by C. J. Box
Villatoro tried to look in the direction from which he thought the voice was coming, but the gun against his head prevented movement. At any moment he expected to feel and hear an explosion, experience a flash of orange lights and his body dropping away. But Newkirk did nothing.
“Who are you?” Newkirk asked, his voice weak.
“Tell you what,” Rawlins said. “No harm, no foul. Let the guy go and step back, and I’ll let you walk away.”
Villatoro could almost feel Newkirk thinking about it, weighing the odds. Villatoro wanted to speak, but couldn’t find his voice anywhere.
“I can’t just go back,” Newkirk said, sounding like a little boy.
“Let him go, and I’ll let you fire your gun in the dirt,” Rawlins said.
“They’ll think you did your job, and I’ll never tell. Neither will Mr. Villatoro.”
He pronounced my name correctly, Villatoro thought.
“It will never work,” Newkirk said.
“I don’t think there’s a choice in the matter.”
“They’ll find out.”
“Too bad for you if they do.”
“But …”
Villatoro felt the grip on his collar loosen, felt the absence of the gun on the side of his head although the place where it had been pressed seemed to burn on his skin. Then he was free. He chanced a step forward, and nothing happened.
“Keep walking, Eduardo,” Rawlins said. “Don’t stop, don’t turn around.”
Villatoro did as he was told. He emerged from the canopy, felt cold raindrops on the top of his head. Nothing had ever felt better. He kept walking. From the dark, a hand gripped his forearm and pulled him into the warm flank of a damp horse.
“Go ahead and shoot,” Rawlins said to Newkirk, “but don’t even think about raising the weapon again.”
The explosion was sharp but muffled, and Villatoro felt his knees tremble at the sound of it. But there were no more shots.
“Go back to the house now,” Rawlins said to Newkirk.
Finally, Villatoro turned to see a glimpse of Newkirk’s back as he walked away into the foliage. The big pig shadowed him along the rail, grunting for food, agitated.
“Climb up,” the rancher said in a whisper, offering his hand.
“I never rode a horse,” Villatoro said.
“You won’t be riding. You’ll be hanging on to me.”
Sunday, 10:55 P.M.
IT STOPPED raining,” Newkirk said to Gonzalez.
“No shit,” Gonzalez replied.
They were on the deck of Swann’s house, sitting on metal lawn furniture under the eave. Newkirk was still shaking, but he watched the red end of Gonzo’s cigar, watched it brighten as the ex-sergeant sucked on it, the glow bright enough to light up his eyes.
Lieutenant Singer and Swann were inside, Swann talking. Newkirk could hear the pigs grunting and squealing, hungry. Those damn pigs were going to give him away. If Gonzo walked down there and couldn’t find the body …
“That guy from Arcadia must taste good,” Gonzo said, and Newkirk felt a wave of relief since Gonzalez had mistaken the sound. “Did he give you any trouble?”
“No.”
“I’ll never understand that, especially from an ex-cop. Me, I’d fight until my last breath. I’d be like that knight in Monty Python, you know? Cut off my arm, and I’d keep coming; cut off my leg, I wouldn’t give a fuck. I wouldn’t let somebody just take me out and shoot me in the head.”
Newkirk grunted.
“One shot to the brain, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I just heard one shot. But it was raining.”
Newkirk was drunk but not drunk enough. Violent shivers coursed through him, making his pectorals twitch. He tried not to think about Villatoro and what had happened. He wanted to be able to do what he used to do on the force in a bad situation. Like the time he was first on the scene to a gangland slaying, four bodies tied up with electrical cords, multiple shotgun wounds to their heads. He’d been able to think of himself in the third person then. It wasn’t him who walked through the warehouse, through the blood, it was someone else who knew to call for backup in a calm voice. Just like it wasn’t him that evening who gained Villatoro’s confidence, or told him everything for the sole purpose of getting the man to Swann’s place. It was someone else playing him, acting out a role, reading the script he’d been handed. Not him. He wasn’t evil. He had a wife and kids, and he coached soccer. He had even come to like that small-town detective a little. And to turn Villatoro over to the guy in the dark without a fight, then to keep silent about it? Well, that wasn’t him, either. What he couldn’t decide was whether his action was based in virtue or cowardice or something else. Maybe depression. But enough of that kind of thinking.
