by Peter Prasad
He carried storage boxes to Marco’s car, started his truck and decided he’d earned two beers and a nap. He had four bottles of Fransec wrapped in a table cloth on the floor. He checked the label. It looked like the good stuff, but he’d take no risks. Back at the dairy, he emptied each bottle into the dirt.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Jake sped through his afternoon chores at the barn. The ewes were quiet, resting in the shade. The rams, Jerry Ding and Jerry Dong, acted like retired studs, more interested in food than ewes. Wally laughed when Jake told him about delivering a case of Fransec, skull and all, to the governor’s limo. The brothers agreed to allow a few days and watch for a media storm. Or maybe a news story about a dead governor.
Hap’s response: “You played your card, Knight. Let’s see.”
Sandy, pleased with her new restaurant orders, made a pasta and meatball dinner sprinkled with grated Alpine cheese. They ate with good humor and a sense of satisfaction, yet Jake didn’t rest easy. He sensed Wally was nervous too.
Jake felt like he was fishing with a stick of dynamite and waiting to hear a bang. Worn out, he called Tanya after dinner to detail the Taste event and drifted into a deep sleep quickly.
He awoke before dawn. In his dream he had heard small arms fire and several explosions. He was stuck in a quagmire of ripe poppies. He woke up waiting to hear the telltale ping of a sniper’s shot that missed.
He rolled off his bed and wondered if he could run to the Ramirez filling station and back before the sun came up. He looked out his window and saw nothing but fog.
Like every Sonoma farmer, he was counting the days until the first drenching rain. The dairy needed it for green pasture. The grape growers would squawk, fearful that early rain would dilute their juice if their grapes had not been harvested and crushed.
He pulled on his ratty running shoes, a T-shirt and gym shorts. He wanted a hard, fast run. He’d be sweating soon enough, with his hand slap on the petrol pump at Ramirez ringing in his ears. He stretched and headed toward the door.
Wally had reassembled the surveillance system. The screen was dark. Fransec was too quiet. He didn’t like it. He wanted to see Semper in his office counting his corks and Bill chained to a chair nearby.
Oddness emanated from that place. He doubted he had all the pieces of the puzzle on the board and half of them didn’t fit. He kept thinking through scenarios, from best outcome to worst case.
Best? Semper and Bellesto would be arrested. Worst? The morning news would report the Governor had died from a brain hemorrhage.
There seemed nothing more Jake could do. He had to hunker in the bunker and see how the game played out. For now, he was off the field and on the bench.
He saw a narrow pink glow begin to peek through the thick fog. Perhaps if he pounded out a fast five miles, his mind would quiet and his scenario-making would quit. The fog in from the ocean made for cool running conditions.
He trotted down the dirt road and turned right onto the county road. The fog was thicker here, hugging hummocks and indentations in the fields. He ran through grayed-out conditions with ten feet of visibility. There was no traffic on the road at this hour. He followed the yellow median stripe down the center of the road.
He was stretching out his stride when he heard the sound of a car engine behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw nothing but swirling white fog. Fog is tricky like that, it throws sound everywhere.
He sensed the vehicle was close so he veered over to run on the hard gravel beside the asphalt. He heard the engine accelerate and saw a beam of light bounce off the road in front of him. He looked back and saw the nose of the black delivery van break through the swirling weather conditions.
He couldn’t see the driver but he knew it was Wild Bill. He must have been lurking at the edge of the county road, waiting to ambush him. Wild Bill accelerated. The bastard was trying to hit him with the van. Jake jumped off the road and felt the swoosh of air as the van roared past him, missing his hip by a few inches.
Wild Bill slammed on his brakes and stopped the van in the road, partially hidden by the billowing fog. He threw open the front door and ran into the middle of the road, holding his pistol in a two-handed stance and fired toward Jake. The thick bank of fog interfered with his aim.
Jake veered to his right and crouched down as he heard two shots fly over his head.
He darted sideways in an effort to keep the van between him and Bill’s pistol. Then he bolted into a hard run, racing forward along the side of the road, momentarily protected by the fog. Ahead he could see patches of light where the thick fog cleared.
