Ham

by Dustin Stevens

  It just so happened that the bag they happened to nab that day was piled high with hundreds, totaling out at close to half a million dollars.

  “Right there,” Glenda says, thrusting her chin toward the oversized structure made to resemble a barn sitting just off the road. Much larger than I remember, it is over a hundred yards in length, the exterior white with red trim.

  Arranged on either end are a series of smaller structures, storage sheds and gazebos available for purchase. Lined beside them are assorted ATVs and garden tractors.

  In the meadow behind it, a corn maze has been set up, signs pointing toward a pumpkin patch and petting zoo staked onto the front lawn.

  Even at such an early hour, there are several dozen cars around, families spilling out.

  “Murph’s has grown,” I say, taking in the scene, inventorying everything in my mind.

  “Yeah,” Glenda replies. “Old place burned down. Made a killing on the insurance payout.”

  Grunting softly, I don’t pretend that either one of us actually cares about the state of Murph’s business. Most of what I know about surveillance and self-awareness I got from Glenda, picked up at an early age and hammered home through rote repetition.

  A crowd means people, and people mean potential threats.

  “Pull around to the side,” Glenda says, tapping a finger against the glass. “I called our order ahead, they should have it ready and waiting for us.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Whereas Glenda doesn’t look a minute older than the day I met her, Murph seems like he’s aged thirty years since the last time I saw him. What was once stout and thick has now withered away to something stooped and hollow. Wearing faded overalls, he stands with a John Deere hat in his hand, revealing the thinning wisps of white atop his head.

  “I’m sure sorry, Glenda,” he says. “We weren’t expecting this much traffic so early in the fall.”

  Behind him, scads of people flood across the back lawn. Mostly parents being led around by young children, they point and laugh, their interests in a thousand different directions.

  As much as Murph might have changed, I can see fall is still a very, very big deal in these parts.

  “That’s all right,” Glenda says. “We’ll just pull on around to the front.”

  Nodding so vigorously it pulls him forward at the waist, Murph says, “Give me ten or fifteen more minutes and I’ll have Clint bring it out.”

  Her elbow propped on the sill of the passenger window, Glenda waves him off. “That won’t be necessary. We’re here now, we’ll just grab the rest of the stuff ourselves.”

  She delivers the alternative in a voice that most would mistake for carefree, though I can hear the strain in her tone. No doubt she is having the same thoughts as me at the moment, both of us still thinking about the story Amy shared and wanting to get back as soon as possible.

  In the aftermath of the tale, we’d both been reluctant to come at all. So much so we’d even done a quick inventory of the place, coming to the realization that they were already overdue for the supply run, and that was before the three of us showed up.

  The second idea was for one of us to stay behind, though that too was passed up under the realization that we could do things a lot faster working together.

  “Again, I’m really sorry, Glenda,” Murph says, the hat rumpled into a misshapen mess in his hands. “Next time, we’ll be better prepared.”

  I can’t imagine there being a next time in the near future, but that’s not really important right now, and saying as much will only add to the guilt the old man’s clearly already feeling.

  Flicking my gaze to the rearview mirror, I can see foot traffic crossing over the parking lot. Vehicles are lined out to the road, some already resorting to parking on the grass, the lined spaces on the asphalt full.

  Within minutes, this place is going to be a madhouse, fast approaching one of the things I hate most in the world.

  A crowd.

  “Why don’t you guys go on in?” I say, gaze still locked on the glass. “I’ll park and meet you there in time to help haul stuff out.”

  Moving only her eyes, Glenda glances my way. On the return trip, she checks the clock, running the math in her head.

  “Good idea.” Lifting her chin, she raises her voice slightly, “Amber, honey, why don’t you come with me? Ham can meet us in a minute.”

  Jerking hard on the door handle, the girl is out and gone without a word. Slamming the door shut in her wake, she keeps her back to the car, obviously still stung that she was sent from her mother’s room earlier.

  She’ll get over it.

  “We’ll start on the far end,” Glenda says. “Animal feed. Same place as before.”

  I nod, knowing exactly where she means, this far from my first trip to the place. Even if it is a new building, I can’t imagine the layout being much different.

  Not for things like that, aimed at the local farmers and ranchers, people that would not appreciate being made to go looking for what they need.

  “Five minutes,” I reply, watching as Glenda piles out and falls in beside Amber. Giving them just a moment to get inside, I wait until they disappear through the side entrance, swallowed by the crowd, before slowly backing away.

  Making it no more than a few feet at a time, checking the mirrors relentlessly, it takes me twice as long as I promised Glenda just to get back to the main lot. By the time I reach it, my nerves are frayed, the anger I felt on the drive somehow even higher.

  I can feel the sting of sweat in my eyes, the weight and warmth of the damp hair hanging on either side of my head causing me to sweat. Every swear word I know rises to the surface, rattled off in an imperceptible incantation as I work my way around to the edge of the front lawn and park.

  Jerking the keys from the ignition, I climb from the car and swing around the back end, making it almost to the edge of the parking lot before slowing.