“What’s Singer planning in there?” Newkirk asked, taking a long pull from the bottle he’d brought with him.
“He’s figuring things out,” Gonzalez said, irritated. “He’s the planner. You know that. You asked me the same question five minutes ago. You’re starting to make me nervous, Newkirk. Just shut up if you don’t have anything to say.”
Newkirk was glad Gonzalez couldn’t see him in the dark, couldn’t see the mixture of hate and self-revulsion he was sure was on his face.
“You better cool it with the boozing, too,” his old boss said, his voice dropping with concern. “We might have to go into action tonight again. You need to be sharp.”
“I thought I’d just let you do the killing,” Newkirk said, surprised that he verbalized it. Sure, he was thinking that, but he didn’t mean to actually say it.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Gonzalez said, instantly hostile.
“Nothing.”
Gonzalez turned in his chair, put his huge forearms on the table between them. “You think I like it? Is that what you think?”
Newkirk wanted to take back his words, but he couldn’t. “No, I don’t think that. Forget I said anything.”
“But you said it, asshole,” Gonzalez said, his voice rising. “So you meant it. That’s what you think, that I like shooting guys in the head. You think I like that, don’t you?”
Newkirk shook his head hard, tried to get his wits back. There was too much alcohol in him. “No, really, I …”
Gonzalez was across the table and his hand shot out. Before Newkirk could pull back, a thumb jammed into his mouth between his teeth and cheek, and he felt Gonzalez clamp down with his fingers and twist as if he were trying to tear his face off. Newkirk groaned and gagged, turned his head in the direction of the twist, his head driven down into the tabletop.
Gonzalez was now standing over him, bending down, his mouth inches from Newkirk’s ear. The thumb was still in his mouth; the pressure and pain were excruciating.
“Don’t you dare get sanctimonious on me, Newkirk,” Gonzalez hissed. “Don’t you fucking dare. You’re in this as deep as I am, as deep as all of us. None of us like what’s happened. I had nothing against that guy …except the fact that he wanted to put me into prison. He wanted to take my new life away from me. I like my life, Newkirk. I’ll do anything to keep it. And if that means shooting a sanctimonious prick like you in the head, I’ll do that, too.”
Newkirk blinked away tears and tried not to make a sound. The thumb in his mouth tasted of metal and tobacco. He wanted to be still, let the moment pass, give Gonzalez a moment to cool down.
“I’m sorry,” Newkirk said after a beat. Or tried to say. But it sounded like a croaked moan with the thumb in his mouth.
Gonzalez relieved the pressure, and Newkirk sat back up.
“I said I’m sorry,” Newkirk said. “I mean it. It was the bourbon talking.”
“Yeah,” Gonzalez said, drying his wet hand on his pants, his anger receding. “But the bourbon used your mouth.”
They heard a chair being pushed back from the table inside. “Somebody’s coming,” Newkirk said.
“It better be Singer,” Gonzalez said, standing.
Singer stepped ou
t onto the porch. “Did you solve our problem?” he asked Newkirk, all business.
“Solved,” Gonzalez said. “The pigs are happy.”
Singer’s face went dead as he listened. “You cut him up?”
Newkirk choked as he spoke. “Nah.”
“I told you to cut him up.”
“When I shot him, he fell back into the pen,” Newkirk lied. “The pigs were all over him. I didn’t want to go in there with him.”
Singer looked away, obviously angry. “What did you do with his car?”
Gonzalez said, “It’s in the garage for now, right next to the UPS truck. We can take it to the chop shop in Spokane later.”
“Was he any trouble?” Singer asked Newkirk.
“Nah, he drove right up here.”
“Anyone see you?”
“No,” Newkirk said. No need to complicate things further.
Singer narrowed his eyes at Newkirk. “What happened to your face?”
Newkirk reached up and rubbed his jaw. He could either tell Singer what had happened or pull his weapon and shoot Gonzalez right now in a preemptive strike. Or he could do neither, which is what he chose.
