Moving Target

by R. A. McGee

  “Yeah, I know him. That’s Dusty Walker.”

  Porter scribbled the name on a piece of scratch paper. “You sure?”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Everyone knows Dusty.”

  “Why’s that?” Porter said, picking up the photo and looking it over.

  “He was a pretty big deal. Best damn lineman in the state. That guy had scholarships to go anywhere he wanted. Boy must have been in the Saturday paper every week during the season. Lots of people were real proud of him.”

  “How’d he do in college?”

  “Well, that’s the problem. Ol’ Dusty wasn’t the brightest. Most of those offers got pulled off the table when he barely graduated. Still, State took him. I’m sure they were glad for any talent to show up at that school.”

  Porter looked at the photo of the big man again, putting a story to the face he’d stared at. “How’d he do?”

  “Not so good. Blew out his knee his second year and couldn’t pass the classes so he came home. He’s been causing trouble ever since. Damn shame.” The librarian tsked.

  “Lonnie, you just made my life much easier,” Porter said.

  “That’s what librarians do,” Lonnie said, chin slightly tilted up. He walked away, back off into the bookshelves.

  Armed with a name, Porter had a new set of tricks. He plugged Dusty Walker’s name into the jail search screen and a list of the times the man had been in jail populated the screen. Porter clicked the blue link at the bottom of the screen.

  A mugshot of Dusty came up, much more clear than the grainy photo he’d been looking at. He had a big face that matched his body and an eyebrow ridge that looked Cro-Magnon. He’d been arrested for speeding and DUI.

  The next link was more of the same. Porter clicked through them until he came to a property crime page: burglary, theft, and breaking and entering.

  Then came the first of many arrests for assault. It was as if the giant had learned that he could just hurt people and get what he wanted. There were multiple convictions for assault, both regular and domestic, and the cherry on top was a manslaughter conviction, for which Dusty had been a guest of the North Carolina Department of Corrections for forty-seven months.

  “Nice guy,” Porter muttered.

  He’d been taking notes as he looked at Dusty’s rap sheet. Addresses—where crimes were committed and of his home—particulars about each case, and co-defendants.

  One of Dusty’s cases had a co-defendant’s name listed. Porter plugged it into the jail search and came face-to-face with a mugshot of the scrawny man from Pima’s photo.

  “Seth Rollins.”

  Only two links came up when Porter searched, so he clicked the first one—a forcible entry charge with Dusty. The other was for possession with intent to manufacture or distribute methamphetamine. He only served eighteen months for that one.

  Now that Porter knew who the two men from the photos were, he needed to figure out where they’d be. Fortunately he had a pad full of addresses from his search. He went through them all on Google. The street view showed him most were apartments and random houses in run-down neighborhoods. Except one.

  One was a trailer surrounded by woods. It was a couple of acres away from anything, and the directions app told Porter it was only twenty minutes away.

  Porter clicked on his phone, looking at the time. It was only one o'clock. Plenty of time to go see if these two were dumb enough to be home. He briefly considered telling Spaulding what he’d found, but quickly decided against it.

  Aside from the fact that he had no confidence in Spaulding or his men, there wasn’t any point. Even if they were on board with going to the trailer, all they could do was knock on the door. They had no warrant, and everything Porter knew was circumstantial.

  Porter didn’t imagine Dusty or Seth being in a good enough mood to talk to the sheriff. They’d clam up.

  “Nah,” Porter said under his breath as he stood. He gathered his things and stuffed them into his bag. “But I bet they’ll talk to me.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Pima rarely slept. Even in the dark of the trailer, she could barely manage to keep her eyes closed long enough to nap. It wasn’t just the discomfort from the tape strapping her leg to the chair. It was different, a feeling she couldn’t shake.

  Any time she’d get close to sleep, her eyes would involuntarily shoot open, darting from person to person around her, making sure no one was coming to get her.

  No one ever was.

  Since Laura Bell had told them to leave her alone, everyone had—even Seth, although he’d shoot her a look from time to time. Like he’d be glad to kill her and not think another thought about it. Like he’d eat her, or worse.

