Scott Free

by John Gilstrap

  This wasn’t going to work. Scott had exactly three minutes to get on that lift.

  The trees thinned toward the bottom of the slope, then cleared out completely as he closed at full speed toward the lift line. Hot-dogging was a common sight around here, and the ethos of cool required that no one officially notice the teenage antics. Something about the look in Scott’s eyes, though, or maybe the sheer momentum of his approach, made people start to scatter as he closed to within fifty yards. At the last possible moment—actually, about ten yards past the last possible moment—Scott rocked his knees and engaged his edges hard, launching a rooster tail of snow in a high arc that sprayed everyone with a fine mist of dry powder.

  Separately and together, the crowd protested mightily, barking at him to be careful and asking him just who the hell he thought he was. Scott didn’t bother to engage them. Instead, he skied around them, easily ducking under the crowd-control ropes and on to the front of the line, where he nudged a mother and her young son out of the way to commandeer the next available chair.

  Okay, it was more like a push.

  He damn near started a riot. Skiers surged forward as one, shouting obscenities and reaching out for him as he slid out of reach on the far side of the chair. A few feet away, a bear of a lift attendant stormed out of his shack to see what was going on. He waded into the crowd and in an instant, he received dozens of essentially identical versions of Scott’s transgressions.

  “Stop him!” someone yelled, but by now, Scott’s chair was already twenty feet down the line and at least that many feet off the sloping ground.

  “You there!” the attendant yelled. “You’re in big trouble, kid!”

  Scott couldn’t help but laugh. He wanted to yell, You have no idea!, but he thought better of it.

  “All of you back off!” the attendant yelled, this time to the crowd. “I’m not stopping the lift. We’ll have people waiting for him up at the top.”

  “Wait till I catch him,” said someone else, but now the chatter was barely audible to Scott.

  So, they’d have people waiting for him at the top. That could be interesting. Actually, it could be scary as hell, but these were worries for another time. For the present, he had to think about how Isaac was going to track him. He’d set such a precise time limit, Scott could only assume that he was somehow monitoring his progress. Maybe he was watching him from the woods. With binoculars, maybe.

  Or a rifle scope.

  IT TOOK FOREVER, Brandon thought, to move everyone into their places. “This is too many people,” he protested to Whitestone. “If DeHaven sees us—”

  Whitestone’s glare shut him up.

  James Alexander had produced a rifle from somewhere, a lever-action .30-30 that looked like something from John Wayne’s saddle. Now, as they crouched on the front stoop to Sherry’s chalet, the big cop jacked a round into the chamber.

  “With luck, we’ll have surprise on our side,” James whispered.

  “What about Sherry?” Brandon pressed. “It’ll take only one shot—”

  “I’m very good,” James said softly. “If I can see it I can hit it. And that’s the order, right, Chief?”

  Whitestone seemed uncomfortable as he nodded. “You see him, you kill him.”

  Something still didn’t sit right with Brandon. Why would DeHaven hole up in Sherry’s chalet like this? Didn’t it make more sense to be out in the open, where he could—

  “Go! Go! Go!” Whitestone whispered urgently into his portable radio, and a second later, a dozen police officers stormed the place, crashing the front door, and streaming in with guns leading the way.

  Whitestone’s orders were clear and unyielding: Brandon was to stay outside, out of the way, until he got an all-clear from the chief himself. Crouched as he was, behind a concrete planter, he found himself awed by the courage it took for these barely armed and barely armored cops to engage in the work of a SWAT team without any of the special equipment he’d seen on television.

  He heard shouting from the inside, all of it urgent with emotion, but mostly unintelligible to Brandon, who found himself shivering in anticipation of the gunshot that would mean a life had ended.

  After two minutes of cringing and waiting, Brandon finally saw movement at the front door. Chief Whitestone stood in the opening and waved him in. The instant he saw Barry’s face, he knew something was terribly wrong.

