An American Bullet

by John Stonehouse

  Back at the motel, he can pick up the Yukon—take off out of Rapid City, go pick him up. Take him, keep him alive. Half an hour he can be out of town, down the highway. He can get off in the woods, find the Forest Service road.

  He stumbles along toward the cold horizon. Screws up his face at a new thought—how about if the kid was dead?

  The sheriff's deputy coming on shift—Deputy Quinlan—rides 16 south, straight out of town.

  The shift is going to be a long one; two storm-disrupted days to make good, starting with a warrant to serve—non-payment of child support on a guy out in Hill City.

  After that, there’s a statement to take—a report of a vandalized vehicle, acid-attack.

  Leaving the sheriff’s office, somebody handed him a slip of paper—details on a vehicle, a stop-on-sight.

  State-wide alert. Something serious, Quinlan figures.

  He slows in traffic, approaching an intersection.

  Alongside the highway is a run-down motel.

  Quinlan glances into the forecourt. Sees a GMC Yukon parked in one of the bays.

  His eye rests on it a moment.

  The vehicle is thick with snow, no visible plate. He tells himself he ought to check it out—even if it’s most likely nothing.

  He hits the blinker. Waits for the stop light to turn.

  Somewhere in his coat is the slip of paper. He searches for it, patting down pockets, trying to remember where it went.

  The overhead lights flick to green.

  Quinlan makes the turn, steers into the entrance-way of the motel lot.

  He parks the cruiser. Searches in his jacket again. The slip of paper is crushed in the bottom of a pocket, beneath a glove.

  He takes it out. Checks it.

  The vehicle is side-on to him, a GMC Yukon.

  It's the right year, right color. He unhooks the seat belt, pops the door.

  Stepping out into the snow-covered lot he sees no-one. Nothing moving. He scans the motel, notes the couple of other vehicles also parked.

  Along the front of the building, drapes are closed in three of the rooms.

  He walks across to the rear of the Yukon. Squats. Brushes a forearm over the mound of snow.

  He straightens at the tail hatch of the big SUV—looks from one motel room to another. Sees an office, a reception lobby. Watches for a moment. Stalks back to the cruiser.

  Reaching in for the radio, he presses down on the button to send. “Dispatch?”

  A static hiss.

  “This is Deputy Quinlan.”

  “Dispatch, go ahead.”

  “I'm out on Highway 16—just south of the Indiana turn. At the White Fox Motel. The stop-order on the GMC Yukon? I got it right here. I'm standing looking at it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The clover-leaf for 44 to the airport is a mile out. Janice Rimes keeps the Jeep humming, Whicher in the rear, Lauren beside him in white nylon cuffs.

  The sun hangs low in the sky—Rimes sprays washer-fluid onto the windshield trying to clear the salt coming up off the road.

  A call comes in on the hands-free speakerphone clipped to the sun-visor of the Jeep. She presses to answer it.

  A male voice; “Yeah, this is Stevens, calling.”

  “Officer Stevens?”

  “From this morning. I was going to call if anything came in on that GMC Yukon...”

  “Sure,” Rimes says. “Go ahead.”

  “The sheriff’s office has been notified of a sighting,” he says. “Vehicle reported stationary—located Highway 16, south. Near to the Indiana Street intersection.”

  She flicks off the windshield wipers.

  “Where?” Whicher says.

  Rimes ignores him.

  “It's in a motel parking lot,” Officer Stevens says. “The White Fox Motel. One unit in attendance, back up pending.”

  “Any sign of a driver?”

  “Nothing on any driver,” Stevens says. “The message just came in. I heard it, I thought to call...”

  Rimes stares ahead at the road.

  “So, you want to do anything about it?”

  “No,” she says. “Not right now, I can’t. I’ll check on it later. I’ll call back. But thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem.” Stevens clicks off the call.

  “Indiana Street?” Whicher says. “Where's that?”

  “Five, six miles...”