  Unsure how long she’d been awake, Pima’s eyes were drawn to the coffee table, to the phone whose shrill ring shattered the silence.

  Asleep on the couch, Laura Bell groped blindly for the ringing nuisance. “Yeah?”

  The woman was quiet for several moments, and Pima heard a voice through the other end of the phone.

  “No, that’s fine. What’s the matter?”

  Phone to her ear, Laura Bell got off the couch and stood motionless in the gloom. “What the hell do you mean he’s dead?” Her breath came faster and faster, and Pima thought Laura Bell was going to hyperventilate.

  “Are you sure it’s him? Don’t play games with me right now. You say this shit, you better be sure.”

  Laura Bell’s voice was getting louder and there was a garbled quality, like the back of her throat was closing up. Pima looked at the two men, asleep on their couches. Seth and Dusty had been up late, the pipe passed back and forth between them for hours.

  “Okay. I got it. No, you did right, thanks for calling.” Laura Bell hung up the phone. She stood motionless for a long time, looking neither at Pima nor the other occupants of the trailer.

  Pima was silent as the grave, not sure if Laura Bell knew she was awake in the darkness of the trailer.

  Then Laura Bell let out a deluge of sobs. Fast and shallow, her crying was as soft as it could be, but stretched for minutes.

  Pima closed her eyes and tried to give her privacy.

  Then, just as suddenly as the tears had started, they stopped. Laura Bell gave one big sniff, then clicked on the light to the trailer. “Get up, idiots. Hey, get up.”

  Seth rolled away, turning his back to his sister. “Come on, girl, why you being so loud?”

  “Get your high ass up. I just heard from Donna at the salon. Richie’s dead.”

  Seth sat up, leaning to one side with his hand on his head. “The hell you say.”

  “I’m not playing. They found his head in a sack at the sheriff’s office. Somebody just left our brother’s head, right there for everybody to find.”

  “Hold the fuck on, Sis. What are you telling me?”

  Laura Bell sat on the couch next to Seth. “Listen to me. Richie is dead. We haven’t heard from him since yesterday, right? That stupid meeting with the Mexicans didn’t work and they killed him.”

  The change in Seth was sudden. “Hell no they didn’t. Not my big brother. They don’t know what they starting.” He was up on his feet, dancing back and forth, the way Bryce did when he had to pee and couldn’t find a bathroom.

  Pima closed her eyes again, but peeked out of one, still able to see the room.

  “Look, we gotta go,” Laura Bell said, walking into the small kitchen. “Wake your boy up and get him going. We need to leave now.”

  “Why the hell would we move house? We need to be out there looking for those cartel boys right now.”

  Laura Bell stopped and stared at Seth. “They got Richie, Seth. If they did that, then they might know where we are. If the cartel would leave his head on the sheriff’s steps, what do you think they’ll do to us?”

  “How will they know where we are, huh, genius?”

  “They cut his head off, Seth. Don’t you think they could have convinced him to give us up?”

  “Not Richie. He’d neve�
��”

  “Cut. His. Head. Off. That changes the game.”

  Seth rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his face. “You’re right like always, little sister. We need to get the hell out of here.” He reached over and smacked the still-sleeping Dusty. “Get up, big ’uns, we gotta go.”

  Dusty lumbered to his feet, his barely awake look no different than the look plastered to his face all day, every day.

  Laura Bell opened a bag and started stuffing stacks of money, bundled with rainbow-colored rubber bands, into it. “I’ll get the money we have here; you grab whatever crystal you two morons haven’t smoked up.”

  “On it. Dusty, do the kid,” Seth said, as an afterthought.

  Pima’s heart started racing as Dusty stepped toward her, the same look on his face as always.

  From the kitchen, Laura Bell screamed out, “What the hell are you doing?”

  Dusty stopped, looked at Laura Bell, and then back at Seth. “No?”

  “Think, you bag of dicks. Why the hell would we kill her now? And take a dead body with us? Huh?”