  “It’s not Scott,” Whitestone said quickly. “There’s no sign of him or your wife.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Whitestone didn’t answer. Instead, he ushered Brandon into the foyer and pushed the door closed to reveal a bloody mess in the corner. At first, all Brandon saw was the crimson smear extending up the wall nearly to the ceiling. Then, his brain and his eyes started working together, and he was able to make out a contorted figure on the floor—a man on his side, his legs oddly splayed.

  “James Alexander said you know this man,” Whitestone said.

  Brandon recoiled. “I do?”

  James appeared over Whitestone’s shoulder. As Brandon’s mind struggled to find traction, he incongruously noted that the big cop no longer held his cowboy rifle; that he’d left it on the credenza in the front hall. “He’s the man who approached you in the crowd,” James said. “The man Scott seemed so pleased to see.”

  A gasp escaped Brandon’s throat. “Oh, no,” he said. He moved a step forward and squinted for a closer peek. It was Larry Chinn, all right, barely recognizable with so much tissue and bone erupted from his head. “He’s my wife’s assistant,” Brandon explained. And then he put it together. “When I last talked with him, he said he was coming here to pick Sherry up. He must’ve walked in on them.”

  “That was three hours ago,” James observed.

  Brandon tried to make sense of it. Why would DeHaven tell Scott to come here after he’d shot somebody? Why would he hang around—

  “Goddammit!” he spat. “Scott lied to me. He knew I’d keep pressing him till he gave me an answer, so he just made this up. He’s never been here.”

  “Well, that’s just great,” Whitestone growled. “That’s just freaking great. So now we have no idea where they are.”

  “And we’ve given them time,” James added.

  “Excuse me, Chief?” The voice came from an officer whom Brandon had not yet met, but remembered from the police station.

  Whitestone turned.

  “We’re looking for a green Jeep Cherokee, right? A rental?”

  Brandon’s ears perked up as Whitestone nodded.

  “Well, the folks over at SkyTop Lodge are throwing a fit because a car matching that description just tore up their landscaping.”

  Instantly, the mood in the room changed. Whitestone gathered his troops around him and together they started spitballing a plan.

  Brandon wanted none of it. He’d already seen one of their plans in action—very spirited, very well-meaning, but ultimately too damn slow as they tried to cover all the angles and protect themselves from harm. He no longer had time to do things their way—the slow way. They were too interested in seeking justice, anyway. Brandon would settle for simple revenge.

  “I’m going to step outside,” he said to the chief, but no one seemed to care. Just as well, he thought. When you were planning to steal a police car, it was always best to do it while everyone was distracted.

  On his way to the door, he stopped by the credenza and gently lifted James Alexander’s rifle. He slid the butt under his jacket and kept the barrel tucked in close to his leg as he glided quickly out the door.

  37

  SHERRY SAT IN THE SNOW, her back against the tree where her ankle was chained and her knees hugged to her chest, trying to stay warm. Never in her life had she witnessed such cruelty.

  Never in her life had she felt so miserable. She’d set up her own son, for God’s sake—her only child. How could she have done such a thing?

  Her answer brought as much shame as the betrayal itself: she’d been
frightened. She wanted it to be more than that, but that’s all there was. She was scared.

  The intruder—this man who called himself Isaac—had promised to carve deep trenches into her face if she didn’t comply. “Think of the nerve damage,” he said. “Who will want to listen to a lecturer who drools and slurs her words like somebody’s stroked-out grandmother?”

  He smiled while he said these things.

  Sherry had invited him into her chalet, thinking that he was her driver. She just turned back for her briefcase in the foyer when he stepped inside and closed the door. “Excuse me,” Sherry said, aghast that a driver would be so presumptuous. “Just what do you think—?” The instant she saw the gun with its enormous silencer, she understood. Only then did she recognize him as the man Scotty had described.

  That first look he gave her—his knowing little smirk—told her in an instant that screaming for help was out of the question. “Who are you?” she gasped.

  “I think you know,” he said. “Some loose ends need tying between your son and me. He’s quite resourceful, you know. You should be very proud.”

