“Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
Katie shook her head. She wiped angrily at her cheeks, both sides, with the heel of her hand. To J. L., it appeared that she shook herself physically.
“Damn.”
“What?”
Katie pointed to the dashboard.
Near the fuel gauge, an indicator had flickered to life.
LOW FUEL
, it said in unequivocal crimson letters.
“I’m going to try to get as close to downtown as I can,” Katie said. “Maybe there’s no rioting there; it might be safer. We’ll be out of gas soon.”
“Great,” said J. L., trying to pretend that she had recovered from their experience. “Then what?”
“Then,” Katie said, frowning in concentration as she peered through the starred windshield, “I guess we walk.”
Columbia Falls, Montana
July 23
Carl McGuire was dying for a cigarette.
At least, that’s what his doctor told him three weeks, five days, two hours and—he checked his watch—eleven minutes ago, following the annual physical examination required of all department heads in the White Bison County Sheriff’s Police.
“Look at the goddamn numbers, Carl,” Doc Bartfield had told him. “Your lung capacity looks like hell. Another year, and you’ll be at the official disability level. And that is a half step away from having to pull an oxygen bottle behind you.” The physician snorted in disgust. “ ‘Taper off,’ my ass. Listen to me, and listen good. As far as you are concerned, smoke another cigarette and you will die.”
So he didn’t smoke. For a man who barely remembered his childhood catechism classes, it was as close to a religion as he had had in almost four decades. It had as its central article of faith a simple dictum voiced by a high priest who carried a stethoscope. It had as its primary sacrament the foil-wrapped wafers flavored by Wrigley’s, with which McGuire celebrated communion frequently. It even had a demon bitch-goddess, sold twenty to a pack and omnipresent
as a temptress—a profane seductress who was patiently waiting for him to commit the sin that would be, literally, mortal.
And of course, it had a hell. Every waking minute of every infernally endless day.
He told himself he could take it, would take it—even if it meant facing the devil of nicotine withdrawal every day for the rest of his life. He had taken it all his life.
McGuire had grown up a tough kid—not so unusual in backcountry Montana, where the dream of every other teenage boy is to escape to the rodeo circuit as a bullrider. But McGuire had been exceptionally tough, even in that environment.
A hitch as a Marine, where he had picked up three ounces of shrapnel as well as a three-pack-a-day habit, had only seasoned the already case-hardened leather of his character. He had come back to a job where carrying the badge often required him to exercise a judicious, if unofficial, violence. He could have been elected sheriff, or so it was said, if he had wanted to ride a desk instead of a cruiser.
By the time that seemed a reasonable compromise, McGuire found himself too settled in his ways for the politics such a move would have required. He settled for an appointment as senior deputy, in charge of investigations, and told people he was waiting to see which would get him first, forced retirement or the cigarettes to which he remained wedded.
It was a cocky performance, full of the bravura on which he had built a reputation for being a hard-ass. And it had all changed when, after Doc Bartfield’s pronouncement, he found out that he indeed did want to live—even if it meant living with the claws of his devil-monkey sunk deeply into his back.
But McGuire had not spent a lifetime hiding from any of the devils he had encountered.
And so it was that every morning of every day, before he
settled behind the desk he now rode, McGuire followed a set ritual. Almost solemnly, he would remove an unopened pack of Winston cigarettes from his shirt pocket and place it within easy reach. Then, at the frequent moments of stress throughout the day, he would pick up the pack, think about what was inside, and replace it firmly back on the desktop—a devout act of faith not unlike that of a zealot handling live vipers.
But his new faith had not brought him peace, a fact he had taken no pains to conceal. Since his Conversion, anyone who had the misfortune to cross his path had been fair game for energetic, sometimes blistering, abuse.
Hell could not be avoided, but it could be shared.
“Well, thanks for sharing that with me, Deputy McGuire,” Beck Casey said, looking across the desk at the county officer and wondering what he had done to piss him off so quickly and so thoroughly. “I just thought you may have known this Trippett fellow pretty well at one time or another.”
