Blood on the Tracks (Sydney Rose Parnell Series Book 1)

by Barbara Nickless

  I flicked off the radio and listened to the sweep of the wipers as chunks of ice gathered on the blades.

  “Who’d we piss off, Clyde?”

  Clyde let his tongue loll. Happy.

  We headed east on a nearly empty highway toward Wiggins, the sun a rumor through the clouds, the tires whispering on glistening pavement. As I drove, I thought about the timeline for Jazmine’s disappearance. If the Royer Boys had taken her from the yard at 5:30 and been home by 6:30, there weren’t many options if they’d gone by train. Heading either north or south wouldn’t have given them time to kill Jazmine, dispose of her body, and catch a train and get home; the Powder River train didn’t come through often enough. West went nowhere. Wiggins was the next stop east. But an hour wasn’t quite enough time to catch the 5:40 east-bound freight to Wiggins, jump out at the yard with Jazmine, then catch the west-bound back. An hour and a half would do it, though. If all the families had been willing to fudge a little about when their sons had returned home, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume they’d taken her to Wiggins or somewhere near there. They could have shoved her out in the prairie and let the coyotes take care of the evidence.

  The police had searched a five-mile grid from Jazmine’s last known location, come up empty.

  No one had looked at the trains.

  I tried Gentry’s number. It went straight to voicemail.

  “We’ll find him,” I said to Clyde. “Don’t worry.”

  Clyde glanced at me then returned his gaze to the window. Definitely not worried.

  As I drove, the pain in my body returned like a series of light dimmers slowly dialing to bright. My chest was the first thing, then the burn in my cheek and elbow. Nik’s whiskey and Grams’s pain pills were wearing off. I reached in my pocket for the pills from the EMTs, glad Grams had transferred them to Ellen Ann’s coat. I dry-swallowed four then popped open the glove box for something stronger. But I hesitated, my hand floating above the bottle of Xanax and the baggie filled with Dexedrine.

  Thirty skinheads, Roald Hoffreider had said. Maybe more.

  I closed the glove box and put my hand back on the wheel.

  The truck slewed a few times on the slick roads before I reached the outskirts of Wiggins. By then the sleet was changing over to a wet, heavy snow as the temperature dropped and the wind kicked into a fury. Norway spruces, planted as windbreaks a decade or so earlier, shuddered in the gale. Plastic bags and other debris whipped past; bits of hay pelted the windshield. The snow flew sideways, as if someone had tipped the world.

  Barns and ranch houses gave over to businesses as I drove into town. A single traffic light swayed forlornly above the empty street. I drove past a dry goods store, a saddle shop, and a single-marquee theater, all with Closed Please Come Again signs in the windows. Near the end of the block, red neon blinked through the snow. A grinning cowboy became visible, holding aloft a flashing beer stein.

  The Pint and Pecker. The bar where Roald had seen skinheads and bikers comingling over drinks.

  I slowed. The parking lot held four pickups and a rust-eaten van. As I rolled by, another car became visible, tucked halfway into the alley behind the lot. I touched the brakes, craned my neck. A cherry-red muscle car, all but lost to the alley and the snow.

  Gentry’s car.

  “Jesus,” I whispered.

  On the other side of the intersection, I pulled to the curb. I called Morgan County Dispatch and learned that the lone officer on duty, Officer Markusson, was handling a domestic dispute. I identified myself and explained I was in Wiggins hunting a suspect. The dispatcher promised to put Markusson in touch with me as soon as he became available.

  After we hung up, I considered calling the sheriff’s office. I had no idea what I might be walking into. But a vision of Thomas Brown’s tortured body put aside all thought of calling the cavalry. The kind of help the deputies would provide—the full-frontal assault kind—would be just as likely to get Gentry killed as rescued. It was how Merkel and his gang operated—kill the prisoners before you go down yourself.

  I tried Cohen once more. When his phone went to voicemail again, I left him another message. I summarized my findings and said I believed Melody Weber was our killer. I told him where I was and what I planned to do in order to find Liz and Gentry and get them out of there. I told him I’d informed Morgan County Dispatch of my presence, but that the Wiggins on-duty officer was unavailable for the moment.

