Deputy Brill’s cruiser was parked kitty-corner across the street from where the NPS truck sat. Vic pulled the Caprice in beside him, rolled down the window on the passenger side, and shut down the car.
“Not much cover,” said Vic.
Eric glanced at the wind row of scrawny fir trees. “Any sign of the boys?” he asked.
Deputy Brill shot upright and inclined his head toward the parking lot. “There’s your answer now.”
Eric followed his nod. A hundred yards away, Justin Suett slunk between a cherry-red Volvo and a white Honda, heading for the NPS truck.
The sun had dropped low on the horizon, and it was hard to see peering into the sun. Eric shaded his eyes and squinted. “Where’s the other one?” he asked, his heart pounding.
“Beats me,” said Brill.
“Have you seen him today?” asked Vic.
“No, sir. Not even a trace,” answered Brill. He took off his hat and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “Fact is, this is the first sign of life all day.”
“Damn,” said Vic. “Where is he?”
“He could be inside,” suggested Eric. The sun had dropped low on the horizon, its rays bouncing off the windows of Ellis Hall.
“Yeah, with two hundred others,” said Brill. “Wait a minute! Suett’s not just getting something, he’s fired up the truck.”
Vic cranked the starter on the cruiser. “Brill, switch your state band to channel eighteen. Suett won’t know to monitor. He’d be damn lucky to hear us talk.”
“Check,” said Brill.”
“I’m going to tail the truck. Once we leave the parking lot, head inside and see if you can figure out where our friend was holed up.”
“Double check.”
Vic put the cruiser in reverse and eased out of the parking space. Stroking his mustache, he kept his eyes on the target. “What do you say we follow Mr. Suett, just to see what he’s up to?”
Excitement energized Eric, and he strained forward against the shoulder belt. “For the record, I’ll guarantee Nora won’t like it.”
Vic’s eyes narrowed. “But you’re game, right?”
“Ja, you betcha.”
After a cursory check to see if anyone was watching him, Suett backed the truck out of its parking slot. Turning east on Pitkin Street, he headed north on Meridian Avenue, turned back east on Mulberry, then north again on U.S. 287. As the city faded away, Vic dropped back several car lengths.
“You’ll find a pair of binoculars in the glove box. Get them out and keep your eyes on the truck,” he ordered.
Eric searched under and around the papers, manuals, and tools crammed into the glove box and eventually turned up a battered leather case. He was surprised to find a good pair of 10 x 50 Zeiss binoculars inside. Pulling them out, he cleaned the lenses, focused on the mountains, adjusted the diopter, then zoomed in on the pickup.
Suett, now clearly in view, reached over and cranked up the tunes. Then, just past Laporte, he turned off at the Bellville exit.
Vic stayed on U.S. 287, and Eric lowered the glasses. “What are you doing?”
“It’s an old trick,” explained Vic, turning around in the median, and backtracking to the southbound exit. “I don’t think Suett spotted us, but if he did, he’ll think we drove past.”
“Ja? The only problem is, now we’ve lost him.”
“He’ll turn up. There’s only one road out here, and it only goes one direction.”
Vic maintained the speed limit, and Eric kept a steady eye out for the NPS truck. The sun dropped from sight as they drove toward the mountains, and twilight settled thick into the valley, rendering the binoculars useless. Where had Suett gone?
Well, there was one consolation, Eric thought, If they didn’t find the truck, he wouldn’t be the only one out of a job.
After the city dropped away, Eric had blinked and nearly missed the town of Laporte, but now the emptiness was complete. Ahead of them the county road stretched away like a black scar on the grassy countryside. Cavernous ditches lined both sides of the road, and the washboard road jostled the car until Eric felt like he’d hitched a ride in a washing machine.
He was beginning to think they should pack it in, when Vic perked up. “Okay, what have we here?”
Eric peered through the windshield. A cluster of darkened buildings flanked the road up ahead. Then, a set of taillights flashed, and the NPS truck slowly pulled off the road.
Chapter 17
Vic slowed the car to a crawl. “Welcome to Bellville, population two. What in God’s name is Suett doing out here?”