  “We just do her and leave her,” Seth said.

  “In the trailer that has our names on it? Are you serious? This is why nobody ever lets you think.”

  Seth stopped for a minute and looked at Laura Bell. “Hell, you’re right. So what do we do with her?”

  “Nothing. We bring her with us, set up in a new trailer, and worry about her and what to do about Richie when we get there. Nobody hurts the girl, got it?”

  Seth nodded. “Fine. Dusty, go put her in the trunk.”

  Pima watched the big man come close to her, but instead of grabbing her throat, he reached down and tore the duct tape from her leg, then effortlessly slung her over his shoulder. He ducked as he walked out of the trailer, ambling down the stair and unlocking the trunk of the silver car that sat waiting.

  Dusty set her in the trunk gently. “I’m glad I didn’t have to hurt you. Sorry about your throat.”

  Pima nodded quickly, looking through the open front door, watching Seth and Laura Bell gather all the things from inside.

  Dusty rummaged through the trunk next to her and pulled out a silver roll of duct tape. “I have to tape you up again.”

  Pima glanced at the trailer, then up at Dusty. “No you don’t. No you don’t. You’re a nice guy, I know you are. Just let me hop out and I’ll run off into the woods and you’ll never see me again. Everybody’s busy; no one will ever know. Please.”

  Dusty looked at Pima, then back at the trailer. Then he ripped a length of the duct tape off and stuck it firmly to Pima’s mouth.

  “I don’t think so. Seth would be mad at me.”

  Dusty taped her wrists and her ankles as well.

  Pima sat still for the entire process, watching Seth and Laura Bell as they exited the trailer, each of them with a pistol stuck in the front of their pants.

  Laura Bell stepped over to the trunk and pulled her loose hair into one of the rainbow-colored rubber bands that had been around the money. “You didn’t make it too tight, did you?”

  “No,” Dusty answered truthfully.

  “Good.” She leaned down and looked at Pima. “Look here, pretty eyes, we have to go right now. I promise that as soon as we get where we're going, I’ll get you out of there. Just chill out.”

  Seth stepped next to his sister, looking down at Pima. “I’m just saying, Sis. One match and this entire place goes up, her in it.”

  Laura Bell glared at her brother. “What did I tell you? Huh? Stop trying to think.”

  Seth laughed and pulled out his pipe as Dusty slammed the trunk, leaving Pima alone in the darkness once more.

  Twenty-Nine

  The GPS, spotty at other times during his stay in the mountains, had a perfect bead on the trailer in the woods. The drive was quicker than the twenty minutes he’d expected, and Porter’s mind had been firing the entire time.

  The hunter in the woods had been part of the crew he was now hunting. It stood to reason that if the man had been so unhappy to see him in the valley the day prior, any of his friends would be equally as enthused if Porter showed up at their trailer. Porter doubted they would throw him a welcome party.

  Driving up to the front door seemed like a poor idea. The map he’d looked at earlier seemed to indicate the drive up to the front of the trailer was almost three-quarters of a mile long. The road was gravel, and Porter could imagine the racket he’d make just driving up there.

  Plenty of time for a murderous giant and his drug trafficker friend to pick up a hunting rifle and shoot at him.

  The GPS told him to turn right onto a gravel road that was nearly hidden by trees. Porter debated, then turned the app off and continued up the main road for about half a mile. He’d looked at the trailer and the surrounding areas on his laptop, and had a better idea.

  On the right, an unfinished strip mall appeared. Porter slowed and turned into it, pulling all the way to the rear of the structure.

  The walls of the building were up, a nice brick on the sides. The parking lot was paved and the roof was on, but there were no tenants in the spaces yet. Porter didn’t see a construction crew and figured they were on a lunch break somewhere. Even if they weren’t, it looked like all their work would be on the inside of the building.

  He should have some privacy in the back. Porter took a moment and collected his things, then slid out of the Yukon.

