Fire and Ice: A Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 3)

by Dustin Stevens

  The galley kitchen was narrow but ran the entire length of the building. It felt at least 20 degrees warmer than the bar we’d just left.

  Walking straight ahead, Ned moved past a man standing over the stainless steel flattop, an array of sausage patties, bacon, and eggs in various states of doneness before him.

  Standing an inch or two taller than me, the man was about the same age as Ned, wearing jeans and a plain gray t-shirt. A bush of frizzled hair stuck up a couple of inches from his scalp, matched by a beard that was just a little bit shorter.

  Switching the metal spatula he was holding to his left hand, he thrust his right my way and said, “Rigby Myers.”

  “Hawk Tate,” I said, matching the grasp, grease and sweat brushing against my palm.

  “Rigby here is my cook four days a week,” Ned said, having perched himself on a stool at the far end of the room. He sat with his arms folded and one foot raised onto the bottom rung of the seat, clearly not happy with what was taking place.

  “Been doing it for a few years now,” Rigby added, flipping a pair of sausage patties over, sending a few drops of grease to the floor.

  On cue my stomach rumbled slightly, reminding me that I was running on nothing but bad coffee.

  “Ever since I mustered out,” he added without looking my way.

  “Army?” I asked.

  “Coast Guard,” he said.

  “Really?” I asked, my eyebrows giving away my surprise at the statement. “Coming from Montana?”

  At that he paused, staring at the wall for a moment, before shrugging and offering me a lopsided grin. “Too tall for the Air Force. You serve?”

  “Navy,” I replied, leaning over to Ned, questioning where this was all going without saying as much.

  I mean, Rigby seemed like a fine guy, perhaps even Ned too, his clear distrust for law enforcement or anybody affiliated with it aside, but I had more important things to be doing than having a chat with a fellow veteran.

  “Rigby here lives outside of town,” Ned said, picking up on my question. “On the way in this morning, he noticed something peculiar.”

  “Well, now, I didn’t say that,” Rigby replied, raising the spatula and pointing it at Ned, ignoring the line of pork grease dripping from the end of it.

  “Just tell the man what you did see then,” Ned replied, cutting him off.

  The spatula stopped mid-air for a moment, Rigby not saying anything, before returning to the grill and shuffling a couple of eggs. As he worked, he glanced my way and said, “You ever, I don’t know, pick up on something that just shouldn’t be there?”

  I did know the feeling, far better than either of these men could ever realize, more than I wanted to get into at the moment.

  “What did you see, Rigby?”

  “Well, that’s just it,” he said, dropping the spatula down and turning to face me full, his hands on his hips. “I didn’t see anything, but I damn sure smelled it.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Everything happened quickly, one thing right after the other, Yvonne barely having time to process each before the next occurred.

  The first was the sound of the truck engine starting, something enormous and rumbling, that drew her attention to the door. For a moment she thought maybe they were preparing to move the man beside her, that the requests she made hours before had fallen on deaf ears.

  That thought brought a nauseating feeling to her stomach, coupling with the persistent throbbing in her head, making the world sway beneath her. Leaning forward, she pressed both hands down on the table, feeling it bow slightly beneath her weight, the omnipresent whir of the heater just a few inches away.

  Next came the din of the outside door moving, the screech of frozen metal rolling in icy tracks. In her earlier state she hadn’t even noticed the door and wondered if it was being opened or closed.

  Just as fast as that sound began, a piercing howl filled the room, so loud she thought for sure it would wake the man beside her. Instead, the rush of cold air found every available crack in the makeshift structure, dropping the temperature 10 degrees almost instantly.

  Goose pimples stood out on her skin as she nudged herself over to the heater, blocking its path from her charge, letting it hit her center mass.

  For just a moment she considered him behind her, before dismissing the thought.

  This was not a hospital, and he was not her patient. She would do what she could to help him, but her chief concern was her own survival, ensuring that should the opportunity arise, she would be strong enough to escape.

  Already she was weak, her head continuing to ache, any quick movement causing the world to sway around her. More than 10 hours had passed since she’d had anything to eat or drink, dehydration amplifying the effects of her concussion.

  As a physician she was bound by the Hippocratic Oath, but she certainly couldn’t remember anything about helping someone who had knocked her cold and carried her away into a blizzard.

  The wind persisted as the dominant sound in the room, filling Yvonne’s ears, causing her to reach for another packet of Advil, before finally being replaced by the sound of the truck kicking into gear. The roar of the diesel engine picked up as it started to move.

  Rising to full height, Yvonne turned and stared at the door, wondering if it would burst open at any moment, if she should be ready to move. Perhaps they would just take the man, leaving her to her own devices, cold and alone, but at least alive.

  Or maybe the men were taking her advice, were going off to retrieve the medical supplies she needed.

  Raising both hands to her face, Yvonne covered her eyes and sighed softly. It was possible. They were listening to what she was saying, if not seeing her as an actual person, then at least as a source of expertise to heal their friend.

  His health and well-being depended on keeping her alive as well.