  “We have to go there,” Lauren cuts in.

  The marshal looks at her.

  “I have to know,” Lauren says, her face animated. “I have to know if my brother is there.”

  “You're getting on a plane,” Rimes tells her.

  “I have to know if he’s alive...”

  “Law enforcement will see to it.”

  Whicher shifts his gaze to the traffic out of the windshield—feels Lauren's eyes on the side of his face.

  “It’s hours till the flight leaves,” she says.

  Rimes shakes her head. “I don’t care if it is.”

  “If the car’s been found at a motel, if they’re there, if Anthony’s there, I want to know, I need to be there, to see.”

  “I’m getting you to the airport. You're getting on that flight.”

  “You’re responsible,” Lauren says.

  Rimes turns her face to the side.

  “You lost my brother—Anthony was yours to protect.”

  Rimes straightens at the wheel. “Save it.” She steers along the highway.

  “If anybody wanted to know,” Lauren says, “you’d think it would be you. You were supposed to keep him safe.”

  The FBI agent looks at Whicher in the rear-view mirror.

  The marshal sees the question in her face.

  Deputy Quinlan stares down the rear side of the building at the single-floor motel. A row of rooms, no doors, just windows. Ten yards of dead ground to the perimeter. Pristine snow.

  A six-feet high fence runs around the back, an evergreen hedge beyond it. Dense but not impossible to get through. There’ll be cover to the rear, if they need it.

  In a service unit at the near-end of the row, a woman in her fifties leans from the doorway. “There's nothing else out here.”

  The deputy holds up a finger to his lips.

  She looks at him through outsize glasses. “I didn't see anybody,” the woman whispers. “Not this morning.”

  Quinlan retraces his steps back.

  “Folk get up, they’ll come on in the breakfast bar,” the woman says. “They need to give me the room number, before they can eat.”

  “Alright, ma'am.” The deputy steps by her, through the door to a utility room. He squeezes by a cleaning cart. The woman follows into a corridor.

  “My husband booked 'em in last night,” she says, “I wasn't here.”

  “It reads 'single occupant' on the booking form,” Quinlan says.

  “Yes, sir. But there could be more than one person in there. It’s not unknown for folk to lie.”

  The deputy keeps on walking through the deserted breakfast room.

  “If their vehicle's still in the lot, they're probably asleep,” the woman says. “The drapes are closed, it's not real late. They got the room till ten, before they need to be out.”

  Quinlan cuts through the entrance lobby to the main reception area—he ducks inside the office, stares through the big, plate window, out onto the motel lot.

  “I've been running this place nine years,” the woman says. “The most part, folks ain’t much trouble. They’ll check in late, get up early, get the free breakfast, hit the road. If they're still here around this time, it's probably 'cause they're asleep.”

  The deputy looks at her. “You got occupancy in four of the other rooms?”

  “Yes, sir. Three retired couples. One single female.”

  “Can you call them?”

  “Sure. The rooms have phones...”

  Quinlan stares out of the window at his cruiser. If he can move it, block the exit—he’ll make one less
route for anybody to get away.

  “I want you to stay inside right now,” he says. “But I'll need you to get out real soon, you and all the other guests.”

  “Who do you think is in there?”

  The deputy shakes his head. “Call through to the guests, one by one. Don't get 'em alarmed, ask ‘em to come to reception, keep it quiet. Try to get ‘em all out. More units are on their way, but we need to be careful.” He un-clips the strap holding his semi-automatic pistol in its holster.

  “Oh,” the woman says. “Well, do I start calling now?”

  The deputy steps back into the lobby. “Start with the older couples.”

  He pushes open the main door, leads with the gun.

  Highway 16 runs a straight line to the south—stores and businesses scattered at either side of the roadway. Janice Rimes pulls onto the edge of a supermarket lot. “The next intersection is Indiana.”

  Whicher sits forward in his seat, studies the scene ahead.

  “You get out here, you can walk,” Rimes says.

