t seem to mind the voice’s flip tone.
“I’m not near a television,” said Bloom. “But I can watch best-of-Kerry-London videos on YouTube, right on my phone. It’s how I spend most of my spare time.”
“You make it sound like you might be working,” said London.
“If I was on the East Coast and the piece had already run, what would I know by now?” said Bloom.
“It’s much more dramatic on tape,” said London. “Hard to describe.”
“Try me,” said Bloom.
“Well, we have access to a former FBI profiler,” said London. “That’s a network budget for you. We got him to sketch out the profile of Lamott’s shooter. And we also, as you might not be surprised to learn, get tips all the time. There are visible anti-immigration groups but there are also invisible ones. Those are the really dangerous ones, the groups that don’t need a brand or a slogan.”
London stopped as if that explained it all. Bloom shrugged, gave a puzzled look and smiled. Trudy wanted to blurt out: “And?”
Bloom covered the same ground. “So, connect the dots here.”
“You might want to find a hotel or bar or a good Internet connection somewhere,” said London. “The show starts out here in forty-two minutes and your editor might want you to file something, get some local reaction—”
“Tell me,” said Bloom.
“We found a guy who knows the shooter. Of course we had to promise all sorts of protection, put him in a silhouette for the interview, modulate his voice. And now the cops are all over us, but that’s another story.”
“You mean he claims to know the shooter,” said Bloom.
“If you want to get technical about it,” said London. “Okay.”
“And?” said Bloom.
“And the shooter is a damn good shot,” said London. “That’s a given. But he’s also extremely quiet, someone who doesn’t say much or brag much and might be a straight-and-narrow guy. He hasn’t gone out and waved his virtual dick around in the Internet chat rooms. But in this case the profiler thinks it’s someone who was avenging an issue for someone else, possibly a father or a close friend. The shooter wasn’t getting the recognition he needed, not necessarily from the world or from the anti-immigration crowd, but from one or possibly two other people.”
“And that explains why he’s dropped into a hole,” said Bloom.
“Mission accomplished and pride restored,” said London. “Cops have been checking all the hate groups, which makes sense. But they aren’t coming at it from the right angle. The shooter might be right under their noses, a former Eagle Scout type who has taken the whole red, white, and blue thing into his own hands in order to prove a point. And it might be as much about himself or a relationship as much as it’s about what Lamott tried to promote.”
“Whoa,” said Bloom, like he meant it. Bloom turned to her, shook his head slightly.
“Told you,” said London.
“Dang,” said Bloom. “I’m screwed.”
Trying to imagine the kind of personality London had described, Trudy had to agree—it all clicked. She could almost picture the shooter, had a fleeting image in her head.
“But you didn’t get any names on camera or off ?” said Bloom.
“Nope,” said London. “Of course, not on camera. And I wouldn’t tell you if we got them off camera.”
“And how did you identify your main source, the guy you put in silhouette?”
“A local businessman is all,” said London. “He’s credible. See for yourself.”
London said good-bye and
hung up.
Bloom lifted the binoculars, going back to the routines. “One thing about being a reporter, you never know if you’re poking around in the right dredge full of muck.”
“You’re in the right place,” said Trudy, but didn’t know if it was true. “I’m scared sitting here, so that must mean something.”
“I had the feeling all along the national news teams would get the edge,” said Bloom. “So hard to keep up.”
Like a shift change, three pickups and a gleaming SUV roared up Buckthorn and sped past. None of the drivers looked over.
“You’ve got Truth or Consequences,” said Trudy. “You had something there.”
“Almost forgot,” said Bloom. “Wallowing in my own misery over here. Hard to imagine somebody won’t identify a suspect or two once London’s piece runs.”
“What happened in New Mexico?” said Trudy. “Forget about Kerry London. We’ve got stuff right here.”