  Just as fast as the noise of the engine grew, it began to recede, the banging of tire chains against the frozen ground diminishing as the truck pulled away, followed by the racket of the door closing.

  Again, Yvonne took a deep breath, her eyes watering just slightly as her shoulders rose and fell by her side.

  There was no way they would leave someone behind, especially someone they had spent so much effort trying to save. They were making a supply run, would soon return with the items she needed to help him.

  The thought was so overwhelming that Yvonne lost focus of the world around her. She didn’t hear as the door finished closing, didn’t even notice the sound of heavy footsteps moving fast for the door.

  Not until it burst open beside her was she even aware that only one of the men had departed, the leader still very much present, his face twisted up in anger. On his hands was a pair of heavy leather gloves, the ends of them stopping halfway up his forearms.

  The rest of his arms were exposed to the shoulder, his outer layers of clothing having been stripped away, revealing sinewy muscles etched with heavy tattoos, the skin the consistency of leather.

  Shoving the door as hard as he could, it swung back against the wall, a banging sound echoing through the room, causing Yvonne to jump. Any trace of the controlled menace he represented before was replaced now by a burning rage that threatened to lash out at her at any moment.

  “How is he?” the man asked, striding across the room and staring down at the exposed torso of his friend. He remained there a moment before turning to face Yvonne. “I said, how is he?”

  Again, she flinched just slightly, her hands, buried inside the front of her coat, beginning to tremble.

  “He’s the same,” Yvonne whispered. “Until we can ease the pain he’s in, his body won’t let him wake up.”

  Chancing a look in his direction, Yvonne could see veins running down his forearms, his blood pressure high, causing them to stand out beneath the skin.

  This was not good. It changed things, shifting her previous assessment and calculations tremendously. Before, she had believed that he was the lead
er because he was the strong one, focused on his job and able to direct others.

  Now she could see that he was a proverbial powder keg, capable of going off at any moment.

  Which meant the odds of her surviving dropped considerably.

  Nudging herself back an inch or two, Yvonne kept her attention aimed at the ground, careful to avoid eye contact, to not even give the impression that she was aware of his presence. There she remained as he continued to assess his partner before turning to stare at her, his breathing loud, the chemical scent on his skin even more pronounced, mixed with the stench of old sweat.

  “I told you to fix him.”

  Once, twice, Yvonne opened her mouth to respond, again feeling the tears come to her eyes.

  There was no warning for what came next, no more words, nothing that would indicate she should brace herself. All there was was the quick flick of the man’s arm, whipping by in a blur, the back of his glove connecting with her jaw.

  So fierce, so unexpected, was the impact that it lifted her from her feet, the momentum carrying her backwards and depositing her in the rocking chair, where she remained as the man stomped from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I didn’t even bother going into the sheriff’s station. I had no desire for another run-in with Baker, just another in an unfortunate string of local cops I’d encountered over the years, intent on proving their worth by standing up to the outsiders who were called in to help.

  I also didn’t care to waste the time discussing the news Rigby Myers had shared when the only person who needed to know was the sheriff.

  Using the side entrance to the bar, I had cut through the alley, clutching a grease-splotched paper sack in my hand. Using the buildings on either side of me for cover, I was able to stay shielded from the wind and the whipping snow until just a block south of the station before turning and using the trench I’d carved a half hour earlier to get back.

  Standing outside on the sidewalk I could see all three of them in almost exactly the same position as I’d left them, Ferris sitting perched on a desk, coffee mug in hand.

  From the outside looking in it almost seemed like just another day at the office, with the exception of the strain on Ferris’s face.

  I raised my hand to catch his attention as he turned his head to the window.

  It took just a moment for him to register who I was and what I wanted, before he lowered his mug and strode across the floor, grabbing his coat from the rack by the door as he went. I met him as he emerged, shrugging on the heavy garment, the wind twisting the hair on his head.

  “You have something?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, jutting with my chin toward his truck parked along the curb, a few inches of fresh snow covering the hood, a couple more shoved up along the tires by the wind. “You up for a drive?”

  Ferris gave no response as he set off toward the driver’s side, raising his knees up high to get over the snow bank and plunging his foot straight down into it. One leg at a time he made his way forward. I waited until he was halfway there before doing the same, heading for the passenger side.

  I had spent so much time tromping through piled snow that feeling in my lower legs was only a distant memory. I could see the white slush clinging to my jeans, knew it was packing in around my ankles, but I paid no attention as I went for the truck, pulling the door open and climbing inside.

  “What did you find, and what’s in the sack?” he asked, shoving the keys in the ignition and cranking on the starter. Three long times it whined in protest before kicking over, a plume of icy air flying from the vents and hitting us square.

  “Guy named Rigby Myers,” I opened. “You know him?”

  “Yeah, he’s one of ours,” Ferris said, making it clear that Myers was originally from Glasgow, a lifer, unlike many of the oil hands who had begun to trickle in. “Long-time Coastie, made his way back here a couple years ago.”

