by Don Winslow
Steve looked over to Neal.
“Cash,” Neal said.
Evelyn didn’t flinch at the hundred-dollar bill he laid down.
“Speaking of tabs,” she said to Steve, “you haven’t seen Paul Wallace around, have you?”
Say what? Say who? Whom? Neal slowly put his change back in his wallet and examined his purchases. Which Paul Wallace is she talking about?
“Paul Wallace…” Steve said, testing the sound to see if it rang a bell.
“I believe he’s one of Hansen’s hands,” Evelyn said. “Came in here and ran a tab against his pay, and I haven’t seen him since. Been about three weeks. Hansen pays every two, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah. Kinda tall? Blond? Nice-looking guy?” Steve asked.
Harley McCall. Neal wished he had a chance to slap the real Paul Wallace all over again. Son of a bitch should have told me that they switched identities. Then again, I should have thought to ask.
“Yeah, that’s him. I usually don’t give credit unless they’ve been around awhile, but he had this cute little boy with him, and he was buying kids’ stuff-cereal, cookies…”
Neal wondered if they noticed the bass drum banging in the room-his heart beating a fast, steady boom-boom-boom.
Steve said, “Sorry, Evelyn, I haven’t seen him around in at least three weeks. Course, there’s no reason I would. I’m not over to Hansen’s much. I can ask Shelly to ask Jory if you want.”
Evelyn shook her head. “No, I don’t want to embarrass the man. But if you run into Hansen, tell him to tell his cowboy to come see me. Course, he’s probably moved on somewhere and stiffed me.”
I hope not, Evelyn. Boy, do I hope not.
“Cute kid, though,” Evelyn observed.
Neal put his stuff in the back of the pickup as Steve looked over to Brogan’s.
“I hate to waste gasoline on one errand,” Steve said.
“I’ll meet you over there,” Neal answered. “I want to make a call.”
He walked down to the gas station, where there was a phone booth. He dialed an 800 number.
“Give me one reason I shouldn’t fire you right now,” Levine said as he came on the phone.
“I think I’ve found McCall,” Neal answered.
“Okay, that’s one reason. Tell us where, we’ll have a crew on the next plane.”
“Too soon,” Neal answered. He told him about his conversation with Paul Wallace, his visit with Doreen, his luck with the Mills family, and what he had found out at the store.
“He may have moved on or he may be just lying low at the ranch,” Neal said. “Wait until I find out which.”
Joe Graham came on the line. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”
“Sorry, Dad. Ed can fill you in. I’m fine.”
“Let me put a crew in place, anyway,” Ed said.
“There’s nowhere to put one, Ed. You’d spook everybody. I have to get going.”
He saw Cal Strekker coming. And there was something… just something…
Ed said, “Now Neal, just try to locate him. Don’t do anything, you got that? We’ve done some research on the True Identity Church, and-”
“Ed, activate that cover story.”
“Neal, what are you doing?” Ed demanded.
Strekker was getting closer.
“Ed, just get me covered! I have to go!”
“Carey, you don’t-”
Neal hung up the phone. Cal Strekker was walking right past him.
“Bitch!” Neal shouted to the phone.
Cal stopped and sneered. “Woman trouble?” he asked.
“Is there any other kind?” Neal answered.
“Stick to whores,” Cal answered. “You pay ’em, you poke ’em, they give you any shit, you smoke ‘em.”
Okaaaay, Neal thought.
Levine buzzed down to the operator.
“Where?” he asked.
“Austin, Nevada.”
Levine looked at Graham. “It’s possible.”
Graham nodded. Since the failed bag job they had devoted their energies to researching Carter’s church. What they had learned was disturbing.
“We should start working the other end,” Levine said.
“Yeah. But carefully. If we screw up we could get the kid killed,” said Graham.
“Which kid?” Levine asked. “Cody McCall or Neal Carey?”
“Both.”
Neal walked into Brogan’s just behind Cal Strekker. There was a beer waiting for him on the bar. He had to step over a sleeping Brezhnev to get to it. Brogan was snoozing in his chair.