Bloom went back to his phone. “Here it is,” he said. Read for a minute, then summarized. “A truck registered to InterWest Distribution was stopped to fix a flat tire on I-25 eight miles north of town. It’s one of those service vans, not a passenger van. Cops pull up to help. The back is crammed with illegals. Van impounded. The illegals are taken away and the driver is held—and here’s the controversy—they didn’t charge the driver. All the lawmakers down there are in an uproar. One of the illegals was carrying a decent amount of cocaine.”
“Nichols kept his InterWest trucks full one way or another,” said Trudy.
“Playing both ends,” said Bloom. “A contract up here to ship them out to ICE and they ensure a fresh supply of warm bodies by hauling them north.”
Trudy pictured the huddled bodies in the back of the van. No windows. She pictured the bodies bouncing around, not knowing why they had stopped or possibly sensing the flat tire, and then the back of the van flying open. And cops.
She pictured the hope on their faces.
“It’s perfect,” said Trudy. “It’s a self-cultivating garden.”
fifty-three:
friday afternoon
“Let’s start with the name William Sulchuk. Mean anything?”
Everything she’d been told needed to be put in a shaker and jacked around like a bartender making a drink.
“Sounds sort of familiar, but I’m not good with names or numbers,” said Boyd.
“Goes by William,” said Colin. “Not Bill.”
The entrails of Boyd’s wallet sat jumbled in a large plastic bag, worn-down scraps of cards and notes and receipts.
“I’m a peon,” said Boyd. “They don’t let me into the tent where they keep the whiskey and the battle plan.”
Boyd sat up. Colin had loosened his restraints.
“The other guy was Larry Armbruster,” said Colin.
“Good memory,” said Allison.
“When I saw the size of his arms, I remember thinking arm bruiser,” said Colin, by way of explanation. “Don’t ask me about the Larry part.”
“How about that name?” said Allison.
“I’m a nobody,” said Boyd. His posture confirmed his self-worth. Long gone was the first impression of towering tough guy. Dejection coated every word. “There are lots of us, far as I can tell.”
“Answer the questions.”
“You calling the cops?”
“I’ll bet they’ll have questions.”
Mountain lion, hell.
“Larry Armbruster,” said Allison. “Come on, give it to me.”
“It’s not like we know everyone,” said Boyd. “We all have our roles.”
“But you know the name,” said Allison. “So tell me who he is.”
Boyd sighed. “He’s a truck driver.”
“And?”
“They pay by the head,” said Boyd. “You deliver, they process.”
“Process?” said Allison.
“I only know my end of it,” said Boyd. “The more Mexicans you bring in, the more you make.”
“But you know Armbruster?” said Colin.
Boyd felt his jaw with his hand. “It’s numb,” he said. “I’m going to need a doctor.”
“The ice is all you get for now,” said Allison. “What about Armbruster?”
“Times are tight,” he said. “Economy is down, border gets tougher to cross. There isn’t as much business. Armbruster got squeezed out, which meant things had dried up for lots of us, too.”
It was like she’d been working on a jigsaw puzzle of Monet’s lily pads but at the end she blinked and it was a splotch abstract by Jackson Pollock.
“Know anything about a body up by Lumberjack Camp?”
Boyd shook his head. “I don’t do woods.”
“Do you know anything about it or hear anything about it?”
“No,” he said.
The dog camp.
The trash.
“Wait here,” said Allison.
She hustled back across the meadow. Her thoughts churned through detail again. She retrieved the plastic bag of trash from her front stoop, hustled back with her load.
She used her pocket knife to slash open the bottom of the bag. The viscera poured out on Trudy’s porch.
Styrofoam cups, plates, plastic utensils, paper towels, granola bar wrappers, empty cans for beans and chili and beer. The trash stew coughed up a repulsive odor. Allison kicked the items around with her boot, picked up a ripped-open plastic clamshell with two fingertips like forceps and flipped it over.
The package label: Wicked Ridge Crossbow Bolts, Spitfire Mechanical Broadheads.
“Know anything?” she said, holding them up.