  Then I hung up, turned the Explorer around, and headed back toward The Pint and Pecker.

  Coming from this direction, I had a better view of the parking lot. All of the vehicles save Gentry’s and one other had Confederate flags in their rear windows. The other exception to the southern supremacy rule was a blue Dodge Ram pickup with a God and Country Will Prevail bumper sticker.

  Nik’s truck.

  He’d known right where to find the bastards.

  I pulled into the parking lot, backed into a spot around the corner from the door, and took a quick minute to study the place. The Pint and Pecker looked to be an 1800s holdout from the days when Wiggins was established as a Denver Pacific railroad depot. One-story, built of peeling timber planks, with a pair of dusty windows set on either side of the front door. No other windows that I could see. A fence ran around the back of the property.

  I slipped Clyde’s Kevlar on over his halter, put my own vest on under my coat, and racked a round into the chamber of the Glock before returning it to the holster on my belt. I slid Sarge’s Colt into my thigh holster.

  Clyde and I stepped out into the storm’s rage.

  Eyes narrowed against the snow, we moved rapidly along the fence until we came to a gate. It was unlocked, and we slipped into a back patio area of maybe fifty square yards. A door led from the patio into the bar.

  I gave Clyde the forward signal, and he and I made a dash for the door. Once there, we stopped, and I pressed against the warped wall, listening.

  From inside came voices. Shouting. Angry. I reached over and tested the door. The knob turned easily. I peered in at a dimly lit hallway. Empty. Clyde and I slipped inside along with a confetti of snow, and I eased the door shut behind us. Immediately, I dropped to a crouch and downed Clyde next to me. I unholstered the Colt.

  Voices fell like hammers from the front of the building, rising up and down with the tempo of the argument. Nik’s voice carried above the others. Deep. Reasonable. Eerily calm in the way Nik had when the odds were stacked against him. For the moment, he had the upper hand. But I heard what probably no one else could—the thread of panic in his voice. He hadn’t found Gentry yet.

  Thirty seconds passed while my eyes adjusted to the gloom. The hallway was twenty feet long, with two doors leading to bathrooms and a third that said Employees Only. I signaled to Clyde and we went quickly down the hall. It took only a few seconds to clear each bathroom. The door marked Employees Only was locked.

  Clyde and I reached the doorway into the main room and peered out.

  Dark walls, dim lights, and a wooden floor dusty with crushed peanut shells. The tinted windows let in only a suggestion of daylight. The bar ran the length of the room to my left. A pool table and a series of two- and four-tops filled the remainder of the space.

  Nik stood in the center of the room next to an overturned table. He had a semiautomatic rifle aimed at a skinhead in a leather jacket and heavy boots. The man had his hands up and was shouting at Nik.

  “You are a stupid motherfucker,” and “I don’t know your son,” and “Get the fuck out of my face.”

  Shit like that. He looked like he could keep it up for a while.

  Behind him stood three of his pals, their hands at their sides, quiet. Too quiet. I looked for weapons, didn’t see any. Guys probably hadn’t figured on being disturbed in their home turf and had left the heavy artillery somewhere. But I was willing to bet they had knives stashed in their boots. Maybe handguns.

  The bartender, judging by his white apron and the towel slung over his shoul
der, stood in front of the bar with his arms folded. Well over six feet, with a shaved head, a swastika tattoo, and an expression of utter calm.

  Which got me worried. Either he didn’t care if anyone got shot, or he had a backup plan.

  He looked like a man who always had a plan.

  Next to me Clyde whipped around, hackles raised. I spun on my heel.

  A man was just coming out of the employees’ door. His eyes widened in alarm when he saw me, and I raised the Colt.

  He opened his mouth, and I swung the barrel toward his face.

  “Don’t,” I said softly.

  He closed his mouth. I recognized him now. The tattooed kid I’d seen standing by my truck at Hogan’s Alley back before all of this began.

  With Clyde keeping watch, I stepped past the kid, hooked my arm around his neck, and held the gun to his head. The weight of the gun made my arm shake.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Together we shuffled to the doorway.

  The bartender had gone behind the bar and was just coming back around with a shotgun.

