by Matt Hilton
To me, that meant only one thing.
Get Kate back.
Aitken said he'd handed Kate over to Huffman at the restaurant. It was as good a place as any to start.
The storm that had brought unexpected levels of snow to this corner of the Appalachians was a boon. It covered my approach to town in the distinctive Sheriff's Department car. Expecting to make it all the way through town in the police cruiser was a little too optimistic, though. I ditched the car as soon as I saw the first houses, pushing it down an embankment so that it was hidden from the road. Then I walked in. I needed another vehicle, and I knew where to get one.
The monster truck was where I'd left it.
Larry Bolan obviously had more important things on his mind than going in search of it.
The keys were still on the front tyre.
Starting the engine, I flicked on the wipers to clear the windscreen of the accumulated snow. Then I drove out the motel parking lot, swinging out of town again and retracing my route to the sheriff's car. There were no fresh tracks in the snow. I reversed the truck so that it was backed close to the cruiser, then hopped out.
Opening the trunk, I said, 'Think I was going to leave you here to die of hypothermia?'
Aitken blinked up at me from the shadows inside the trunk. His eyes were all that was visible above the gag I'd wrapped round his face. He said something but it was just a garble.
Grabbing him under one armpit, I hauled him out. He swayed, his cramped muscles rebelling. I led him to the cab of the truck and pushed him inside. Taking a key from my pocket, I unlatched one wrist, but only for as long as it took to feed the cuff under an arm-rest on the passenger seat and then snap it back on him.
Back in the driver's seat I looked across at my captive.
'Wondering what's happening, Aitken?'
His eyes rolled my way.
'I said I'd kill you when you were no longer useful. I just thought of a way you can help.'
I started the truck and then headed into town.
Le Coeur de la Ville was situated midway up what was once the main street of Little Fork. It was a three-storey building that stood taller than the stores flanking it. The ground floor was given over to the exquisite dining experience promised by the pamphlet Kate showed me earlier, while the upper two were apparently reserved for less public affairs. The restaurant was closed for business. Maybe it had something to do with the storm and the fact that there were very few people about, but I guessed that it had shut up shop for other reasons. The middle floor was in darkness but lights burned behind shutters at the top.
'Where does Huffman have his office?'
Aitken nodded, tilting his chin at the upper floor.
The entrance doors were double-width, glass from floor to ceiling. The glass frontage extended the length of the building, tinted so that diners within could enjoy their meals without being gawked upon by the less wealthy types wandering by. There's nothing like a street person drooling down a window to put you off your lobster thermidor. I surveyed the entrance, but thought I wouldn't be going in that way.
Driving along the main street, I took the next left up a service alley and came to an intersection with the second street over. I parked the Dodge Ram and spied along the street to the rear of le Coeur. This secondary street was reserved for less ambitious businesses than the French restaurant, dominated by a strip of bars and individual family-owned stores. Light spilled from a 7-Eleven at the far end, but everything else appeared to have closed early because of the storm. I couldn't see any pedestrians. Glancing at my wristwatch, I saw that the 7-Eleven was due to close shortly as well.
'The staff in the restaurant, I guess they're no part of Huffman's network?'
Through his gag, Aitken muttered something unintelligible.
Pulling the gag from his mouth, I allowed him a deep breath. When he'd finished working his jaw, he said, 'Locals. They're just simple folk taking a wage. If they suspect what their employer is involved in, they know enough to keep their noses out of it.'
'What's the likelihood of any of them being inside?'
'By now? Very slim. Even the lights in the kitchen are off.' Aitken indicated narrow windows on the lower level. They were in darkness.
'That's good.'
'You're not thinking of going in there, are you?'
'Who's going to be with Huffman?'
'Don't know for sure. Trent and… uh… I mean Larry Bolan could be there. Maybe a couple of others.'
'What about the hicks who attacked me and Kate on the mountain?'
'They'll be long gone. Probably drinking to their friends' memory, by now.'