“Larry loves his crossbows,” said Boyd. “But you couldn’t say those are his.”
“Illegal during archery season,” said Colin.
“And no mechanical broadheads in Colorado,” said Allison. “Even during rifle season.”
Allison speared each bit of junk with her pocketknife, stabbed one strip of paper. The receipt dangled from the tip of her blade. It was smeared with ketchup or chili. $75.99 for the bolts and tips, purchased at Rifle Sporting Goods.
The receipt carried an image of the purchaser’s signature, the first name starting with an L followed by a snaking squiggle. She shoved the receipt in Boyd’s face.
“Recognize it?” she said.
Boyd studied it. “Hell,” he said. “Course not.”
“The hell you don’t,” said Allison. “How well do you know Armbruster?”
Boyd stood up, grabbed his plastic bag of wallet confetti. He took a breath, handed the ice towel to Colin. “Am I free to go?”
“How well did you know him?” said Allison.
“Pretty well,” said Boyd. “He’s my uncle.”
That sinking feeling. “So it’s a family business?” said Allison.
“Oh no.” Boyd tried to sound helpful. “Hardly. Uncle Larry’s always had a bug up about the Mexican mooches, that’s what he calls them. For some reason I don’t know, that was his thing. He got in a fight once at a family reunion, got himself so worked up that he turned over a whole picnic table. He picked up a can of beer and flung it. Only problem was the can of beer hit a child. Cops came, you know, the whole bit. Ended up in a big lawsuit. About ruined him.”
Allison gave him space but he didn’t go on.
“Seen him since the shooting?”
“No,” said Boyd. “But Larry hated guys like Tom Lamott. Hated.”
Allison scrambled back over the scene at Lumberjack Camp in her mind. She replayed the day the body had been discovered—allegedly discovered—and the next when she had gone back.
The scene had been a stage.
Audience of one, front row center. She hadn’t bought a ticket, hadn’t read the program.
But it was all t
heater.
Perhaps Uncle Larry had been forced out of the round-up-the-illegal-Mexicans bounty plan. Perhaps there were degrees of empathy for the illegals. On one end of the scale, mere loathing. On the other, kill the occasional Mexican for sport. Maybe Uncle Larry came up with a way to get back in the business. Maybe he thought of exposing whatever was happening to some of the illegals up in the woods would take down one whole end of the ring. The mountain lion ruse worked. Maybe Sal Hickman and his hounds were all part of the act. It wasn’t going to fool anyone for long, but all it had to do was suck her in, start stirring stuff up.
“So who else do you know besides your uncle?” said Allison. “Others in his group?”
“It’s not like we’re all friends,” said Boyd. “Don’t have to be.”
“Who else?” said Allison.
Boyd appeared to give it some thought. “Like I say, I’m just a—”
“Who else?” said Colin.
Boyd looked at his sneakers, wide black ones with the laces tied but barely. “We each have our areas to patrol. Our routes. It’s like checking a trapline. Making the rounds.”
“You must have people you report to, check in with.”
“Numbers to call,” said Boyd. “The pick-ups, the drop-offs.”
“Such as?” said Colin. “Give us one example—how it works.”
Boyd thought, shook his head.
“The city has all these places where they hang out. Once you start seeing them,” he said. “Like this one guy out fixing a flat on a bicycle over by the new Target, up there on the ridge. I gave him the old ‘como está?’ bit and did a two-handed gesture like I’m gripping the wheel and I’d drive him to get a new tire. I called Uncle Larry to find out where he wanted him taken. Uncle Larry was busy with something, couldn’t meet me. I was smiling the whole time, this Mexican right there in my front seat. Larry said take him to this address in West Glenwood, across the highway. A big old operation with trucks and of course it didn’t look like a bike repair shop. I’d never been there before, but okay. The office had maps on the wall, red lines on the highways showing all the routes. All Glenwood Springs and south to the border, down through Texas and Arizona.”
