“You know for sure that he jumped?”
Officer Kyle Guillory pours coffee into three identical white mugs. The sound of a boiler rumbles from somewhere out of a back room, the radiators in the station house all ticking.
Guillory puts out the coffee, shifts hunting trophies aside on the top of a cluttered table. He flips cream and sugar sachets from a cardboard box.
Whicher takes up a mug. “I use your phone?”
“Go right ahead.”
The marshal crosses to the door of an office marked, Chief of Police. “I step on in here a minute?”
The patrolman nods.
Whicher enters, puts a boot tip to the door, pushes it closed.
Alone, he takes in the room—wood-paneled, rows of photographs—Officer Guillory plus another man in uniform; the boss, the chief of police.
The marshal sits at a corner of the desk.
From his jacket he takes out his cell, finds the stored number. He keys it into the office land-line.
He checks his watch. Nine-thirty.
The call picks up.
“Who is this?”
Whicher recognizes Inspector McBride.
“Sir, it’s Marshal Whicher.”
McBride exhales into the phone. “Marshal—I told you not to call.”
“Yes, sir, I know that. But something happened—about an hour ago. Somebody made an attempt...”
“An attempt?”
“On my traveling companion. I'm not calling y’all for help.”
A beat passes.
“Then what do you want?”
Whicher stares around the office. “Sir, did any word come back yet on my companion’s previous escort?”
“Not at this time.”
The marshal stands, lifts the phone from the desk. “I’ve asked for a train arriving at La Junta to be boarded and searched. The Otero County Sheriff will be handling it. Maybe you ought to call. The attempt was made on the train, the attacker or associates may still be onboard. We got off. But now we’re pretty much boxed-in, account of the weather conditions.”
“Can you keep moving?”
“Not real likely,” Whicher says. “At least, not any time soon.”
“This is a land line you’re calling on—not a cell?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Your companion is safe?”
“She’s safe, and nobody's coming in here—where we're at is pretty remote.”
“Who knows where you are now?”
“One other person,” Whicher says, “an officer on a small-town police force. I’m calling from their station house.”
“In the circumstances, maybe I ought to take the number.”
The marshal reads off the number written above the keypad. “Sir, I been thinking—maybe it’s time I knew a little more about the person I'm traveling with?”
“Not a good idea.”
Whicher rolls his tongue around the inside of his mouth.
“The less you know of her, the better,” McBride says.
“You don’t think it could help?”
“No, I don’t. Did anybody see you arrive at that station house?”
“No, sir.”
“If they had people on the train, they know where it stopped, where you got off, they could likely track you down. If you’re in country, in a rural locale, there can’t be many places you could go. I’m guessing that police station is right in the middle of town?”
Whicher thinks it over.
“It’s the kind of place they might check, they might watch. You need to find somewhere till you can move again, a place no-one’s going to notice you, nobody’s going to see.”
The marshal eases out the chair from the desk—he sits.
“Keep on with what I told you,” McBride says.
“Just keep right on?”
“Unless you can't.”
Whicher thinks it over, lets the phrase sink in.
Unless you can't.
Lauren DeLuca sits at the far side of the office in the marshal’s coat. Her legs are crossed, her face a mask. Cheekbones a perfect curve in the light of the office lamp.
The marshal drains his second mug of coffee.
“Why do you keep checking your watch?” she says.
Too long.
Too long since Guillory set out.
He was headed over to the far side of town, to his house. To bring them something to eat, bring a winter coat for Whicher.
Lauren puts her head on one side, blonde hair falling in an arc. “Do you think he’s alright?”
“Snow’s pretty bad out there.”
Her foot begins to bounce. “How long do you think he'll be?”
Whicher shifts in his seat. “Why don’t you tell me something about you?”
She draws the big, wool coat around herself.
“Maybe it could make a difference,” he says, “if I knew who was coming after you...”
“I agreed to testify in a trial. In exchange, I was promised protection.”
He runs a hand over the day's growth of stubble at his chin.
“How much of this have you done?” she says. “Witness security?”
“I've done a lot of things, ma’am.”
“I hope you know what you're doing.”
He nods. “One thing I do know...”
“What's that?”
“Mostly—folk that end up in witness security, they’re from a pretty damn serious background.”
“A serious background?”
He looks at her. “That’s to say—a criminal background.”
On the long wall of the Millersburg outdoor supply, snow is inches thick on top of the payphone booth.
Jerzy Belaski feeds in quarters, checks both directions along the sidewalk. No footprints show, the ground is unmarked—only his own boots have disturbed the fresh fall.
No headlights show in any direction.
Behind the wheel of the stationary Toyota, Jimmy Scardino looks out, runs a hand through his thick head of wavy, black hair.
He’s smiling. Smiling at nothing.
Belaski keys the numbers on the freezing phone.
It rings twice, three times, picks up.
He hears the sound of music playing—ambient noise, voices, people talking.
“Mister Coletti?”
He pictures the South Side of Chicago, a neighborhood bar.
“It's Jerzy Belaski.”