  The marshal cracks the door on the Jeep.

  “The motel is going to be somewhere right after the intersection.” Rimes turns, stares at Lauren. “The two of us stay right here.”

  “If anything happens,” Whicher says, “y’all get moving.”

  The FBI agent looks at him.

  “Get out of here,” he says, “head for the airport. I’ll meet you there. I’ll find a unit, I’ll get a ride.”

  “If Anthony’s here, I want to see him,” Lauren says.

  “Don’t push it,” Rimes says. “Your brother has a direct connection with the case, that’s the only reason we’re doing this.”

  “We wouldn’t be doing it at all, if you’d done your job...”

  “In five minutes,” Whicher says, “we need to be gone.”

  Lauren leans back into her seat.

  “I’m going to head down,” Whicher says, “take a look. Find out what’s happening, that’s it.”

  “Find Anthony. If you want me to testify...”

  Rimes turns to face forward—she stares through the windshield, puffs out her cheeks.

  “That’s my price...” Lauren says.

  “Go,” Rimes says. “Damn it. Go, if we’re doing this.”

  “Five minutes,” the marshal says. “Five minutes and we’re gone.”

  Whicher squares his hat, pushes wide the door. He steps out into the cold, hard, wind.

  Moving fast along the sidewalk, he listens for the tell-tale pitch of sirens.

  Traffic is rolling steady on the highway, residential roads lead east-west—to clapboard houses, stone-built properties.

  Across the road is a gas station, a pizza joint nearside.

  He crosses at the intersection, walks two more blocks by a carpet mart.

  At the end of a line of trees, a sign is sticking up into the air—he sees the words written on it; White Fox.

  Beyond the trees is a motel, a brand new GMC Yukon parked out in the lot.

  Four more vehicles are in there, three together in a row, another off to the side.

  A sheriff's cruiser is blocking the exitway.

  Reception for the motel is at the near-end.

  The rooms extend out from reception—in a single story, the marshal guesses around twenty, all in.

  The nose of a second sheriff’s cruiser is just visible by a hedge in back.

  Whicher searches inside his coat, locates the Marshals Service badge and ID.

  Despite the cold, he leaves the coat open. The Glock at his hip is just inches from his hand.

  He stops short on the sidewalk.

  A door is open at the rear of reception—a group of folk standing in a service-alley. White haired couples standing close to one another, a woman gesturing to them with her hands.

  Whicher keeps on walking. At the end of the lot he makes a turn to where the first of the cruisers is parked.

  Two sheriff's deputies are by the second cruiser, in back of the hedge.

  Whicher holds out the badge and ID. “US Marshal—with the Rapid City FBI office.”

  The older deputy studies him, round-faced. “Marshal?”

  “Working with Agent Rimes,” Whicher says. “On a witness protection case. We got somebody missing, we think they could be inside.”

  The younger of the two deputies steps forward, his hair cut high and tight. “Dispatch said to hold, they're sending the SWAT team.”

  “How long?”

  “They’re mobile, they'll be here in less than five.”

  “Y’all get everybody out?”

  “We think,” the older deputy says. “The owner’s coming down, we got his wife in back of reception with all the guests. She reckons everybody's accounted for. But one of the rooms, the drapes are closed, the key's not where it's supposed to be...”

  “How’s that?”

  “There's an outside chance the husband took a late deal—for cash. According to the wife. It could just be the room needed cleaning, the guy forgot to put the key back in place.”

  “Y’all tried calling?”

  “We called, there’s no answer. I'm guessing we're clear—but we want to be a hundred per cent.”

  At the edge of the supermarket lot, Jerzy Belaski sees the waiting vehicle. It’s stationary with its motor running—vapor pooling, curling around the pipe.

  A waiting vehicle.

  Motor running.

  Check inside, clock the people inside.

  Always. Make sure. Evaluate the threat.

  He studies the Jeep Liberty—metallic-gray finish, no markings, a South Dakota plate.