This was a race between light and dark and Jake was the rabbit. He ran for the dirt track to the spring one hundred yards ahead. He wanted to go cross-country to outrun the van.
Jake was thirty yards ahead when Wild Bill lowered his sights and fired again. Jake felt the bullet tug at his shirt above his left hip, followed by a sharp pain. He ran, knowing he’d begin to bleed hard. He was grazed, not punctured. Wild Bill’s next shot pinged off the asphalt. He’d fired four shots.
Jake heard the door of the van slam shut and the engine roar. Tires squealed behind him. Jake calculated his advantage and placed his hand on his hip as he ran ahead hard.
Bill couldn’t see him clearly through the fog. If he fired again, he’d be shooting across the windshield or firing out of the window with one hand. Jake looked down at his hand. It was bright red with blood.
Wild Bill bolted forward with two tires on the road and the other two on the gravel beside the road. He could fire straight ahead at Jake now, but the bounce of the van would diminish his accuracy. He closed the gap on Jake.
Jake began to tire. It may have been the adrenalin burn brought on by a bullet wound and a degree of heart-hammering panic. Jake reached down to the wound on his left hip. His left leg and shorts were soaked with blood.
Five yards ahead, the fog cleared and he saw the dirt track that led to the locked gate. He sprinted forward, turned off the asphalt road and ran toward the gate. If he could see the gate, then Wild Bill could see him. Bill fired and missed.
The van slowed to make the right turn onto the dirt track. Jake dared to look over his shoulder. His breathing was getting wobbly. The van bounced hard on the dirt track. Bill gripped the wheel with both hands; he couldn’t get off another shot.
Jake slowed his pace to time his arrival at the fence. This was the moment of truth. If he failed to clear the gate, Bill would run him over or shoot him.
Jake felt the dregs of his fear and adrenalin become jet fuel. He leaped for the gate, placed both hands on the top bar and kicked his legs to the left, swinging high over the gate. He cleared it, landed on the other side and kept running. He dodged to the right, turned off the track and ran across open ground toward the crest of the hill ahead.
Behind him, Bill hit the gate at 30 miles per hour. Jake heard the crunch of metal and a sharp ping at the gate popped off its hinges. The van struggled for traction on the dirt track, nosed to the right and slewed sideways before Bill had it under control.
Jake sprinted further to the right and began racing for the crest of the hill. Soon Wild Bill would be able to see him against the early light of the brightening sky. That would be his next moment of truth. Every shooter aims for a silhouette.
Wild Bill popped off two more shots, one-handed through his open window. So much for the six-shot theory, Jake calculated. Maybe he had a 12-shot clip.
The fog was lifting fast. The bullets pinged into the soil in an arc ahead of him. He had fired seven shots. He might have five shots left.
Jake had no time to think or react or look over his shoulder. He crested the hill, twisted left and jumped. He was counting on the fact that the hill ended in a rock face with a 15-foot drop into the spring and pool of mud at the bottom. Wild Bill didn’t know it was there. If it worked, this was the best bear trap Jake could muster.
He hurled throug
h the air, arcing left, away from the spring at the bottom of the cliff. He scissor-kicked to swing his legs further away from the pool of water rimmed with mud below. He wasn’t about to impale himself on the sheep fence.
He landed in soft mud and fell forward, unhurt. He scrambled up, exhausted, and moved away from the mud toward the tall grass. He crouched down, turned and looked to see how Wild Bill would negotiate the cliff.
Bill never slowed down. The van roared forward off the top of the hill, all four tires spinning in the air. Jake watched. He looked at Wild Bill through the side window. The look of shock on his face was Jake’s reward.
Their eyes locked; Jake could see that Bill knew he’d been beaten. The nose of the van turned downward and crashed into the shallow pool. Jake watched Wild Bill smash his head on the roof before he broke through the windshield.
The van teetered on its nose and fell forward, crushing Bill into the mud. Jake stood, gasping for air, applied pressure on his new bullet wound and watched the van’s wheels spin to a stop. He didn’t want the vehicle to burst into flames and pollute his spring.