  Sherry remained silent, her hands clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide.

  “Now we’ll find out if he’s loyal, too.” He swept his free hand toward the great room. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think we should watch some television.” He smiled politely, and waited patiently for her to respond. She never took her eyes off the gun as she moved toward the three steps from the foyer to the great room. “Please, Dr. O’Toole, watch where you’re going. You don’t want to fall.”

  “A-Are you going to shoot me?” Sherry squeaked.

  “That’s up to you.”

  For the longest time, they just sat and watched television. Isaac flipped through the channels, obviously searching for something in particular. After he reached a local news station, he smiled and settled himself into a chair. “There we go,” he said. “This should be quite an interesting show.”

  “What do you want from me?” Sherry asked.

  Isaac smiled. But for the gun pointed at her chest, it would have reassured her. As it was, the juxtaposition of easy calm and impending violence chilled her blood. “I want only compliance,” he replied. “When I ask you to do something—and that will come soon enough—I merely want you to do as I ask, and to do it well.” Then he spoke of carving up her face and severing nerves.

  They sat in silence, just the two of them, watching live coverage of an event that she came to recognize as the president’s Founder’s Day speech. This was a big deal in Eagle Feather, and the local news stations were treating it as such, offering what looked to Sherry like a pregame show. Reporters stood in the town square, taking turns speculating whether or not this would in fact be the day when Utah’s favorite son declared his candidacy for reelection.

  “It should get interesting very soon,” Isaac said. When Sherry merely scowled, he clarified his point: “They all think I’m down there. They’re looking for me.” The smile turned to a laugh. “Come on, Doc, don’t you get it? It’s funny. They’re all at the last place I’d be, while I’m at the first place they should be watching. It’s really very funny.”

  “Scott said you’re a hit man,” Sherry said, her scowl creasing deeper into her forehead.

  Isaac gestured with his gun, as if she hadn’t seen it. “And so I am. I just don’t do politicians. Certainly not presidents. Life’s too short.”

  Sherry still didn’t understand. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Here in Utah, or here in your house?”

  “In Utah, I guess.” She didn’t want to hear the answer to the second part.

  Isaac shrugged. “I live here. For the past three, almost four years.”

  Sherry cocked her head to the side. “You live here? That’s it?”

  “Even hired gunmen have to live somewhere, Dr. O’Toole.”

  It still didn’t all add up. “So, how did Scott…?” She didn’t know how to form the question.

  “Pure coincidence, I suppose.” In his best Humphrey Bogart, he added, “‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world.’”

  “But why…?”

  “He saw some things he shouldn’t have,” Isaac answered. He sounded nearly apologetic. “And then he royally pissed me off.”

  At that moment, the doorbell rang.

  “Who is that?” Isaac hissed.

  Sherry shook her head. “I-I don’t know,” she said. When she heard the key in the door, though, she figured it out.

  The knob turned and Larry Chinn burst into the foyer. “Honest to God, Sherry, do you know what time it is? We can’t—Oh, my God.” He saw the gun.

  “Don’t shoot him,” Sherry said quickly. “That’s Larry Chinn. He’s my assistant.”

  Larry looked scared to death. He raised his hands as if he were confronting Billy the Kid.

  “Close the door for me, will you, Larry?” Isaac said.

  For a long moment, Larry didn’t move, and then he moved quickly. It was as if it took a while for the words to reach him. He spun on his heel and pushed the door closed. “Please don’t shoot me,” he begged, again reaching for the sky.

  Isaac said nothing. His gun hissed, and Larry’s head blew apart, sending him sprawling backward into the corner.

  Sherry screamed, and instinctively covered her head for protection.

  Isaac calmly sat down next to her again. “Relax, Doc. If I’d wanted to shoot you, we wouldn’t be talking right now.”

  “My God, what did you do?” Sherry screamed. She stood to run over to Larry, but Isaac grabbed her wrist.

  “He’s dead. Let him bleed in peace. Now, please sit down.”