  Something about it makes him slow to a stop.

  He moves the store bag from under his right arm to under his left.

  Standing on the sidewalk, he buys another moment—adjusts the bag beneath his arm.

  Taking in the Jeep from out of the corner of his eye, a sound comes to him through the clear air—a motor, gunning, revving high.

  Accelerating.

  He turns a fraction, to see the highway.

  An SUV is driving fast, cutting in and out of the flow of cars.

  County Sheriff's Department.

  No siren. But the flashers are popping on and off.

  Belaski feels his mouth dry.

  Somebody must have seen it—seen the Yukon.

  Cars are peeling left and right, making way for the SUV.

  He puts a hand in his pocket, closes it around the butt of the SIG.

  Check first, he tells himself, go closer—make sure.

  He walks forward, eying the Jeep.

  Sitting inside is a blonde woman.

  He stops. Angles his head and neck.

  Heart pumping, he slips the gun to the edge of his coat pocket. Takes another half-step.

  Lauren DeLuca is sitting in back. She's on the right-hand side of the vehicle.

  A dark-haired woman is behind the wheel, the seat behind her empty.

  Belaski scans the street, as if about to go across.

  He grabs the handle of the rear door, rips it open.

  Lauren's head snaps sideways.

  The woman in front jerks, “Hey, what the hell...”

  Belaski jumps in behind her, grabs her hair—points the gun in her eye.

  Lauren recoils—he sees the nylon zip-ties at her wrists.

  “Drive,” Belaski says.

  The black-haired woman blinks at him.

  He tilts her head straight, throws his arm forward, releasing his grip.

  Her head snaps down toward the wheel.

  He grabs his bag from the sidewalk, slams the door.

  Silence.

  Just breathing.

  “Drive,” he shouts.

  The woman steadies, braces her shoulders.

  “Come on. Do it...”

  She reaches down to the shifter.

  Moves out of park, releases the brake.

  Whicher stands in back of the motel reception, by the service-alley—he can
just see three men getting out of the newly-arrived SWAT vehicle.

  The motel guests are huddled in the wind—the woman at the head of the group staring up at him on the sidewalk.

  He holds out the badge. “Ma'am?”

  “My husband’s on his way up...”

  “I need to move you and everybody else—all these folk here. There's a gas station back up the road.” He points north in the direction of the intersection.

  In the motel lot, the SWAT men are already dressed in tactical gear—the two regular deputies fastening on kevlar vests.

  The woman moves out of the alley. “They got to wait on my husband,” she says. “There's a room unaccounted for...”

  The marshal jabs his arm up the road. “We need to go, now.” He stares at the drapes of the room, still closed. “Lead everybody to the gas station,” he tells the woman.

  “What about you?”

  “I got the rear.”

  She steps onto the sidewalk, starts up the road, waving everybody on.

  Three older couples tread careful over frozen snow, the last guest, a younger woman, follows them out.

  Whicher stays rooted, watching till the group has moved clear.

  Ten yards. Fifteen.

  At the far end of the lot, the buzz-cut deputy tracks behind the building, going in behind the hedge.

  The SWAT team maneuvers—one man crawling on his hands and knees below the line of the windows.

  Whicher looks back up the road to the group now hurrying up the sidewalk.

  His hands are starting to go numb, he can't shoot if he can't feel them. He shoves them into his pockets, he can see the gas station—the sign for the pizza joint across the street.

  Wind is raking his eyes, making them water. He peers farther along the highway, along the lines of piled snow.

  The road is long and straight. Half a mile before any curve.

  A surge of alarm breaks inside him.

  He can't see it.

  He can’t see Rimes with the Jeep.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The road out through the subdivision exits back onto Highway 16. Belaski guesses it around a mile from the motel.

  The woman at the wheel eases the Jeep into the south-bound lane. The surface of the highway is a mess of grit and salt—clear in its center, snow piled at either side.