“Get your call made?” Steve asked.
“Yeah.”
Neal didn’t volunteer any more information and Steve didn’t ask for any. Strekker grabbed a beer from the fridge and moved down to the end of the bar to his customary stool.
“Doesn’t Hansen expect you to do any work?” Steve asked him. It was a joking tone, but it had an edge on it.
“Got a big load of barbed wire in the truck,” Cal answered. “Thought I’d stop off for a beer, if that’s okay with you.”
“It’s okay with me,” said Steve. “What’s Bob got you doing? Making another breeding pen?”
“I expect if Mr. Hansen wants to discuss his business with you, he will.”
Which in that part of Nevada came pretty damn close to rudeness.
Steve nodded. “Cal, I’ve known Bob Hansen for nigh unto twenty years. I helped him build some of those fences he’s got on his place. In those days we used to take turns, helping each other bring our herds down for the winter. That’s before he could afford top-talent professional cowboys like you.”
“We should be getting back,” Neal said.
“No hurry,” Steve said. The edge was a little sharper.
“I’m not a cowboy,” Cal answered. “I’m a mechanic. And head of security.” Steve guffawed and sprayed beer out his mouth. Some of it landed on Brezhnev and he woke up and growled, which woke Brogan up too. He gave Steve an evil eye and settled back into his chair.
“Security!” Steve bellowed. “What does Bob Hansen need security for?”
“Rustlers. Horse thieves.”
“Shit,” Steve said, chuckling.
“There’ve been some rustlers around,” Strekker said defensively.
Steve downed his whiskey chaser. “Oh, hell, I know that. I lost a cow just last week. I figure it’s only some old back-to-the-earth hippies with a flashlight and a truck. Maybe two or three Paiutes from the res who spent their government checks on hooch and need to feed their kids. Hardly the goddamn James gang. And as for horse thieves, why are they going to take a shot at your remuda when the whole valley is lousy with herds of mustangs eating our cows’ grass? Thanks to the goddamn federal government, by the way. Head of security.”
Cal Strekker flushed with anger. “You can sure talk, Mills, that’s for sure.”
“That’s ‘Mr. Mills’ to you. Or ‘Steve.’ Now, why don’t you do something useful, head of security, and tell Paul Wallace to pay his tab at the store.”
The name struck a nerve.
“Wallace moved on,” Strekker said.
Neal saw Strekker’s eyes widen just a bit, saw the intake of breath that held just a little too long. You’re lying, Neal thought. Harley/ Paul McCall/Wallace has not moved on.
“Then tell Hansen,” Mills said.
“If Evelyn loaned Wallace money, that’s between her and Wallace. It doesn’t have anything to do with the Hansen Cattle Company.”
Steve stood up and put his hat on. “I’ll tell you what,” he said to Strekker. “You tell Bob Hansen what I’ve told you, and he’ll drive in here personally, apologize to Evelyn, and pay the money with interest.
“You think so, huh?” Strekker sneered.
“I know Bob Hansen.”
I wonder if you do, Neal thought. I wonder if you do. He followed Steve onto the street.
Steve hopped into the truck, pulled a cigarette fr
om the glove compartment, and lit it up. He exhaled some of his anger with the smoke.
“He pisses me off,” Steve said. “Bob’s hired himself some real losers lately, all right. Come-lately, drifter trash. No offense,” he added quickly.
“No problem. I thought for a second there was going to be a fight back there.”
“Me too,” Steve chuckled. “Well, it would have sparked up an otherwise dull morning. Let’s go back and get you settled in your new home on the range.”
Yeah, and then find out just how good security is in the Hansen Cattle Company.
They drove as close as they could to the cabin. The truck bounced and protested but moved across the hard-packed sagebrush. They stopped just shy of the creek and then carried the supplies across.
A big black horse, loosely tied to a branch, was grazing lazily.
“That’s Dash,” Steve said, “Shelly’s favorite.”