My mouth made a tight slash. Aitken lifted his shoulders, but it wasn't an apology.
'You mentioned real men that Huffman has working for him. They here yet?'
'Could be.' The way he licked his lips said otherwise. I reached across and dragged the gag back into place. Pointless talking to him when he was only going to lie.
'Can I trust you to keep quiet a minute or two?'
Aitken nodded.
'Don't suppose I can.'
I struck him on his jaw, just a quick backhander that he didn't see coming. His head rolled on his meaty chest, breath whistling through his nose.
Pulling out Kate's mobile phone, I punched in numbers.
'Kate?'
'It's me, Rink.'
'What're you doing on Kate's phone?'
'Long story,' I said. I told him what had gone on and what I'd discovered since. Then I said, 'I'm going to get Kate back.'
'I'll pack some things an' I'll be there in a couple hours.'
'No, Rink. You concentrate on putting Rupert Heavey away first.'
'Heavey can kiss my ass! I'm coming up there, Hunter.'
'The case could be dropped.'
'If it's dropped, so be it. We can always put Heavey down another time.' His words were laden; no doubt about it.
'We can't do that, Rink. He's a creep, yeah, but he doesn't deserve that.'
'You know there's more than one way to skin a cat, Hunter.'
'I can't wait a couple hours. I have to do this now. They've got Kate.' Beside me, Aitken was stirring from slumber. I could see movement behind his eyelids. 'Hold on a second, Rink.'
I gave Aitken another tap on the jaw and his eyeballs rolled up into his skull.
To Rink, I said, 'Before you hightail it up here I need you to do something for me.'
'Go on.'
'A guy called Robert Huffman's at the head of this. Apparently he has connections to organised crime over in Dallas, Texas. Can you see what you can dig up on him? Also, who he might have at his beck and call?'
'I'll do that. You still want who owned the Dodge Ram?'
'Larry Bolan?'
'You already figured that out, huh? Lawrence Grey Bolan. Bad dude, Hunter. One of twins. Trent Bolan's the brother. Extra bad.'
'Trent's gone.'
'Say what?'
I told Rink about the fight in the workshop.
'Shit, Hunter. Haven't I told you a dozen times-'
'We don't have a licence to kill any more? I know, Rink. Still want to come up here?'
'Are you kidding me? I'll be on the next flight.'
'Give me a call when you get in.'
'Just make sure you're around to answer it, brother,' Rink said.
When Rink calls me brother it holds extra significance. It means that he's worried about me. I didn't want him to be concerned; I just wanted him there with me. If there's anyone I'd trust with my life it's Rink. I have a real brother, John, but I'd be hard pushed to choose which one of them I love the most.
I hung up and put the phone back in my pocket. Along the street the lights in the 7-Eleven went out. An old guy, bent against the drifting snow, locked up and then wandered away into the storm. I watched him go. There was no one else around.
I started the Dodge.
Leaning over, I slapped Aitken out of his dreams.
'Wake up.
It's time to get useful.'
Chapter 18
Larry Bolan could be mean in drink.
Whisky in particular brought out the animal in him.
He had anger issues when he was sober, let alone when the buzz of liquor was in his head. For that reason he had not touched a drop of alcohol in the last twelve years. Last time he'd downed a pint of JD, he and Trent had gone on a wrecking spree that saw three bars closed for renovation and six guys in hospital. One of the guys had never walked right afterwards and one lived on pureed meals for six months while his jaw went through reconstructive surgery. A cop took medical retirement – and gave up his dreams of fatherhood – when Larry flattened his testicles with a kick. It also got both Larry and Trent an eighteen-month stretch at the State Pen at Eddyville.
Drink had sent him inside. Drink had also killed his daddy. Larry did not drink again.
Until now.
Because the alcohol made him surly, he chose to drink alone. Down in the fancy restaurant he downed two fingers of Scotch in memory of his little brother. Then he drank another two, promising Trent that he'd be avenged. His next two fingers were just for the hell of it. After that he began to lose count.