  I grunted slightly, matching it up exactly with what the men had told me a short time before.

  There had been no reason for them to lie, both knowing I was working with Ferris and would easily be able to verify anything they said, though it still helped to know that they were above board on something so basic.

  Made everything else they shared a little easier to believe.

  “He see something?” Ferris asked.

  “No, but he said he smelled something that had no reason to be there,” I said. “Like wood smoke, but with a heavy chemical trace to it.”

  I glanced over to see Ferris’s face scrunch slightly, computing what I’d told him.

  “Okay, the wood smoke is straight forward enough, damn near every house in town having a fireplace. Chemical though?”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said. “Might be worth checking out, at least give us a heading on the next place to take a look.”

  “Right,” Ferris agreed. He nodded, putting the truck into drive and circling out away from the building, doing a lazy U-turn through the middle of the street and heading back in the opposite direction.

  Not once did he ask me where Myers lived or where he had been coming from, apparently knowing his residence, and damn near every other one in town.

  “You catch any hell walking in there?” Ferris asked.

  “No, but he was quick to head me off the second I walked in. Even gave us these as a ruse,” I said, holding up the paper bag and shaking it twice.

  “Ha!” Ferris spat, the first crinkle of a smile I’d seen all night crossing his face. “Let me guess, hustled you off before any of the regulars even got a good look?”

  “That he did,” I said, realizing it was probably not the first time Ned had employed the trick.

  Outside, the world was much lighter than our previous trip, the sun overhead buried somewhere behind a thick cover of clouds and frozen precipitation. It managed to push through just enough light to make everything glow, giving way to a world awash in white.

  Overall, it looked like the weather was easing up a bit, what we were seeing now as much fallen snow being whipped around by the wind as fresh snow falling from the sky.

  Not that it mattered much either way.

  A whiteout was a whiteout.

  Leaving Ferris to concentrate on driving, I opened the top of the sack and removed a breakfast sandwich, releasing the aroma of pork grease into the cab. I placed the first sandwich on the console between us for the sheriff before extracting the second one and tossing the sack to the floor.

  Silence fell as Ferris worked us out past the edge of town, the snow a little deeper on the road as I gnawed on the food. After an entire night spent with nothing but station coffee it was a Godsend, the protein and grease passing straight into my stomach, soothing my body and lifting my spirits.

  Six bites, and it was gone.

  “You want that other one, have at it,” Ferris said. “No way can I eat at a time like this.”

  If he was trying to make a backhanded statement about his surprise that I could, I let it go without a second thought as I took up the sandwich.

  In my earlier days, my partners on the FAST team had joked that when working a case, I would forget everything else, often times failing to eat for an entire day. Only over time had I come to discover the necessities of fueling up when I could, both in terms of food and sleep, banking what would undoubtedly be needed later.

  There was no way to know how much longer this investigation would run or when my next meal might be. If I was going to be of any help to Rake Ferris, or Yvonne Endicott, I needed to be at my best.

  My guess was there would be a time in the not-too-distant future that the sheriff wished he had done the same, though I wasn’t about to mention it.

  I took the second sandwich a bit slower, dragging it out to 10 bites before discarding the wrapper, balling everything together and stowing it beneath the front seat. Reaching out beside me I depressed the button to lower the automatic window, the control making a clic
king noise before stopping, the mechanism frozen solid.

  I tried a second time, getting the same response, before tugging on the door handle and cracking the entire thing open, cold air pouring in around us.

  Holding the door open a few inches, I waited nearly a full minute before slamming it shut, seeing Ferris look my direction, confusion on his face.

  “Flushing the aroma out,” I said. “Rigby Myers said he picked up on the scent. All we could smell was sausage.”

  Grunting in response, Ferris dipped his head toward the right side of the road and said, “Rigby lives about two miles on up ahead here. We should be coming up on it anytime now.”

  Leaning forward, I matched Ferris’s pose, the vents piping air in from the outside just a few inches from my face. There I remained, my backside buried in the corner of the seat, my face turned to the side, waiting.

  It took more than a mile for it to come to me, Rigby’s words ringing in my ears the moment it did.

  He was right. I was picking up on something that definitely shouldn’t be there.

  “You got it?” I asked, turning my head to the side, fighting to see past the blowing snow toward anything along the road that might be the source of the scent.

  A moment passed before Ferris responded, presumably waiting until he too caught the smell before commenting.

  “There it is,” he finally muttered, a touch of disgust in his tone. “What the hell is that?”

  The odor wasn’t one I was especially familiar with, but fortunately for us it was one that was distinctive enough to be recognizable even after limited exposure.

  “Wood smoke,” I said, parroting Rigby’s words from earlier, “and ether.”

  “Ether,” Ferris repeated, saying it almost subconsciously, as if trying to place it in his mind. “As in...”

  “Yep,” I agreed, “meth.”

  The word hung between us for a moment, each of us fitting that in with what we had, not wanting to jump to any hasty conclusions, but certainly not wanting to ignore any obvious ones either.