“What?”
“Belaski...”
“What the hell do you want?”
There’s a rustling noise at the earpiece, the speaker goes dull. The sound changes, the music quieter now, no voices—a backroom.
“We ran into a problem,” Belaski says.
“What God damn problem?”
Genaro Coletti. Still the construction foreman he once was.
“Did you hit the train?”
“We hit it.”
“Did you get it stopped?”
“We stopped it, but we couldn't get right to her.” Belaski stares at scuff marks on the side of the payphone booth. “By the time we had her escort, the sheriff’s department showed up...”
“Where are you?”
“Colorado. She got herself tight in with law enforcement.”
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Coletti snaps. “What the hell is going on?”
“I bought a ticket at Raton,” Belaski says, his voice even. “I got on the train.”
“Jimmy park that station wagon on the line?”
“He parked it. We got the train stopped, but we couldn't get to her.”
“Ah, Jesus Christ.”
Belaski keeps his speech slow, deliberate. “The train didn't wreck, they got it started up again. She got back on, I got on. Jimmy followed in the truck...”
“What the fuck?”
“We picked the spot for that,” Belaski says. “Just in case. The rail line follows the road from Trinidad to La Junta. It follows the track for miles.”
“
Yeah? Shit.”
“I tried again on the train, but there was another cop—I took a shot, but there was no way to get the jump, I had to bail, had to get out. They stopped the train in the middle of nowhere. They got off.”
“Where?”
Belaski eyes the snow. “Around forty miles from La Junta. Millersburg, it’s called.”
“You know where she is now, I mean right now?”
“They went into a police station.”
The sound changes again—Belaski pictures Coletti covering the phone with his hand, cursing him out, only barely in control. Balls but no brains.
Jimmy Scardino stares out through the windshield, shifting, nervous in the Toyota.
“Millersburg?” Coletti finally says.
“I'm just letting you know…”
“That I sent a spray-hitting prick to do a man’s job...”
“So you know what's going on...”
“Yeah? So far, so fucked up.”
Belaski leans against the side of the booth.
“I'm sending help.”
“There's a storm going here, it's snowing like crazy. No way anybody’s getting in through this.”
“Then you listen to me,” Coletti says, “this gets taken care of, tonight. Or you’re out—I find somebody else.”
“Nobody’s coming in here.” Belaski grinds his teeth. “Nobody’s leaving.”
“Anyway it needs to get done, you get it the hell done.”
The call clicks out.
Chapter Eight
Officer Kyle Guillory's Ford Explorer lights up the trunks of blue spruce and limber pine lining the trail through the woods. The tall trees have kept the forest track clearer than the metaled roads, sheltering the ground from the ceaseless fall of snow.
In the back of the vehicle, Whicher sits with Lauren DeLuca. In his lap, a borrowed coat from Guillory; a deer camp jacket made from tight-weave wool.
He glances out of the window at the frozen night, grateful for the coat, for the warmth of the blower in the Ford.
A half-mile into the woods, they’re starting to slow.
Whicher sees a clearing in the trees—in its center, a cabin, built from rough cut logs.
He looks at Lauren, still she hasn't taken off his coat.
Guillory lifts a finger, points from the wheel. “There's no regular power. But plenty of lanterns, a bunch of firewood, it'll warm up pretty quick.”
Lauren edges back into her seat. “There really aren’t any hotels? Or motels even?”
“Nothing till you get to La Junta,” Guillory says. “And no way we're getting up there, not in this.”
“Couldn't we stay at the station?”
“We need to change locale,” Whicher says.
Lauren looks to Officer Guillory. “Could we stay with you?”
“A place like Millersburg is too small,” Whicher says, “too much of a risk of somebody noticing.”
“But if we don't go out?”
Guillory brakes the Ford to a stop in the clearing, leaves the motor running. “If y’all don't want folk knowing you're around, this’ll work about as good as anyplace you could get.”
The wood stove is going strong—bright flame leaping, a stack of cordwood set on the plank floor.
Heat is seeping through the cabin space. Whicher adjusts the sliding flue on the stove.
Set about the place are propane lanterns, the log walls hung with antlers. It’s solid—dry, well fitted out. A family hunting lodge—his father's before him, Guillory said.
In a corner of the room, Lauren DeLuca takes out the folded contents of a blanket box. Rugs. Thick wool blankets. She lifts them out, looks at each one briefly. Throws them onto the back of a chair.
The burning logs glow orange-white, air roaring in beneath the three-legged stove.
Whicher takes a few steps into the kitchenette in back. He can make out a sink, a drainboard, storage racks, wire-front cupboards.
He tries the faucet. A thin stream of water starts to run. A cistern must be out there somewhere. Not frozen, it must be insulated. Whatever, he knows better than to drink.
He shuts off the faucet. Rows of bottled water line the floor against one wall—store-bought water, hauled in from town.
On the counter is a rucksack, left by Guillory—filled with crackers, coffee, cans of chili and beef tamales. Whicher looks at the gas stove. “You want somethin’ to eat?”