“Maybe he has some friends in the area,” suggested Eric, though by the looks of the place it seemed doubtful.
Vic laughed. “Yeah, except what you see is what you get—downtown Bellville and a few scattered ranch houses. It’s been this way since the turn of the century. Though . . .” He thumped the steering wheel. “Come to think of it, Tres’s dad is a developer. Could be he’s got some interest in the property out here.”
“For what possible purpose? Cattle ranching?” Eric looked around and didn’t see anything of interest to anyone but a cowman or a birder, and there wasn’t much money in bird sanctuaries.
Vic pointed toward the mountains. “The Poudre River runs down through there, then just over a ways is Lory State Park and the Horsetooth Reservoir. People have been talking about building up this area with condominiums and tract housing developments for years. There are already a couple of big dude ranches in the area.”
They had drawn close enough now for Eric to distinguish the two buildings that made up the town—an old carriage house on the left and a wooden farmhouse that faced it from across the street.
It was obvious that the carriage house served as the town’s post office. Constructed of brick and mortar, the huge wooden doors, built to accommodate buggies, were painted bright red. A small metal door had been cut into the bricks, over which the postmaster had hung a green sign reading “Bellville,” and a light with a low-watt bulb.
The farmhouse had been converted into a general store. From the looks of it, the building had been added on to a couple of times. The roof lines varied—some were peaked, some were flat. The siding, though painted the same shade of yellow, had been cut from different styles of board.
Lights shone in the distant windows of the scattered ranch houses, but there were no homes built near town. A short way down the road was a one-pump gas station, boarded up tight.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog bayed. Vic killed the headlights and coasted the car to a stop in the alley next to the. Post Office. “There’s Tres,” he whispered. “See him?”
The young man stood in the darkened window of the General Store. Tall and gangly, his blond hair jutted out at odd angles, highlighted by the glow of the low-watt bulb above the Post Office sign. He pressed his nose to the glass and peered out. Was he watching for Suett?
Eric knew the sheriff’s car was invisible in the shadows, but he drew back in his seat anyway. He feared the boy could sense them, and the thought raised the hair on the back of his neck.
Then, out of nowhere, Suett appeared, crabbing his way up the sidewalk with some sort of bundle in his arms.
“Can you see what he’s carrying?” Eric asked. He raised the binoculars, but the dim light wouldn’t filter through the prisms. Suett glanced around, then, with the coast clear, scurried across the road to the General Store.
Tres opened the door. “About time, a-hole.”
“Shut your face, dude,” replied Suett.
Tres held the door, letting Suett sidle in. The boy turned sideways. He shimmied through the cracked doorway, light from the street catching on the bundle in his arms.
Eric craned forward in his seat. “He’s carrying an armload of fusees! Do you see that?”
“Damn,” said Vic. “That’s not good.” Reaching up, he switched the overhead light switch to the off position, then eased open his door. Eric reached for his own door handle.
“Where are you going?” he asked. “Do you have a plan?”
“Sure,” replied Vic. “I want you to get on the radio to Brill and tell him to send backup. Then, you stay put and keep your eye out for the cavalry, while I go over there and see if I can prevent those boys from burning down the General Store.”
A flash of annoyance caused Eric to frown. He didn’t like being assigned to dispatch duty. “Those boys” were in possession of an NPS vehicle and may have bashed Wayne over the head before stealing his truck. “I think I should come with you,” he said.
“No, you are going to call Brill, then wait for him like I told you to,” ordered Vic, squeezing out from under the wheel. “I’ll be back in a flash.”
Eric watched the older man scoot around the back side of the Post Office, then he glanced at his watch. Adjusting the radio, he keyed the mike. “Deputy Brill, come in, over.”
When the deputy answered, Eric told him how they had followed the truck and found the boys. “Send backup. Over.”
“Ten-four, I’m on the way. ETA in under thirty. Out.”
Eric reclipped the handset to the radio then glanced back at his watch. It had taken less than two minutes to contact Brill, and, in the meantime, Vic had disappeared.