  In my hostility a moment before, I hadn’t noticed the sedan parked in the last spot on the pavement. Square and boxy in shape, it is a standard Dodge vehicle, the windows tinted slightly. Lining the rear of the roof are a trio of antennas, California plates screwed into the bumper.

  My mouth goes dry as my pace slows again. Keeping my head down, I steal sideways glances at the vehicle, careful not to be spotted openly staring. Every survival instinct I have kicks in at once, my mind shoving past hostility.

  The car is an exact replica of the one sitting in front of The Sundowner two days ago. I know only that it isn’t the same one because the numbers on the plate are different, though the rest is a spot-on match.

  How the hell it is sitting here now I can’t concern myself with, my focus solely on getting to Glenda and Amber inside.

  For an instant, the thought of the bag Mikey provided me with crosses my mind. Sitting in Amy’s room back at the ranch to make space in the car, it does me absolutely no good now.

  Same for the SR1911 in the glove compartment, the time it would take me to go back for it more than Glenda and Amber might have.

  As fast as the images pass through my mind, they are gone again, dismissed out of hand as my pace increases. Lengthening my stride, I go as fast as prudence will allow, weaving my way through families heading in from the parking lot.

  With each step, adrenaline seeps into my bloodstream. Residual noise peels away, my focus on the front entrance, on the faces flashing past to either side.

  I can’t imagine Jensen Spiers is already here. Not with the state I left both him and his partner in on the floor of that hotel room. If he is up and active, his nose can’t be more than a mottled mash of bone and cartilage at this point. Enough to appear ghastly or worse, standing out in a crowd, drawing unwanted attention.

  Which means whoever is here is likely from his team, other members of his Special Investigation Task Force, the sedan outside drawn from the same motor pool.

  In a place as homogenous as Idaho, they might not stand out to very many people.
To me, I have little doubt that picking a pair of LAPD officers from a crowd will hold no challenge.

  Reaching the front door, I recall Glenda’s instructions from earlier. Keeping a shoulder close to the outside of the structure, I slip inside and head straight for the far end of the store.

  With my head angled down, I pass the length of the first aisle, every seed needed to grow any form of vegetable on the planet filing past beside me. On the opposite side are the requisite fertilizers and bug killers to keep said produce alive and healthy.

  Interspersed throughout are a handful of people, this crowd a stark contrast to the one outside. Most are older than me by a factor of two as I work my way forward, reaching the end of the aisle and pausing.

  Before me, the entire southern end of the building opens into one large space. Piled high around the outside are animal feeds of every kind, all packed into white or brown paper bags, available in fifty- or hundred-pound increments.

  My heart rate increases slightly as I scan the space, working through the dozen or so patrons before spotting Amber in the corner. Leaning against the handrail on the top of a metal cart, she looks on in boredom, the precursors of teenage angst rolling off her.

  Beside her, Glenda shifts sacks of cracked corn, stacking them onto the flatbed cart.

  Fighting the inclination to run to them, I pause and glance over a shoulder, making sure my tail is clear. Seeing nobody that would be driving the sedan out front, I drop to a knee, making sure I am hidden from view of the rest of the store, and wave a hand overhead.

  Nothing more than a single flare, it is enough to catch Glenda’s attention. A crinkle is visible between her brows as she looks up in puzzlement before spotting me, her features returning to neutral.

  Her hands slow as she continues positioning the bags before her, chin aimed down, her gaze locked onto me.

  Forking my index and middle fingers into a V, I motion from my eyes to the parking lot. Using my thumb, I point to my chest, then make a quick whirling gesture with it, lifting it just above my shoulder.

  Crude as hell, but she gets the message I’m trying to impart.

  Dropping her gaze back to the bags, she nods in understanding. Barely breaking pace, she turns back, grabbing for another.

  Once more, I scan the space, making sure they haven’t already been spotted, before heading back toward the front door. Items file past on either side of me, nothing more than shapes and colors, my mind working through the next few minutes and the best way to handle them.

  Using Glenda and Amber as bait isn’t ideal, but right now it is the biggest advantage I have. Glenda is more than capable of protecting Amber for a moment, their position in the back corner making for an easy spot to play defense.

  And I can’t imagine these guys have been given free rein to do as they please or make a scene in a public place.

  As for me, I have no such compunction.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The first guy is every bit as conspicuous as I imagined he would be. Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt and work boots, everything is fresh off the rack, creased and pressed and tucked in tight.

  Standing a couple of inches above six feet in height, his hair is buzzed close on the sides, the top just long enough to be pushed to the side.

  Or as I like to call it, the modern-day cop flattop.

  Moving slow, he makes no effort to pretend he’s here to shop. Able to see over the racks on the far side of Murph’s, his head is on a constant swivel, peering at everybody that walks by.

  If I didn’t know who he was and why he was here, I’d probably think he was a pedophile on the prowl for his next target.

  Leaning against the snack bar along the back wall of Murph’s, I use the glass lining the rear of it to do my scouting. Elbows resting on the bar, my hands are wrapped around an old-fashioned glass Coke bottle. Cool against my palms, a straw sticks up from the top of it, just enough cover that nobody seems to question my presence.