Gonzalez stepped back and threw an arm around Newkirk, crushing him into his hard barrel chest. “Emotions were running a little high, Lieutenant. We had a little scrap, but everything’s cool now, isn’t it, Newkirk?”
Newkirk nodded, lowered his eyes away from Singer’s fixed stare, and said, “Yup. We’re cool.”
Singer moved his eyes from Newkirk to Gonzalez, back to Newkirk. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
“Okay, let’s meet,” Singer said, turning on his heel and going inside.
THE LIEUTENANT strode behind the kitchen table and turned toward them as they entered. Swann looked bad. Singer said, “He’s got a broken nose and cheekbone and a busted jaw. Somebody worked him over and took Monica Taylor.”
“Shit!” Gonzalez said, hard and fast.
Newkirk thought he knew who had done it.
“The sheriff’s in a panic,” Singer continued, his voice so calm it reminded Newkirk of the rhythm of a bedtime story. “He’s contacted the state DCI and the Feds. I tried to talk him out of it, but I was unsuccessful. The sheriff thinks he’s got a double kidnapping on his hands. The Feds will be here first thing tomorrow in a chopper.”
Newkirk tried to concentrate on what Singer was saying, tried to put it into context and think ahead.
“Who did it?” Gonzalez asked Swann.
Swann’s face was half-again its normal size. He had trouble talking but said, “Tall thin old guy, maybe sixty, sixty-five, wearing a cowboy hat. He had a lever-action rifle with him, that’s what he used on me.”
Newkirk thought, Yes, sounds like him.
“Why’d he take the woman?” Newkirk asked instead, which resulted in a laser-beam stare from Singer.
“I don’t know why he took the woman,” Singer said. “But I’ve got a pretty good guess. Have you been drinking, Newkirk?”
Newkirk felt his face get hot. “Some,” he said.
“Are you okay to work?”
“Yes,” Newkirk said, his voice thick.
“He’ll be fine,” Gonzalez said, trying to smooth things over between them in his brutish way. “He can follow orders and pop a cap in some old cowboy’s ass, if that’s what we need him to do.”
Again, Singer looked from Gonzalez to Newkirk. Analyzing them, dissecting them. Coming to some kind of conclusion that was inscrutable.
“You remember Fiona Pritzle?” Singer asked. Before they could answer, he continued. “She’s the one who gave the Taylor kids a ride to go fishing. She’s a gossip, a local busybody, but she showed up at the sheriff’s house earlier tonight with an interesting story. She said she saw a local rancher in the grocery store buying food that only kids eat, but the guy doesn’t have any kids. She says he lives up the valley, about eight miles from the Sand Creek campground. The sheriff knows the citizen, named Rawlins. Jess Rawlins, our cowboy. Anyway, Pritzle thinks Rawlins may have the kids. She thinks he’s an old pervert. The sheriff wasn’t buying it at the time. I’m sure he’ll tell the Feds about him, though.”
“Rawlins,” Gonzalez said, turning the name over in his mouth. “I ran into that old fucker today. He threw me off his ranch, said I couldn’t search it without a warrant. I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. We have issues.”
Newkirk kept quiet.
Singer was motionless for a moment, looking at something beyond Newkirk but not really looking at anything at all. Thinking, building a plan.
“He’s got them,” Singer said. “He’s got the kids, and he’s got Monica Taylor.”
He paused to let the fact sink in. “Obviously,” Singer said, in a tone as reasonable as it was icy, “we’ve got to get him before the Feds and the state cops come in. We’ve got to force a confrontation. What happens is the rancher gets killed, and the Taylors go down in the cross fire. The dead rancher later gets pinned with the whole thing: kidnapping, sex crimes, murder. We don’t hit the kids ourselves, we use the rancher’s gun to shoot them.”
“Jesus,” Gonzalez whispered.
Newkirk couldn’t say anything if he wanted to. He was too busy trying to stop the surge of sour whiskey from coming back up.
“What do we do when we’ve got a hostage situation?” Singer asked. Silence.
Then Singer slammed his palm down on the kitchen table so hard that glassware tinkled in the cupboards. “Gentlemen,” Singer said, his voice sharp and straight like a razor’s edge, “what do we do when we’ve got a hostage situation?”