Inside the General Store, the boys had lit several candles. The same light that made it easy for the boys to see, made it easy for Eric to watch them while they looted the store’s camping supplies. Trip after trip to the shelves, they busied themselves with dumping bundles of ready-made firewood and presswood logs into a pile in the center aisle. They were making a bonfire.
The realization caused another shiver of fear to ripple down Eric’s back. Where the heck was Vic?
Suddenly, Suett stooped and picked up a fusee. Two fusees.
“No, man. Don’t be a fool,” Eric whispered, his knee jiggling with nervous energy.
Suett marched around the pyre, twirling the fusees like they were a majorette’s batons. He tossed them higher and higher, caught them, spun them, then tossed them aloft, again and again.
Unable to sit and wait for catastrophe, Eric decided to follow Vic and eased open his door. Even if Vic managed to get into the store through the back, the boys could bolt out the front. Eric figured if he positioned himself well, he could stop them from getting away.
He studied the buildings. To get across the street without being seen, he’d have to stay in the shadows. To do that, he needed to cut across on the west of the General Store, avoiding the path cut by the overhead light.
Climbing out of the car, Eric made a dash toward the rear of the Post Office. Gravel crunched beneath his heels. He winced at the noise. Had they heard him? Reaching the building, he pressed his back to the bricks, and listened. Had he heard other footsteps?
After waiting a moment or two, he decided what he’d heard were his own footsteps, and he inched himself forward along the rough surface of the bricks. After another moment, he threw caution aside and sprinted to the back of the building.
A wide parking lot had been carved out of the hillside. Graveled, with high embankments, it opened in a sweeping half-circle away from the building. Midpoint, Suett had parked the NPS truck in the postmaster’s reserved slot.
Walking over to the truck, Eric peered into the cab. The boys’ backpacks still littered the passenger side floor: Candy wrappers comingled with Coke cans on the seat, and a set of keys dangled from the ignition.
Yanking open the truck door, Eric jerked the keys from the ignition, then moved to the rear of the truck. A box of fusees sat in the truck bed, and he hauled the box to the end of the tailgate, rummaging through it and counting the fusees. The brand the NPS used came in boxes of twenty-four. Counting by twos, he came up with twelve left.
He rechecked the numbers, then added them to the two that had been in Wayne’s pack and the one that had been Wayne’s hand, coming up with fifteen. Which meant Suett and Tres had used—or were about to use—nine.
“Put your hands up,” ordered a deep voice.
Eric turned to see who had issued the command and found himself staring down the double barrel of a shotgun.
“I said, put your hands up. In the air. Where I can see ’em.” A young cowboy in a white hat, white shirt, boots, and jeans, and wearing a belt buckle the size of a small piece of toast, shouldered the gun.
“I’m a ranger,” said Eric, complying with the order. “I’m with the National Park Service.” Had the boys staked a lookout? What if this was one of their friends?
“I don’t care if you’re with the FBI,” said the cowboy. “What are you doin’ here?” He stood, one hip cocked, holding the gun steady.
“Two juveniles stole this truck. The sheriff and I followed them here.” Eric started to drop his hands, but the cowboy gestured for him to keep them up. Eric jerked his head toward the buildings. “They’re about to burn down your General Store.”
The cowboy’s eyes darted in the direction of the street. His view of the General Store was obscured by the Post Office building. “I don’t see nothin’,” he said.
“If you don’t believe me, check for yourself.” Eric wished he could see the cowboy’s expression, but his hat obscured his face. “Plus, I have an ID in my pocket that proves who I am.”
Not to mention, I’m wearing a uniform.
“Stay put,” the cowboy ordered. He lowered his gun and stepped away, and Eric dropped his hands. A low growl stopped him in mid-motion. A German shepherd sat a few feet away, his ears laid back, his nose wrinkled.
“Good dog, Bingo,” said the cowboy without turning around. “Guard.”
“Good dog,” repeated Eric, raising his hands back into the air.
Bingo relaxed.
The cowboy edged his way along the back of the Post Office, peeked his head around the corner, and whistled softly.