Shelly and Peggy were in the cabin, cleaning furiously.
They’d done a great job. The cabin was a small, square one room. A metal bed occupied a corner in the back. The bed had just been made up with fresh sheets, an army blanket, and an Indian blanket. An old barrel sufficed for a nightstand. A kerosene lamp on the barrel would serve as a reading light.
On the opposite wall to the right of the door was a counter and a sink with shelves beneath. A plump wood stove sat to the left of the door. Two small screen windows let in air and light.
“You can cover those with plastic when it gets cold,” Peggy said, “if you end up staying that long. I brought some old cast-iron pans and a pot we don’t use anymore. Also a few plates, cups, silverware.”
“Thank you,” said Neal.
“Glad to get rid of them. There’s a lister bag out there for you boys to hang up.”
They went outside. Steve took the big green canvas bag, tied a rope to a ring at the top, hoisted it up on a branch near the creek, and tied it off on the tree trunk.
“Just fill it with water from the creek, hoist it back up, turn the spigot, and you have a shower,” he said. Then he showed Neal where the outhouse was, behind the cabin hidden in some pines. It was a little bigger than a phone booth and had a bench with a hole in it.
“Here’s how you flush,” Steve said. He poured a little gasoline down the hole, lit a match and tossed it in. “That usually does it.”
Shelly was in the saddle when they got back.
“You want a ride, Neal?” she asked.
“No thanks.”
“Have you ever been on a horse?” she asked.
“Sure, and I almost caught the brass ring.”
“You’re just afraid,” she teased.
“You’re just right,” answered Neal.
“Where are you headed, honey?” Steve asked.
“I’m going for a ride with Jory. Up there.” She nodded toward the mountains.
“Where is he?”
“He didn’t want to wait. We’re going to meet up at the spring below the caves.”
“You stay out of those caves!” Peggy hollered from the cabin.
Shelly rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “Don’t worry! They give me the creeps!” she said. She pointed toward the cabin door. “Ever vigilant.”
Then she gave Dash a little kick in the ribs and set out at a trot up the lower slopes of the mountain. She waved good-bye without turning back.
“Well,” Steve said as much to himself as to Neal, “I suppose it’s better than her hanging around some mall all day.”
Peggy came out on the porch.
“Do you suppose they’re sleeping together?” she asked evenly.
“Peg! Jesus!”
“I’m not saying they are, Steve,” she said. “But we should look at the possibility.”
“Maybe it isn’t better than hanging around some mall,” Steve considered.
They tinkered around the cabin for a little while longer, making sure Neal was all set up, and then left to let him get settled in and have some privacy. They invited him to dinner, but Neal said that he might just as well get started in being self-sufficient.
Besides, he had some things to do.
First of all he laid out his stuff. It didn’t take long. He had his new work clothes, some of his old street wear, and his new breaking-and-entering regulation black jersey, jeans, socks, tennis shoes, and cap. He had the dog-eared paperback of Smollet’s Roderick Random which had saved him from going crazy during his three years’ confinement in Sichuan.
He took his collection of racist literature-The Turner Diaries, The Zion Watchman newsletter, and a couple of C. Wesley Carter’s cheaply printed tracts-and hid them where anyone tossing the place could find them.
Then he unpacked his binoculars, the little Peterson bird glasses that came so highly recommended by one Joseph Graham, and went for a hike.
He climbed up the north side of the spur, pulling himself up the flaky ground by grabbing onto pines, until he came to a shelf of rock on the top. He edged around that, gained another fifty feet of elevation, and walked along until he found what he was looking for.
It was a little outcrop on the south side of the spur. A small grove of aspens provided cover but left enough of the view; a lovely panorama of the main compound of Hansen’s a thousand or so yards down and away from his perch.
My hunch was right, Neal thought with an unbecoming degree of satisfaction. Just as the slope of the ground shields my cabin from Mills’, so does the same geography create dead ground behind Hansen’s. Except the dead ground is quite lively this late Saturday afternoon.