  Hair hanging down, I cast glances at the mirror, watching the man as he works steadily closer.

  There is no way this guy is here alone. Cops never go anywhere by themselves, and since I have to assume they have been sent by Spiers, I can’t imagine him sending someone solo all the way to Idaho.

  Especially someone as green as this bastard, the kid no more than late twenties. Probably just off the beat, he was likely picked because he is young and impressionable, exactly the kind of malleable follower Spiers would be looking for on his unit.

  Also telling me that any others here with him are likely the same.

  Casting a glance in the opposite direction, I can see Glenda has finished loading the handcart. Stacked high with bags of feed, she is standing behind it, starting to come our way. Just the top of her head is visible behind the load, Amber plainly visible walking beside her.

  Oblivious to anything out of the ordinary, the girl has let some of the attitude she was showing earlier dissipate. Eyes wide, she is looking around, giving in to the curiosity a place like Murph’s must be for a city girl like her.

  Meeting Glenda’s eye for just an instant, I raise a hand to the side of my head, one finger extended upward. Trusting she’ll catch the signal, I take another sip from the Coke, focus returning to the mirror.

  A bit of adrenaline seeps into my system as I watch the man inch his way forward, continuing to openly survey the place. Taking a few short steps, he swings his gaze over the expansive space, making it almost a complete sweep before pulling up.

  I see realization hit him the same moment he sees Glenda and Amber.

  Coming to a stop, he stares at them, blinking hard, before sliding a phone from his rear pocket. No doubt letting his partner know he has eyes on, he taps out a quick message before returning it to place.

  Twisting my chin in the opposite direction, I look to see Glenda and Amber still in the same position. A handful of people separate them from me, people coming to and from the snack bar, others glancing at random items on the shelf.

  More than enough coverage to allow them to make a run for it if need be.

  An eventuality I have no interest in letting come to pass.

  Twisting back to glance the opposite direction, I can see that the man has turned to the side, his body perpendicular to the aisle. Before him is a rack of work gloves, a pair with blue rubber coating over the palms and fingers in his hand, his head turned to openly stare.

  Looking past him, I see nobody else, making a quick scan of the room before making myself lower my head to take another drink.

  The soda is completely tasteless as I swallow it down. Sound fades away, time seeming to slow. People and images around me recede to nothing more than colors and shapes, my reptilian brain taking over, drawing my focus onto the single man standing fifteen yards away.

  Skills that I haven’t fully employed in years rise to the surface, muscle memory so ingrained in me that it can be recalled in an instant. My body tingles with sensation, mind envisioning the next few minutes with complete clarity.

  As near as I can tell, the man hasn’t spotted me. Based on what I saw, there weren’t any cameras at The Sundowner, meaning the only description he got from Spiers — if any — was to look for a woman with her hair shaved into a wide Mohawk with a deep tan.

  Standing here now, my hair down and my arms hidden beneath a jacket, he can’t see either. I am nearly invisible to him, his interest solely in Amber.

  A mistake I am about to exploit the hell out of.

  Every muscle contracted firmly, coiled and ready to strike, I watch as the man finally gets whatever signal he was waiting for. Returning the gloves to the rack, he turns and resumes walking. Gaze leveled on the far side of the store, not once does he check his surroundings, completely locked in on his target.

  Pulse thumping, I count off the seconds, waiting as he draws into range.

  Taking a step back, I clamp my hands on the edge of the bar, using the thick wood for leverage. Planting my right foot, I flex
the same knee, balancing my weight above it.

  Like a spring uncoiling, I drive back, snapping my left heel out. Aiming at the crease running along the side of his jeans, I make clean contact, driving the bottom of my foot through the side of his left kneecap.

  In no way expecting the shot, having no chance of protecting himself, I can feel the joint disintegrate beneath my boot. A tendon snaps loudly, the internal structure holding up just momentarily before caving in on itself, his leg bending inward at an angle God never intended.

  Releasing my grip on the bar, I snatch up the Coke bottle, letting my momentum carry me away. Falling in line with the thin flow of foot traffic, I make it no more than a couple of steps before hearing him go down hard.

  A murmur swells through the crowd as heads begin to turn, all looking back in the opposite direction, nobody paying the slightest attention as I push ahead. Finding the first break in the aisle, I loop back toward the front, hearing shouts of concern rise up in my wake.

  Knowing that somewhere on the opposite side of the store, Glenda and Amber are moving parallel to me, I keep moving. In the back, somebody shouts for a doctor. Another calls out, asking if the man has any family on-site.

  Not that either one will do him a damn bit of good now. From this day on, walking without a limp will be a miracle. Even getting him back home to Los Angeles will be difficult, a complete joint reconstruction on his horizon.

  My gaze locked straight ahead, I see Glenda and Amber reach the front door and slide outside. The old woman’s grip is locked around Amber’s elbow, the young girl’s features completely pale as they step out into the sun.

  Five steps later, I reach the door as well, pausing just long enough to glance back and see the crowd that has gathered. Looks of concern seem to paint people’s faces as they glance from one to another, everybody trying to make sense of what happened.

  Not once does anybody so much as glance my way as I slip outside and head for the car.