  With a drive or walk up to the front door already ruled out, Porter made a new plan. He’d use the woods as concealment and move until he was close enough to see the trailer and anyone in it. With any luck, he’d see the two he was looking for before they saw him. Maybe he’d even find Pima.

  Porter shook his head, pushing that thought from his mind. He’d learned long ago about getting his hopes up.

  Instead he focused on what he could handle. He popped his tailgate and took a few extra minutes to search for the hoodie that had previously eluded him. He found that, as well as a pair of the Mechanix gloves he favored. After slipping both articles on, he opened his lockbox and took stock.

  His rifle was there, waiting and ready like it always was. He’d been outgunned the night before with Sheriff Spaulding’s men and he didn’t want it to happen again. Still, it probably wasn’t a good idea to bring it out. If something happened and he had to use it, he’d probably never get it back. He liked his rifle too much to let it rot in Spaulding’s evidence room.

  Instead, he picked up the shotgun he’d taken from the deputy at his hotel. He made sure it was in working order and found it to be loaded, with a shell in the chamber. Five rounds. He took a minute to wipe it off with his gloved hand, anywhere he may have inadvertently touched it the night before. Then he closed his trunk.

  “Thanks, idiots,” he said to himself, glad the deputies had actually managed to do something worthwhile. He slammed the trunk, then stepped off the pavement and into the woods.

  He moved as quickly and quietly as he could, listening to the birds chirping above him, his feet making a rhythmic crunch on the leaves as he went. After a few dozen feet, the woods tightened, the large trees with their bare branches giving way to smaller, thicker bushes and shrubs.

  Porter picked his way through these thick spots, using the barrel of the shotgun to move some of the thorny vines out of the way. Even so, the thorns caught against the sleeves of his hoodie and tore at his face like so many papercuts when he didn’t move just right.

  His mind ablaze with a stream of profanity, Porter was nevertheless as quiet as he could be, until the thickets opened up a bit and he could make out the trailer in the distance. The trees grew less dense, and Porter paused by each trunk long enough to take a hard look at the trailer.

  Soon he was fifty feet from it, pausing at a cluster of three trees that could sufficiently hide him. Shotgun by his side, he waited, watching the trailer and listening, looking for movement.

  He saw nothing. No one moving around, no one coming or going. No one pissing off
the front porch.

  He heard nothing. No yelling or laughing. No music. No television blaring.

  After a time, Porter looked at his phone. An hour had elapsed since he’d left his truck. Estimating that he’d been in this stand of trees for half that, Porter decided he’d waited long enough.

  Shouldering his shotgun, he stepped out of the tree line and sprinted to the trailer, keeping tightly to the side of it, where the windows were boarded up. It was small, as far as trailers went, a basic rectangle with a roof. The siding had probably been blue once, but it was weathered and faded by the sun.

  There was a blue tarp on the roof, held down by a dozen tires.

  He listened hard, trying to hear anything inside, but there was still nothing. Either everyone inside was asleep, passed out, or the place was empty.

  Porter decided it was time to find out.

  Thirty

  Porter eased off the side of the trailer and worked around clockwise, to the back of the place. He paused for a moment at the corner, giving a quick peek to the back side. There was no one, so he moved smoothly along the back wall of the trailer, stopping at the sliding door that granted entry.

  It was slightly ajar, and Porter gave it a tug.

  The track was not smooth. There was a dry screech as the windowed slider slid out of the way.

  “Damn,” Porter muttered. He pushed the door the rest of the way open, the noise getting louder, then abruptly stopping.

  No need to be quiet now.

  He stepped through the threshold and into the living room, which held a trio of filthy couches. Porter shouldered the shotgun and swept it across the space. He crossed the living room and turned left down a hallway that dead-ended into a bathroom.

  He turned around and walked past the kitchen before moving into another hallway. This one had two doors, one open and one closed. After a brief debate with himself, he passed the closed door and looked into the open room.

  The windows were boarded up and, other than one small chair and a mattress and box spring on the floor, it was empty. He left the room and walked back to the closed door, floorboards creaking as he did.