“I’m really sorry if I’ve offended you,” McGuire said, not looking sorry at all. “And I apologize for the ‘son of a bitch’ comment, Agent O’Connor. Don’t usually talk like that, ’specially around a lady. Guess I’m a little edgy these days. Anyway, Orin Trippett ain’t from around White Bison County—hell, he ain’t even from Montana. The sorry bastard blew in from out east six, maybe seven years ago. Can’t say I’d be brokenhearted to see him go away on a federal rap.”
He looked up from under impressive silver eyebrows, thick and untamed. “Agent O’Connor—you gonna be okay?”
April touched the dressing that wrapped around her forehead. “Mild concussion, the doctors say. I’ve had worse headaches, Deputy.”
“Glad I could finally get through to you on the phone.” McGuire nodded approvingly. “You sound like a tough lady.
Had a helluva week so far, as I understand.” He turned and eyed Casey. “You too, by the look of it. Don’t guess you get much of this kind of thing—’specially since, like you say, you’re just a college teacher.” McGuire’s tone was bland, but his eyes studied Beck carefully as he spoke.
Beck nodded. He shifted in the chair, his leg throbbing with a dull ache. The hospital had provided him with a cane, an aluminum model that made him feel foolishly conspicuous. He had left it in the Crown Victoria, preferring to limp along under his own power.
“All of it related to Orin Trippett,” Beck said. “You told her you had a lead on him?”
“Maybe. Like I said, he’s pretty much a newcomer around here. Fish out of water, so the son of a bitch worked overtime to pretend like he belonged.” McGuire shook his head disgustedly. “For a while, the silly bastard took to wearing an oversized Stetson and a pair of them cow boots with the extra-high heel. ’Bout couldn’t walk without falling.”
Beck glanced at April, wondering where the conversation was going.
“Anyway, he got himself tied in with some good ol’ boys who liked to drink beer and cuss out the IRS. Called themselves a militia. Ever’ so often, they’d go off upcountry to drink and shoot off their damn guns. Pretty harmless bunch of peckerless yahoos, mostly. But not all of ’em.”
McGuire pushed a file folder, dog-eared and covered with penciled notations, across his desk to his visitors. He opened the folder, revealing a stack of official-looking pages. Stapled to the top sheet were the full-face and profile poses of an arrest photo. McGuire fanned the stack like a deck of oversized cards, revealing other photos and rap sheets underneath.
“These boys here, they’re the ones I kept an eye on.” He fished two from the pile. “Gil Sweeney. Bobby Touchette. Them two—well, I always figured I’d have to shoot one or the other someday. Bad apples, the both of ’em. They’re the
pair that Agent O’Connor kilt two nights ago outside the warehouse. Did everybody a favor, my opinion.”
McGuire leaned back in his chair. Beck watched him pick up an unopened pack of Winston cigarettes, toy with it for a moment with a thoughtful expression, then place it firmly back on the desktop.
“So late last night, Agent O’Connor here called me wantin’ to know where maybe Orin Trippett might want to hide out. It’s vacation time, so I was fillin’ in on the late watch. It was comin’ on midnight, and I guess I’m turning into a fat, lazy bachelor. I remembered the damn old trailer Trippett used to own, and I told her how to get out there.”
Carl McGuire shook his head, and looked as if he wanted to spit. “And then I went home, and had me my TV dinner. Went to bed right afterward,” McGuire said, looking Beck full in the eye. “I got a bad case of the guilts, sending the two of you up to that goddamn trailer alone. Hell, I knowed I should have gone along. And maybe what happened to the two of you wouldn’t have happened. I’m sincerely sorry, the both of you.”
Before either Beck or April could respond, McGuire pushed a card from the stack. The attached photo showed a heavyset man with what appeared to be a permanent five o’clock shadow blue against his jowls.
“That’s Cappie Arnold—Henry Capshaw Arnold’s his legal name. Used to run with Trippett and his bunch. ’Bout six months ago, I stopped seeing him around the county. Turns out he picked up and moved—good riddance to bad rubbish, but he and Orin Trippett were always thick as thieves.”
He pushed the card to April, who studied it before tucking it into her inside pocket.
“Any idea where Arnold went, Deputy McGuire?”
“After I heard what happened to Mr. Casey and you, I . . . kinda asked some people.” McGuire had a look on his face that Beck would not have wanted aimed in his direction.