Bingo’s ears pricked forward.
“See,” said Eric, pointing with his right hand.
Bingo barred his teeth, and crouched.
“It’s okay, boy,” said the cowboy, turning back. “It looks like this fella’s tellin’ us the truth.” He shouldered the gun, and Bingo sauntered in for a pat on the head. “Did you say the sheriff’s with your—”
“Ja.”
“Where is he?”
Eric shrugged. “I don’t know. He got out of the car about ten minutes ago. I haven’t seen him since. I figure he’s in back of the General Store, since there aren’t many other ways to get inside without being spotted.”
The cowboy jerked his head toward the street. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m thinkin’ of goin’ in the front door with my dog and shotgun. One way or another, we oughta be able to nail these clowns.”
Eric agreed. “That was sort of my plan, too.” Short of walking in with a dog and a gun.
The cowboy raised his eyebrows.
“How about this?” said Eric. “You stand guard here and make sure neither one of the boys leaves through the front. I’ll cross the street and go around back of the General Store and see if I can find the sheriff. He may have a different plan for us. Either way, I’ll come back and signal you if we want you to come in through the front.”
The cowboy tipped back his hat, and a thick mane of brown hair fell across his forehead. “Sure, I guess we can try it that way. Just so’s you know, though.” The cowboy gestured toward his dog. “We ain’t fixin’ to let them burn down the General Store. Bingo here is sorta partial to their bones.”
“I understand,” said Eric. “Just give me a couple of minutes.”
Figuring a couple was all he would get, Eric waited until he was sure it was clear and hurried across the street. Turning away from the main entrance, he kept to the shadows and the sidewalk along the front corner of the building. When Eric reached the side of the General Store, the sidewalk ended and the ditch picked up. Deep, and three feet across, the ditch was too wide for Eric to negotiate from a standing jump, so he took a run at it. His feet landed on the edge, sending a shower of scree
clattering into the ditch. Clambering for a foothold, his feet churned the earth at the lip of the ditch. He surged forward, gained solid ground, and froze. Had Tres or Suett heard him?
Pressing himself against the side of the building, he counted to ten.
When the cowboy waved, Eric pushed away from the rough bricks and scrambled over the uneven ground toward the back of the store. Rounding the corner, he stumbled over the sheriff, who was sitting on the ground.
“Vic!”
“Sshhhh!”
Eric dropped to one knee and whispered, “What are you doin’? What happened?”
“I put my foot through an old root cellar door, or a well cover. I couldn’t yell for fear of alerting our friends inside.” Vic jerked his head back toward the road. “Why aren’t you waiting for Brill?”
Eric ignored the question, patting the ground around Vic’s leg. The sheriff’s boot was jammed through a two-by-six-inch board. Eric tried pulling Vic’s foot free.
Vic groaned. “That’s ripping my ankle to shreds.”
Eric probed the opening with his fingers. Shards of wood jutted out at odd angles. Dirt was caked on top of the boards, cementing them in place.” An upward pull caused the boards to knit together. Eric tried pushing them down. What he needed was a shovel.
“Stop, Eric. If we make any more noise, they’re bound to hear us.”
Eric sat back on his heels. “Vell, you can’t stay here. They’re getting ready to torch the building.”
The sheriff stroked his mustache, then wet his lips, “Did you get ahold of Brill?”
“Ja, he’s on his way.”
“Good. Do you know how to use a gun?”
“Ja.” Though he didn’t care much for guns, Eric knew how to shoot. “Besides, we have help.” Eric told him about the cowboy and the dog.
“Do you think he’s trustworthy?” asked Vic.
“He didn’t shoot me.”
Vic contemplated Eric’s answer, then shrugged. “That’s good enough for me.” Unclipping his handcuffs from his belt, he handed them to Eric along with the gun. “Go signal the cowboy that you’re going inside. Give yourself two minutes. Then, slip in through the back and yell ‘freeze.’ Real loud, and real mean. That should be enough to stop those boys in their tracks. Then, after you cuff them together, come back and get me out of here.”
A Nest in the Ashes Page 13