Jake looked down at his left hip and studied the gash made by the bullet. How much blood was he losing? Not enough to be life-threatening.
His leg and shorts were soaked and it hurt like hell. He traced his fingertips over the three-inch furrow. The flow began to slow. All he could do was keep it clean and wait for medical treatment. He began limping toward the access road. He didn’t think he’d faint.
Slowly he walked across the field to the dirt track, past the busted gate and to the county road. He flagged down the first vehicle that passed, asked if the driver had a cell phone and would he please call 911. The driver, a commuter coming off the night shift in Petaluma, was nice enough to wait with him. When they heard the approaching siren, the driver asked if it would be okay to leave.
Jake thanked him and nodded just as Wally pulled up in the truck.
“I heard the crash of metal. Were those gun shots? You okay?” Wally was in his pajamas.
“The whack-job tried to run me down. He missed me six times; he fired seven. He went over the cliff nose-first into the spring. He’s dead.”
Wally reached out and opened the door of the truck for Jake, who sat on the bench seat. He reached into a paper bag on the floor and opened a warm IPA. He wanted a cold quart of organic milk and two aspirin. He wanted Tanya.
Three Sonoma police cars and an ambulance arrived next. When Jake mentioned the body in the spring, two cops began walking down the access road. Two sentences into his explanation, the officer decided he was incoherent and waved for the medical team. The officer led Jake to the ambulance and instructed the driver to take him to Redwoods hospital.
“I’m a vet. They know me there.” Jake sat up on the cot in the back of the ambulance and looked out the rear window. He saw Wally talking with the police officer in the wash of flashing red and blue lights.
This was a lot of police to show up so quickly. He wondered if that meant anything. He touched the puddle of blood leaking from his hip. Tanya was not going to like his change of career.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jake leaned against bed pillows at Redwood hospital, in a private room on a civilian ward this time. He heard thick-soled shoes and medical service carts scurry about and he tasted conditioned air. The stench of antiseptic was tolerable. He hated hospitals.
He looked at the cheery yellow walls, read a safety notice on how to dispose of used needles and noticed a sad orchid drooping in grief for the last patient who rested in his room. He gingerly explored the bandage taped to his hip. It hurt; his belly growled.
The ER doctor had put nine stitches into his hip and given him an IV drip of antibiotics and electrolytes. Wheeled out of Emergency and into a post-surgical suite, he’d fallen into a deep sleep.
He awoke with a dry mouth and no fear or fever. He basked in a simple sense of satisfaction. He’d gotten his man. He’d led Wild Bill to the brink so he could do himself in.
One of the nurses recognized him when she arrived with two pain pills and a glass of water. He smiled at her, enjoying the silence in his room. “Back and more famous than ever, Mr. Knight. You’ve got a police guard on your door.”
Jake glanced at the door and shrugged. “Oops, guess somebody died.”
He swallowed twice and waited for the magic of medicine to take away the pain in his hip. A bullet-graze recovers faster than a bullet hole. He felt surprisingly refreshed and lucid. Judging by the angle of sunlight on the hill outside his window, he guessed it was three o’clock. The nurse stood at his bedside. “You have visitors; up for that?”
“More fluids please. Got any milk? A Straus Family Creamery 2013 perhaps?”
She returned with a pitcher of water, two Gatorades and three half-pints of milk. He chugged the milk and nursed the Gatorade. “Okay, send them in.”
Behind her, Wally and another man walked into the room. The stranger was well-built with salt and pepper hair, wearing a shiny gray suit. He looked like another Sacramento investigator, marginally smarter, Jake judged, by the size of his smile and the glint in his eyes.
“Jay-bro, does it hurt?” Wally looked squeamish. Jake peeled back his hospital gown and showed off the six-inch bandage.
“No worries. I’ve been shot before.” He grinned at Wally and watched the relief melt across his brother’s face.
Wally cleared his throat and looked at the new guy. “This is Todd Pitt from the Governor’s office. He’s FBI. He showed me his ID.”
Jake studied the agent’s wrinkled grey suit. He wore no necktie. Jake assumed he was armed. The padded bump under his left shoulder suggested it.