  I shoved the kid into the room, sent him sprawling into a row of barstools. The stools went down with a series of rattling clangs.

  “Denver Pacific Railway Police!” I shouted at the barkeep. “Drop your weapon!”

  The man froze with the shotgun half raised.

  “Drop it now or I will drop you.”

  I watched in his eyes as he weighed the odds. A shotgun versus the Colt. I itched for him to go for it. But whatever he saw in my expression convinced him to do as I ordered. He lowered the gun.

  “Set it on the floor. Good. Now kick it to me.”

  The shotgun came spinning in my direction. “Lace your hands behind your head.”

  “Good to see you, Sydney Rose.” Nik. Still calm.

  I didn’t take my eyes off the bartender and the kid. “Where’s Gentry?”

  “That’s what we’re working on.”

  I kicked the bartender’s shotgun down the hallway.

  “Move,” I told the barkeep and the kid, who was thrashing around in the tangle of stools. I gestured with the gun toward the center of the room where Nik had corralled the others.

  Scowling, teeth clenched—the barkeep genuinely pissed, the kid looking more like he was trying to play the part—they obeyed. When they’d joined the others, I ordered all six men to their knees with their ankles crossed and their hands laced behind their heads. Clyde and I stood behind them.

  “Bastards have Gentry,” Nik said to me. “They’re going to kill him if we can’t find where they’ve taken him.”

  “You, barkeep,” I said.

  The bartender looked over his shoulder at me. “What, bitch?”

  I pointed the .45. “Where’s Gentry Lasko?”

  “The traitor?” He locked his eyes on mine, drew back his head, and spit.

  Sometimes your worst self is your best self. Sometimes not. I swung the gun into his jaw. The bone fractured with a loud snap.

  The bartender and the kid started screaming at the same time.

  “Shut up!” I moved the Colt toward the kid, who went silent. He stared at me, the whites of his eyes glowing in the gloom, lips back in a grimace of fear. Beads of sweat stood at his hairline.

  He couldn’t be past twenty or twenty-one, skinny as a rail. His ears stood out from his shaved head like the handles on a water pitcher. The tattoos made him look like a kid dressed for Halloween.

  The bartender’s sobs filled the silence.

  “That was me being nice,” I said. “I’m done with nice. Where is Gentry?”

  “Tell her and you’re a dead man, Jimmy,” one of the skinheads growled.

  “Don’t tell me and you’re still a dead man.” I hefted the .45 and peered at Jimmy through the sights. “It’ll just happen sooner.”

  “At the camp,” Jimmy wailed. “They have him at the old Boedeker homestead near the tracks.”

  “What about Melody and her little girl?”

  “Yeah,” said the kid. “Yeah, they’re there, too. I seen ’em.”

  Clyde growled a sudden warning and darted forward. I glimpsed a blur of movement as one of the skinheads unhooked his ankles and yanked a pistol free of his boot. I downed Clyde with a shout, and Nik’s shot caught the man in the chest; the skinhead’s back erupted in a spray of blood and tissue as the bullet exited.

  Now the other three were coming up, weapons appearing in their hands as if magicked there. I took one man out with a round to the head. Nik fired on the other two in rapid succession. All three crumpled to the floor next to the first guy and lay silent, their blood soaking into the litter of peanut shells.

  The echoes from the gunfire died away. I lowered my gun and stared at the dead men through the gentle float of dust.

  “Four down,” Nik said.

  I looked over at the bartender and Jimmy, both of them still on their knees. The bartender, a shade paler than white, crumpled at the waist, grabbing for the nearest table. Nik spun and fired. The back of the barkeep’s head exploded onto Jimmy.

  Jimmy’s shrieks sounded like the up-and-down wail of a siren.

  “What the hell!” I yelled at Nik. “Why’d you do that?”

  Calmly Nik walked to the table and kicked it over. A holster was fixed to the table’s underside, the butt of a revolver clearly visible.

  “Assholes like him always have a backup plan, Sydney Rose. Don’t you forget that.”

  “You didn’t have to shoot him.”

  “Yes,” Nik said, his eyes a cold weight on me, “I did.”