“Called in some favors, you might say. Seems Cappie went on down to Denver, got him a place down there.”
“Thanks,” April said. “We’ll check with the Denver PD, see if they have an address on him.”
“They don’t; I already called. But I convinced a guy here to come up with one. Wrote it on the back of the picture. Don’t think he’s got the stones to lie to me—but if it ain’t the right one, I’d appreciate you lettin’ me know.”
Once again, McGuire picked up the cigarette pack. His fingers caressed it almost teasingly, Beck noticed, before returning it to its place.
“Ask me, that’s where I’d start looking for Trippett. Who knows? Maybe run across the guy who done that to your friend’s leg too.”
McGuire looked at Beck, a pointed look on his features.
“And, my advice? This time, college teacher or not, take along a gun. You get the chance, sir, you use it.”
Denver, Colorado
July 23
They parked several houses away from the address McGuire had provided in a tough-looking neighborhood on the southwest side of the city. It was almost one p.m. by now. There were few locals in evidence, and those who were looked knowingly at the Crown Victoria before walking on.
“Maybe we should just hang out a sign,” April muttered to Beck. “This damn thing screams out ‘unmarked car.’ At least to these people.”
She looked at her companion.
“We can wait here and give everybody a chance to figure out which house we’re watching,” April said. “Or we can go up and kick the door right now.”
“You decide.” He gestured at his leg. “You’ll have to do the kicking.”
April frowned at the house, pensive.
“Rental agent says a woman signed the papers,” April reminded Beck finally. “And those flowers on the porch don’t look like something a man would do.”
“Okay. So?”
“So let’s try the direct approach. You wait here and I’ll go knock. If a woman answers the door—or even some bozo
who works the late shift—I’ll play it by ear. If it’s Trippett or this Cappie Arnold, I take him down, hard.”
“It doesn’t sound too gallant of me, sitting in the car while a lady with a concussion does the hard work.” Beck grinned at the look April shot him. “Great plan. Go ahead.”
She exited the car quietly and walked the distance to the porch, making it look casual. Beck watched April climb the stairs, lift her hand to knock—and then stop, bending close to the wooden door as if to study its grain.
She looked toward the car and beckoned him.
When Beck reached the porch, gamely trying to keep his limp to a minimum, April spoke in a low voice.
“Somebody else had the same idea about kicking doors,” she said. “Looks like they got here first.”
Beck bent low. The wood around the lockset was splintered, and a piece of the broken hardwood trim had been carelessly attached on the jamb. “
That’ll
sure keep out the lowlifes,” April murmured. She took a deep breath. “Okay—let’s do this.”
She raised a closed fist and knocked hard, once.
The impact opened the door a half inch before something solid stopped it.
Beck sniffed the air, suddenly tense. There was a faint bathroom smell, and something else—a metallic odor that was tantalizingly familiar to him, almost like the scent of fresh copper pennies.
April looked at Beck and reached to the small of her back, her hand out of sight under her jacket.
“Ms. Tompkins!” she said, in a voice meant to sound firm and authoritative. “Lubella Tompkins—are you there?” Nobody answered; the apartment was silent in a way that raised the hairs along the back of Beck’s neck.
“We’ve got trouble here,” April said in a low voice. “You smell it?”
He nodded.
She drew her hand from under her jacket, producing a surprisingly large automatic pistol.
It’s like a replay of yesterday,
she told herself, recalling the trailer’s ruined door.
Beck’s probably wondering if women go through doors the
normal
way anymore.
Irrationally, the thought almost made her giggle.
Instead, she raised her voice and said loudly, “This is the FBI, Ms. Tompkins. We’re coming in now,” and with her shoulder pushed hard against the door. Something broke with a loud snap, and the door lurched open another half foot.
“Hell with this,” April muttered, and slammed her body hard against the wood. The impact forced the door open enough for her to squeeze through.
If somebody’s waiting with a gun,
she thought bitterly,
I’m dead meat.
She pushed hard with her legs, and heard more sounds like wood breaking. With her shoulders and upper body through the opening, the added leverage allowed her to push through completely. The copper-penny smell was much stronger here, as was the stench of feces. As she cleared the stubborn doorway, her arms came up extended, and she swept the room in an arc through the sights of her Glock.