  Sherry had never felt such fear. It doubled as nausea, a deep ache in the pit of her stomach that grew and spread like spilled acid. Larry was dead! Just like that, shot down like some animal, even as he was pleading for his life.

  Her head reeled with the shock of it all. Fully aware only of the danger, the specific events of the next minutes—or maybe hours—felt to her as if they were lived by someone else and told in graphic detail. The textbooks called it disassociation, but she knew it now as a living nightmare.

  She knew that they’d watched television for a long time, and she knew that something frightening had happened at the square, but she wasn’t remotely sure of what that might have been. She remembered only the image of people running, and of the newscasters becoming very agitated as the crowd in the square surged madly in all directions at once.

  Through it all, Isaac DeHaven, murderer of her dearest friend, laughed heartily, encouraging the people on the screen. “That’s it, go get ’em. Track that bastard down and tear him apart.”

  And then it was time to go. Isaac had checked his watch and scowled, as if displeased by the lateness of the hour. He instructed her to bring her warmest coat, and then he led her to a pickup truck she’d never seen. Together, they drove past the main lodge at SkyTop, and on around the back, through the woods to a road so narrow that it ultimately disappeared, at which point they started walking. And walking. When she asked where they were going, he responded only with another command to keep up the pace.

  Finally, they stopped. Sherry had no idea where they were, but clearly it was the place that he’d been looking for. He marched Sherry into the middle of a steep slope, on which ninety percent of the trees had been felled but not yet removed. It looked a lot like a ski slope under construction, but narrower and steeper than most she’d seen.

  It was there, out in the middle of nowhere—at the final destination that they’d walked so long to reach—that Isaac handed her the phone and told her the number to call. He said it was the number of Brandon’s cell phone (a number which she herself didn’t know), and he told her merely to ask if everyone was okay, and then to ask to speak to Scott. Isaac would take care of everything else.

  “Don’t forget about your friend, Sherry,” Isaac said, hovering the odd-looking phone in front of her face. “And don�
��t forget about the scars. Pain can be a terrible thing to endure.”

  When the call was finished, Sherry felt a little proud of herself. But Isaac insulted her by producing a set of leg irons.

  “This is the unfortunate part, Doc,” Isaac said. He instructed her to sit in the snow and present him with a leg. For a brief moment, she feared that he might try to rape her, but the thought evaporated when she thought of the logistics—of the snow and the cold. Instead, he fastened one cuff to her ankle, tightly enough to hurt her Achilles tendon through the leather of her boot. That done, he attached the other cuff to the base of a sturdy young tree.

  “That should do it,” he said with a nod. “Try to keep warm.”

  And then he headed back into the trees.

  “Wait!” Sherry cried. “You can’t just leave me here! What am I supposed to do?”

  Isaac smiled at a joke Sherry didn’t understand. “Just keep doing what you’re doing now,” he said. Then he turned and kept walking.

  That had been a long time ago. How long, she didn’t know, because she’d left her watch back in the chalet, but easily the hour and fifteen minutes that the killer had mandated for Scott to come and get her. Between the fear and the cold, Sherry could not stop shivering.

  What had she done?

  She had made that phone call without so much as a word of protest. It was the fear, she told herself. Anyone would have done the same thing after what she’d been through, after seeing what she’d seen. This man killed without thought and without conscience. How could she not have made the phone call?

  She’d set up her own son.

  Sherry tried to tell herself that she’d had no way of knowing the terrible purpose of her call. Isaac had never mentioned anything about it ultimately being a trap for Scotty, after all, but merely that she should ask Brandon to let her speak to him. The rest was up to the killer. She couldn’t have known any better. Really, she couldn’t. Not until it was too late.

  Maybe Scott wouldn’t come. Maybe he would see through the trap and tell the police exactly what was going on. Maybe he would just chicken out and leave her here to be dealt with by Isaac the killer. That would be the best and the worst solutions all wrapped into one. She would die, yet Scotty would live.