First of all, he could see the construction even with the naked eye. It was a frigging stockade. The center building was a large bunker-basically rectangular, but with circular gun ports built at the corners to provide a field of fire that could sweep all of the ground around it. It was built low to the ground with a sandbagged roof, over which was stretched a net stuffed with sagebrush. Neal imagined that the foundation was dug deep into the ground to protect against explosives.
There were three smaller bunkers on the other side of the main one. They were all circles of poured concrete; two had gun slits barely aboveground. Neal guessed that they were supply dumps of some sort, perhaps for food and ammunition. The other one looked like it might be for prisoners. All were similarly camouflaged in sagebrush.
Somebody knows what the hell he’s doing, Neal thought. A casual observer from the trails along the mountain would barely pick this out, and if he did it would look like an old mining operation or cattle pen. The bunkers would be impervious from fire directed from the mountain slopes. You’d need artillery or at least mortars to do any serious damage, and who was going to haul that up here? But the fort clearly had been constructed to defend against an attack coming from the valley, not the mountains. A charge across the flat sagebrush plain into these bunkers would be suicidal folly.
Three sides of the compound were flanked by a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The fourth side, the one that faced the Hansen house, was the one under construction at the moment. It looked like they were trying to build the fence to allow a gate to open onto a dirt trail that cut all the way back to the main Hansen compound. Even now men were unrolling wire along the trail.
What are they expecting? Neal wondered. Armageddon?
They probably are, he thought. Probably the idea would be to give up the big house and withdraw to the stockade. Fight it out there until the good guys win.
Neal put the field glasses to his eyes and adjusted the lenses for distance. Even with the powerful binoculars, the busy figures were indistinct against the dull gray of the sagebrush-covered ground. Neal could just make out the figure of Bob Hansen, mostly because of the cowboy hat. Neal scanned the compound to see if he could locate the rangy figure of Cal Strekker, but he didn’t find him.
Maybe he’s in one of the bunkers, Neal thought. Maybe Harley McCall and Cody are too. Maybe I should be as well.
Neal watched for a fe
w minutes longer and then pulled off the outcrop and found himself a place to sit among the pines farther back. There was no sense in being exposed for too long, and he wanted to wait until the light got a little softer before trying to get any closer.
If McCall and the boy are in that compound, he thought while he sat, it isn’t going to be any easy bag job. I don’t care how much high-priced muscle Ed can bring in, we aren’t getting the kid out of there. We’re going to have to find a way to lure Harley and the boy off the place and then take them. And I don’t have a clue yet how to do that.
Neal waited for an hour before he got up and started to ease himself along the slope closer to the stockade. He figured that even a couple hundred yards might give him a shot at recognizing faces, primarily to see if Harley was one of them, but also to start getting an idea of just how many people they’d be up against.
Then the thought hit him with almost nauseating force: just how the hell many people know about this? Shit. Jory Hansen certainly, the same kid who is on a trail ride with Shelly Mills, the daughter of my friends Steve and Peggy. Do I tell them?
The second wave hit him: or do they already know?
Old friends… good neighbors… Steve’s remarks about the “goddamn federal government”… Steve from California… a rancher Harley knew from California…
Suddenly he couldn’t breathe.
A hand pressed tight against his mouth. A knee pressed into the small of his back while the forearm pulled him up and backward, arching his spine to the breaking point and threatening to snap his neck.
“You’re a dead man,” a voice hissed. The point of a combat knife pressed against Neal’s ribs.
Well, Neal thought, at least I’ve found Cal Strekker.
To Neal’s disappointment, Strekker didn’t take him to the compound. Instead he dragged him to a clearing farther along the ridge and slammed him down at the base of a small cedar.
He chose the spot pretty well, Neal thought. You can’t see or be seen from here.
Cal talked quietly into a small field radio. Neal made out the word intruder.
“Mr. Hansen’s on his way up,” Strekker said. “But maybe I should just kill you and tell him you tried to escape.”