  Something floated free inside of me, a tether cutting loose. As if by accepting Nik’s words, all the principles I held no longer weighed me down.

  “Get up,” I told Jimmy, who was shaking like he’d grabbed hold of a live wire. “You’re going to show us how to get there.”

  Outside, snow was coming so fast and thick, carried on the wind’s banshee wail, that I couldn’t keep my head up without being blinded. I insisted we take my truck, which had better traction than Nik’s pickup. Nik kept the rifle on the kid while the two of them climbed into the backseat. I settled Clyde in the front, did a quick check to make sure he hadn’t been struck by any shrapnel, then walked around to the driver’s side, clearing windows as I went. In the cab, I started the wipers and the defroster. Nik snugged the rifle between him and the door and pulled out his service revolver. He shoved the barrel into the kid’s side.

  The kid didn’t respond. Gore-spattered and pale, he gazed at nothing.

  “Which direction?” I asked.

  Nothing.

  “Jimmy!”

  He came back with a shudder.

  “Left out of the parking lot,” he said. “There’s a road a mile east of town, goes south toward the tracks.”

  As I drove along Main Street, my headset vibrated. I glanced at the display on my phone. Cohen, finally calling me back. I debated, then returned the phone to my pocket. He was sixty-six miles away in Denver, on the far end of a killer storm.

  No help to me now.

  After the town fell behind us, the kid started to come to life a little. He craned his neck, trying to see through the falling snow.

  “Drive faster,” Nik told me.

  I obeyed, fighting the Ford Explorer as if it were a roped bull. The road had been cleared after the last storm, the snow piled high on either side. But already another six inches had fallen on top of this morning’s sleet, and the highway was an ice rink.

  “What’s the plan?” Nik asked the kid.

  “Plan?”

  Nik dug the barrel in. “What is it you assholes mean to do with my son?”

  Jimmy moaned. “Shit, I didn’t know he was your son. They told me he was a traitor. That he was gonna turn in Whip and me and everyone.”

  “So you figured on killing him,” Nik said.

  A quick glance in the rearview showed Jimmy’s face going even whiter beneath the tattoos and the blood.

  “Not
me,” he said. “I didn’t plan any of this. It’s not like I got a say in anything. I’m only a soldier. I just know they’re planning something special.”

  “Special because it’s February?” I asked. “Or because of who he is?”

  The kid gave me an appraising look, like maybe I wasn’t so stupid after all. “Both. February’s when the Nazis rose in Germany. Back, you know, a long time ago. Whip could tell you when. That’s how he got his name. ’Cause he’s, you know, whip smart.”

  “That’s why Jazmine Brown was killed in February?”

  “Who?”

  “Little black girl your buddies killed a decade ago.”

  The kid shrugged. “I dunno. We off someone every February.”

  Nik raised his revolver as if he meant to smack the kid.

  “We need him cooperative,” I said.

  Grudgingly, Nik lowered the gun.

  “Every single year?” I said to the kid.

  The kid, to his credit, looked miserable. Although it probably had more to do with fear than a sudden conscience. “Yeah. A sacrifice to the trains. Just like the trains that took the Jews to the camps. Nazis and trains go together, you know? Usually we just push them off somewhere. Leave them for the animals. But this guy, this—” Jimmy glanced nervously at Nik. “The guy this year is special because he’s worse than a Jew or a nigger. He’s a traitor.”

  “How so?”

  “He was working with that woman, the kindhearted woman, to get everyone to confess. Whip was hot for her, and I think she’d just about convinced him to go to the cops. But then Petes and Frankie reminded him: you don’t betray the brotherhood. Especially not for some bitch.”

  “Isn’t Whip the leader?” I asked.

  “Even Hitler had Goebbels,” Jimmy said. He’d obviously heard it a few times.

  “How do they plan to kill my son?” Nik asked.

  Jimmy glanced at Nik and hunched his shoulders. His knees jiggled. “They’re gonna put him on the bridge over the canyon, chain him to one of the ties. They got a place where after the train hits him, he’ll go flying off the tracks. But the chain, see, it’ll keep him hanging off the bridge for everyone to see. Like a message. You don’t betray the brotherhood.”