Newkirk gagged, then stumbled to the kitchen sink and threw up. He felt their eyes on his back but didn’t turn around until he had gulped down two glasses of water. Finally, he said over his shoulder, “Cut off power and electricity. Try to force them out into the open.”
“Right,” Singer said, satisfied.
Newkirk turned around, leaned against the counter, wiped his mouth and eyes with his sleeve.
Singer leaned toward Gonzalez: “Do you recall when you were there earlier where the power lines are that lead to the ranch?”
“Yeah. They’re along the highway.”
“First things first, then,” Singer said. “Gonzo, go out into the garage with Swann and you two grab his toolbox, then get over to that rancher’s gate, fast. Use your vehicle to block the exit so they can’t get out and can’t get around you through the trees. Figure out where phone lines are—I’m sure they’re on the highway right-of-way with the power. Go now.”
“I’m out of here,” Gonzalez said, scrambling. Swann stumbled along behind him.
“We’ll meet you there,” Singer said, turning to Newkirk. “I want you to follow me in the UPS truck.”
Newkirk shook his head, puzzled. “Why?”
“We want it close,” Singer said. “Close enough to the ranch to take it down there when everything’s over. It’ll help us build the legacy of Jess Rawlins.”
Sunday, 11:17 P.M.
I THOUGHT for a minute you were going to let Newkirk shoot me,” Villatoro said.
“Nope,” Jess said. “It was a bluff.”
“It was a good bluff,” Villatoro said emphatically. “I believed you.”
“Mr. Villatoro, you’ll need to keep your voice down a little,” Jess said softly over his shoulder as he rode. “Sound carries out here. We don’t want them to hear us.”
“I’m sorry,” Villatoro whispered. “My nerves are jangling.”
“Mine, too.”
They were deep in the timber, the mare picking her way over downed logs and between crowded stands of dripping trees. More than once, Jess had to duck and caution Villatoro to do the same as they passed under overhanging branches. They were on his ranch now, he could feel the comfort of it. His passenger clutched him so tightly around his ribs that at times he had trouble breathing and had to ask Villatoro to ease up. The Winchester lay across the pommel of the saddle. Although the moon
was still behind clouds, the sky was clearing, and muted shafts of moonlight shone through the branches and blued the barrel of the rifle.
Villatoro whispered, “Will your horse carry both of us all the way back?”
“Hope so.”
“I still can’t believe I’m on a horse.”
“Kind of uncomfortable, isn’t it?”
“I hope I don’t fall off.”
“Me too.”
Villatoro sighed, as if everything that had happened was settling in, exhausting him suddenly. “Jesus,” he moaned. “What a night. All those years in the department, and nothing ever happened like that. I feel foolish for not fighting back, but what could I have done?”
“Not much,” Jess said over his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking. Hearne’s right. As soon as we get back let’s pack everybody into his car and my truck and get the hell to Kootenai Bay. We’ll get through this. We’ll go straight to the sheriff and the media and try to make our case. I’d rather those kids were there than here tonight.”
Villatoro took a cautious breath before asking, “What kids?”
Jess explained.
All Villatoro could say was, “My God.”
JESS COULD feel Chile getting tired, slowing down, stumbling where earlier she was surefooted. But she didn’t protest with a crow-hop, or try to shrug them off. She’s a gamer, he thought. He admired her character.
“Let’s dismount and lead her for a while so she can catch her breath,” Jess said, pulling her to a stop.
“I’d guess the both of us are pretty heavy.”
Jess agreed and nodded in the dark and felt Villatoro slide clumsily off Chile’s back. When he was clear, Jess swung out of the saddle and shoved his hand between the horse’s flank and the saddle blanket, where it was hot and moist with sweat.
“Soon as she cools down, we can ride her in,” Jess said in a low whisper, leading her by the reins. Villatoro walked alongside with a hand on the saddle because Chile and Jess knew where they were headed, and he didn’t.
Above them, in the trees, was a sweep of light.
“What was that?” Villatoro asked.
Jess put a gloved finger against his lips and shushed him. “Headlights,” Jess whispered.