Pitt began to speak. “William Nastor, the delivery van driver, is dead. But then, maybe you saw him sail through the window and get crushed.” Jake nodded Yes.
Pitt continued in a smooth baritone voice that commanded attention. “The Governor found the skull yesterday and called us. We’ve been through your cottage. We have the laptop, hard drives, the CDs, letters, all of it.” Jake nodded again.
Wally chimed in. “Pitt and five guys busted in and sacked the place. I told him straight-up what happened. He had to speak with you.”
Jake studied Pitt for a few seconds. “So you think I’m the bad guy?”
“Not at all, Mr. Knight. We’ve got forensics at the fire pit now. We can convict Semper. We found your pin-head in the air duct. Semper’s pinheads too. But his laptop is gone.”
Jake remained stone-faced.
“Last night we pulled the poison bottle from Belesto’s office. He denied any knowledge. It was locked in his desk.” Jake waited to hear more.
“It tested out as toxic-pure-nasty. Instant death and almost legal. Pritchard says you’re a hero. He wanted me to tell you.”
Tanya stuck her head in the room, saw Jake and darted to his bedside. She butted in front of Pitt, leaned down and kissed Jake.
He smiled back and bathed in her green eyes. He placed his hand on her hip, slipped a finger into a belt loop and pulled her down for a lingering kiss. She smelled like summer rain. “Ready to take me to your mountain top?”
“The Vette is outside. Fall off your horse, did ya, cowboy?”
Sonya and Hap walked into the room. Sonya was dressed in jeans and brown tooled cowboy boots, and a Balinese peacock print shirt that hung to her waist. The Colonel wore a green jumpsuit and aviator glasses. Jake assumed there was a helicopter on the roof.
“You look better’n that other a-hole.” Sonya said.
She stepped to the bed and kissed Jake’s other cheek. Pitt moved out of her way and leaned against a corner wall. He and the Colonel shook hands and whispered.
The Colonel cleared his throat. “If you can kiss like that, you’re not too knocked up, Knight. So Pitt here tells me Semper flew the coop with a Colombian bag-boy named Cristobel.”
Pitt shrugged. “We got a radar fix when his jet crossed into Me
xico.”
Hap put a canvas tote bag on Jake’s bed. Jake smelled roast beef. He glanced at the bag and saw a container from Sonya’s Tavern. He squeezed Tanya’s hand.
“So no one got Semper after all this?” Jake asked.
Pitt answered. “No. We have a wiretap of Belesto telling Semper to flee. He called right after the police reported Nastor dead. Pritchard ordered wire taps yesterday.
Jake sipped Gatorade. Wally nosed around in the canvas tote for a French fry.
Pitt continued: “That case of wine was some calling card, Mr. Knight. Pritchard opened it and projectile vomited all over a closet full of suits. He wanted to hang someone.”
Everyone laughed at that. Pitt went on: “You won’t see any of this in the newspapers. Pritchard is protecting the reputation of California wine. Agreed, Mr. Knight?”
Jake realized it was the first time he’d been called Mr. Knight twice in the same day since coming home. He nodded. “Where’s Semper now?”
“South of the border, maybe Panama. Not sure,” Pitt said. He didn’t see the Colonel touch his finger tips to his lips and wink at Jake.
“The property’s been seized. Pritchard threw me a bone,” the Colonel added. Jake noted he’d found the silver lining in the deal.
The Colonel continued: “Crying shame. Bastard flew the coop and left the grapes to rot. My crew is picking fifty acres of Fransec tomorrow. Maybe you can store a few wine barrels for us?”
“No problem,” Jake replied.
Tanya looked at him. “Yum!”
Pitt chimed in. “FBI and Interpol are looking for Semper. He filed a bill of sale to the Panama group and left on their private jet. The Governor got authority to seize the funds from the sale as a criminal activity. It’s cartel money, so Pritchard gets a windfall.”
“What’s next?” Jake asked.
“You sit tight and heal. As this resolves, I’ll call,” Pitt promised.
“Can do.” Jake reached for Tanya’s hand. She began playing with his hair.