She tosses the last of the blankets onto a folding, army cot.
The marshal holds up the rucksack to the light from a wall lantern.
Lauren steps to the kitchenette.
“You going to take off that coat?” he says.
She looks at him. “Do you want it back?”
Whicher studies her. Her face is in shadow.
“Are you going to take off that hat?”
He places a hand on the crown of the Resistol, flips off the hat, puts it down on top of the kitchen table.
She unfastens the coat.
In the dim light he can barely see her eyes.
“You look better without it,” she says. “Without the hat.”
She takes off his coat, walks to the stub of an antler on the wall. Reaches up, hangs it on the bone hook.
For a moment neither one of them speaks.
Whicher rifles the rucksack. “You look better out of my coat.”
He swings the bag onto the table.
She takes it, starts to unpack everything from inside.
The marshal takes a lantern from the wall, stares at a slit window high up on the rear side of the cabin, snow filling the frame. All the other windows are shuttered—lacquered pine planks closed against the panes.
He moves to the back door. It’s locked with two bolts, top and bottom. He slides them back, opens up.
“What're you doing?” she says.
Outside, wind is moving in the trees, the air dead, thick with snow.
“I need to check on something.”
He grabs Guillory’s coat. It’s made of black and red plaid, lined with sheepskin, fastened with a heavy, brass zipper.
He puts it on, steps out, pulls the door closed behind him.
Light is showing at the slit window on the back wall. A thin shaft, bright against the snow beneath the trees.
He moves into the clearing, woodsmoke swirling. Looking into the trees along the track he can see twenty yards—then nothing but black.
No sign of anybody out there.
He feels the snow in his hair, melting against the heat of his neck.
Silence—silence but for the wind—a high keening in the tops of the trees.
He turns back to the cabin, to the slit window, searches for a shutter—finds none. He steps to the back door, knocks snow from his boots. Re-enters the kitchenette, slips home the two bolts.
Lauren DeLuca looks at him. “Is everything alright?”
He pulls out a chair, sits at the kitchen table. Shrugs off the coat.
From the holster at his hip, he takes out the semi-automatic Glock. He places it on the worn, pine boards. “You know how to shoot?” He looks at her.
Her face is clouded. “Not really.”
He nods. Draws the big-frame Ruger revolver from his shoulder-holster, holds it in the flat of his hand.
“You carry two guns?”
He places the revolver on the table. “This one belonged to a buddy of mine.”
“It looks a little old-fashioned.”
“It'll get the job done.” The marshal tilts his head at the square-looking semi-auto. “That’s the USMS standard issue.”
She takes a breath. “You watch the door, then. I'll fix us something.”
She picks a box of kitchen matches from the counter top. Lights a burner on the stove, turns the flame down low.
“Do you want coffee?” She lifts a can from the rucksack. “Do you want some of this chili?”
He clicks open the cylinder on the revolver, spins it. “I’ll take whatever you got.”
/>
“I guess you weren’t counting on this,” she says, “any more than I was.”
He looks up from the table.
“Spending a night in the woods,” she says.
He presses the cylinder closed, shakes his head.
She takes a can opener from a rack of kitchen utensils, sets the steel jaws onto the top of the can.
“This morning, I took a man out to a prison facility. Florence ADX. Highest security prison in the country.”
Her face is in profile as she empties the can of chili into a pan.
“Mob guy,” the marshal says.
Her eyebrow arches.
“From Chicago. Originally. I was thinking; maybe you would have known him?”
The track between the trees is pitch black—Jimmy Scardino sits behind the wheel of the Toyota, lights out.
The motor in the pickup is shut off, the temperature falling. Scardino rounds his shoulders, tries not to shiver. “How long you want to wait on this, man?”
Belaski looks at him. “If nothing happens, they’ll settle.”
“I say go in. Get it done.”
“They’ll be less alert.” Belaski shakes his head. “We wait.”
He stares off out of the windshield, mouth compressed beneath the hook of a nose.
Scardino thinks of arguing, thinks again, curses beneath his breath.
He sits back in the driver’s seat, watches Belaski from the corner of his eye.
The man was barely breathing—taken up with some thought; consumed. He’d just be that way—possessed, some called it. With his weird kind of energy. Up close you could see it, sense it—feel it coming off of him. His eyes dead, the way a shark’s eyes were dead.
“What’re you looking at?” Belaski speaks without turning.
Scardino doesn’t answer. He looks off into the gnarled, black woods.
Along the side-trail, set back from the main track, there’s just the creak and moan of unseen branches.
Following the SUV had been easy—out of Millersburg. The cop, the woman, and the man in the hat.
Hanging back, way back, they’d seen them go up into the woods. They’d waited in the pickup. On a side-trail, to see what occurred.
Fifteen minutes later, the Ford had come back out again. Just the driver in the cab.
They’d followed the wheel tracks it had made to a cabin.
“You’re not worried?” Scardino says. “You’re not worried about getting away? In this whole shit ton of snow?”
An American Bullet Page 5