Two fingers of whisky was nothing to a drinking man, but not many of them had fingers as thick as Larry Bolan's. He looked down at his hands. He wished he'd just throttled the hell out of the Englishman, like he'd started to do. Another squeeze and his head would have popped right off. Trent would still be alive.
'And I'd be fuckin' sober.'
Larry placed his empty glass on the counter. He lifted the bottle of imported Aberlour Scotch whisky and saw that it was empty too. Eighty dollars a bottle – Huffman would just have to dock it from the blood money he'd promised to pay for Trent. Larry looked for another bottle from behind the bar. The bar was fancy. Polished walnut. Stain-free. Not at all like the bars where Larry and Trent hung out when they were younger. He didn't recognise most of the brands of liquor arranged on the shelves. What the hell was wrong with stocking some good ol' Kentucky sour mash? He stooped down, rooting under the walnut instead.
He heard the roar of an engine.
His ears were buzzing with the Aberlour.
But he recognised the sound.
The Grand Taurino.
Raising his head level with the bar top, he squinted towards the front of the restaurant. The specially coated windows made it difficult to see outside. All he could see was a wash of blazing light.
The engine roared louder.
'You have got to be kidding me!'
The windows imploded, and the roaring Dodge followed the cascading glass, throwing aside tables and condiments and flower arrangements. The monster truck wasn't held up by the furniture; it simply smashed it aside or ground it beneath its massive tyres. It came on.
Directly towards Larry.
Slowed by the liquor, he was caught in the awkward position of rising. Left or right, he couldn't make a decision, and instead could only watch transfixed as the Dodge roared at him. The headlights were thrown to full beam and light also blazed from the rack on the cab. His hands came up in reflex, but his strength was no match for a monster truck. It smashed the walnut off its moorings, ramming the board backwards with decapitating tenacity. Larry went down amidst shattering glasses and bottles, experiencing a crushing weight that took away his senses faster than any amount of strong liquor could achieve.
Chapter 19
Men had died by my hand this night. I had held two men under a gun, then killed one of them when the situation degenerated out of control. I'd forcibly fought clear of a police attempt at taking me down. Shot at officers of the law. I'd kidnapped and – to all intents and purposes – tortured a sheriff. So, a little criminal damage was the least of my crimes.
Then again, the dollar value of this latest crime, plus the fact that the act could endanger life, put it firmly in the 'first degree' bracket, so maybe I was underplaying the fact that I'd just sent a vehicle through the front of a building. I wasn't driving the Dodge Ram, but that wouldn't mean a damn thing: I'd forced Sheriff Aitken into the act under duress.
Aitken hadn't argued, but he wasn't a willing driver. He only saw my crazy plan as a way of staying alive. I handcuffed him to the steering wheel. Then I jammed a wrench I found in the cab so that it wedged the gas pedal to the floor. Then I slipped the vehicle into drive, before clambering out the Dodge as it headed directly for the glass frontage like a blunt arrow aimed for the heart of Huffman's empire. Aitken was under no illusion as to what would happen if he attempted to turn the vehicle away from its target.
Before the Dodge hit the restaurant front I was running, sprinting into a service alley between two buildings further along. I heard the muffled roar of the Dodge tearing up the restaurant. But I didn't stop. I continued sprinting so that I came out on to the street at the back of le Coeur de la Ville. Without stopping I moved directly to the rear door and grabbed at the handle. Locked; but it would be.
Using the Magnum, I fired a round through the lock. Then one where the mechanism met the door frame. When I wrenched the handle this time, the door swung open, chunks of shattered metal tinkling beside my feet. Staring into a short but dark passage, I saw another door at the far end. I listened a moment. Bangs and crashes were sounding from the front of the building. I could have sworn that the floor trembled beneath my feet, but maybe that was only my body's reaction as it was flooded with adrenalin. Freeing a hand by shoving the Magnum into my jeans, I pulled open the second door. Quick scan of the room, left, right, centre, and I saw only an empty kitchen. A muted nightlight was the sole source of illumination but it was enough. I moved into the kitchen, skirting a huge stainless-steel work surface, above which were hung all manner of pots and pans.
Aitken had described the interior well. The door at the right corner – a double swing-door set-up – let into the public dining area. I wasn't interested in that door. The one I was looking for was in the opposite corner. Approaching it quickly, I opened the door and scanned the stairway that led up to the top floor.
There were other stairways inside the building. They were semi-public and gave access to the first-floor office space. To get to the uppermost floor, you had to traverse the offices to this end of the building and pick up this stairwell. Only this one went to the very top. Anyone fleeing the building from the uppermost floor would come down this way – particularly with the sounds of destruction emanating from the front of the building.
The truck had finally come to a halt, but not the engine, which continued screaming in anger as its forward plunge was stopped by something immovable. The crashing noise was furniture shifting as gravity fought the effects of chairs and tables being forced into unnatural positions. It made listening for anyone coming down the stairs difficult. I closed the door behind me, mounting the stairs. I kept my SIG close to my hip, barrel pointed upwards. That way there was less chance of the gun being knocked from my hand if anyone was waiting for me round any corners.
At the first landing I listened again. The noises from below were muted now. I heard the thrum of feet dashing across a floor above me. I peered up the stairwell. There was a light on at the top and I saw an amorphous shadow skitter across the wall. Someone was heading down.
A man rounded the twist in the stairs. Medium-sized man in shirt and trousers. Black shiny shoes. Short greying hair. He could have been anyone – an innocent employee of the restaurant – if not for the gun in his hand.
Seeing me, he blinked in surprise. Lines tightened at the corners of his mouth. He lifted the gun.
I fired before he did, from the hip. Because of the angle, my bullet caught him in the lower abdomen, punched out between his shoulder blades. The man's face elongated. Then he toppled head first, rolled down the stairs and ended up sprawling at my feet.
Robert Huffman's face was a mystery to me, but I knew that this man wasn't the one holding Kate. On closer inspection, his clothes were off the rack, his shoes a cheap brand. He'd
died protecting a man who earned more in an hour than he could hope for in a month.
Stepping past him, I scooped up his handgun, a Glock 17. For a second the thought that it was Kate's gun had crossed my mind, but I knew otherwise. The guns were similar, but Kate's was a Glock 19. Slightly smaller: more befitting a woman's hand. The ammo was interchangeable with that for my own gun, but I didn't have the time to start transferring it across. I shoved the Glock into my waistband alongside the Magnum. The big gun was almost out of bullets and the Glock was a handy replacement.
Moving upwards, I did so with more stealth. Obviously Huffman had more than the local thugs to call on. I doubted there'd be many; it wasn't like this was the headquarters of Tony Soprano, just some minor mobster who'd seen a niche in the market. Not that it would matter. One man with a gun was enough to kill me if I made a mistake.
At the top of the stairs I paused. The door before me was shut. If anyone was on the other side, they could gun me down as I stepped through. Moving to the door, I stood to the hinged side, leaned across and pressed down the handle. The door swung away from me. No shots invaded the space where I'd be expected to be standing. I glanced around the jamb. There was an office space, tastefully decorated. A huge desk and a leather chair behind it, a lamp casting illumination over a stack of papers. Paintings on the walls. I vaguely recognised the style, but the name of the artist wouldn't come to mind: it was extraneous to my needs. Moving into the room, I checked the corners for anyone lurking inside. No one. So I headed directly across to the door in the far corner. Windows here gave a view of the street below. All I could see was a curtain of snow. I could smell exhaust fumes from the Dodge that was still revving somewhere below me. And yes, the building was trembling under its churning wheels. My senses were supercharged now. I could make out a frantic whisper from beyond the doorway. It was a one-sided conversation, someone talking into a telephone.
