He sputtered some words out like a teapot about to boil over. “Other than just now I’m doing pretty well—what the hell is going on?”
“I’m after somebody.”
“I’d offer to help, but I think I just shit my pants.”
Moving past him, I started limping in the direction of the parade ground. “If you see my undersheriff, would you tell her you saw me heading this way?”
“Will do, is there anything else?”
“Tell her I’m in pursuit, and I need all the backup I can get.”
He nodded, and I continued off past the line of cars. It was possible that they were thinking of stealing a car, since I’d taken the keys to the one they’d stolen to get here.
Limping across the manicured lawn, I looked to my right and could see what I thought was two individuals darting behind one of the historic buildings. It was one of those out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye things, and I wasn’t even sure that I’d seen what I thought I had, but it was something.
Holding the Colt aimed at the stars, I made a solemn promise to not shoot anybody just because I didn’t want to chase them anymore—at least for now. I figured the distance to be about fifty yards and just hoped I would make it before my ankle called it quits.
The pavement ended about two buildings before the parade ground to my right, where there was a barn that seemed to have been converted into a garage or workshop. There were old vehicles and large equipment, but the building that interested me was the one to the left.
The chicken coop.
The historic chicken coop.
The only chicken coop on the National Register of Historic Places.
Magic Mike had invited us there, and Carol had pointed it out a couple of times. Hell, it was the most notable location in the entire fort, and it sounded as though somebody was tearing down the place. There was also noise from behind me, and all I could hope was that it was Vic.
There was a crash up ahead, and I lodged myself against the white clapboard building at the corner, where I could see the wire-net door hanging open and movement inside the coop along with hearing more crashing and thumping.
I loped as best I could across the space between the buildings only to trip over the bracing at the bottom of the doorway and crash onto the floor of the coop.
Fortunately, I landed on something. Unfortunately, it was Magic Mike.
Rolling to one side, I swung the .45 up and around the room only to find the rest of the place empty. I could see a massive PVC pipe that half hung from the rafters and recognized it as part of the irrigation system. The plumber’s tape that had been used to suspend it had been pulled down, and it looked like the pipe’s endcap had been pried off as the thing hung there, still swinging.
Pushing off the ground, I lodged the Colt into my holster and reached down. Pulling Bursaw’s hairy head from the mossy, herb-filled ground, I was relieved to see his eyelids flutter and watched as he breathed. Then grabbing the front of my jacket, he attempted to speak. “Mmmmhh . . . Ahmh.”
Snatching my Maglite from my belt, I shined the beam on my face so he could see what I was saying. “Are you all right?”
Fuming with frustration, he nodded.
I gestured toward the large plastic tube above us. “It’s the painting. They’ve got the painting, right?”
He nodded again and began to sign. “Mmmmhh . . .”
I shook my head as I pulled him toward the interior wall. When I propped him up, I could see the blood on the side of his face where he’d obviously been struck. “Hush, and don’t worry about it—I’ll catch them, trust me.”
He nodded and looked up at me very seriously, finally lifting his hand like a child and imitating a pistol.
“Armed?”
He nodded again, finally smiling, blood in his teeth.
Pulling out my .45, I smiled back. “Aren’t we all?”
His smile quickly faded as I started to go, and he held out a hand. “Mmmmhh . . .”
Lowering the flashlight, I paused at the door and looked down the slope that led toward the creek-side trail that meandered toward the mountains. “It’s okay, I know who it is.”
16
It was dark under the canopy of trees that hung over the banks of Clear Creek, and even with the sporadic light cast by the moon, it was like looking through a jigsaw puzzle—albeit, one that could kill you.
My ankle was about to capsize me, and I felt like I was pogoing on a raggedly nerved stump. The trail was wide with pea gravel the size of, well, peas and smooth as a parking lot. It helped, but not much as I crunched my way along wondering what anybody thought they could do from here. It was possible that they had an accomplice up ahead, but I doubted it—this whole enterprise stank to the high heaven of desperation.
So, the painting had been hidden in the fake irrigation system of the historic chicken coop after being liberated from Charley Lee’s apartment, or maybe even before that. Either way, I was going to have to ask Magic Mike.
There was a bend in the trail, and I couldn’t help but stop for a moment to catch my breath even though, for all I knew, my assailant was standing a dozen feet away and aiming at my head. They knew I was coming and could’ve easily taken me by surprise already, but I had a feeling they were running scared, so I had to kick it into gear and get moving, which I did.
The trail led up the canyon and into the mountains, but there were a few pull-offs beside the walkway where the gap got narrower and someone could be waiting up there with a vehicle, but then the only other option was back into town. The same was true of the trail and I turned back toward town, wondering if I was headed in the wrong direction.
I stood there for a minute thinking about the odds and what would be the logical choice, but then there was the hunch. I couldn’t help but think that if it was who I thought it was that they had headed out of town. With all the ruckus at the Soldiers’ and Sailor’s Home, I was pretty sure that they had chosen the other direction.
It was a hunch, but I’d followed hunches my whole life, and so far they hadn’t done me too much wrong.
I started off.
While walking, the thought occurred to me that the perpetrator might have hidden the painting somewhere out here. I just wasn’t sure if anybody would leave twenty-four million dollars under a bush.
I was hobbling around another bend when I could’ve sworn I heard someone talking up ahead. Stopping at the center of the trail about a hundred feet short of a bridge with a pipe rail fence, I listened. There was definitely someone talking, but with the noise of the stream and the echo from the canyon walls, it was difficult to tell what direction the voice was coming from. I limped forward and was pretty sure it was coming from up ahead, but it was a long straight stretch and I couldn’t actually see anyone.
The voice was steady, the tone the kind people used while speaking on a cell phone. I looked around wondering how they had gotten service, and slowed, peering into the darkness of the sheltered path at the bridge buttress.
I fought the urge to call out and identify myself, but even as sure as I was about whom I was chasing, I was still unsure as to how desperate they might be and figured I might be rewarded with a bullet.
The voice stopped, and so did I.
It was possible that they’d heard me crunching along on the gravel, and if they were at the side of the trail near the creek where the shadows were deeper, there was the chance that I’d walk right past them, so I did what all good hunters do—I waited. I waited until I couldn’t stand it anymore and then I waited some more until I heard the amplified sound of crickets, much louder than actual, living crickets might make.
“I know you’re here.”
Nothing.
“I heard your phone.”
Nothing.
“There’s nowhere to go.”
Nothing.
“
Trust me, I know this trail like the back of my hand, maybe better.”
Nothing.
“. . . To be honest, I haven’t studied the back of my hand in a while.”
“Oh, for God’s sake shut up.”
I smiled. “Expecting a call?”
“Maybe.”
I moved forward, zeroing in on the voice near the bridge. “You’re armed?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
There was a pause. “So, how are we going to do this?”
“I don’t want to shoot you . . .”
“I don’t want to shoot you either.”
“You didn’t let me finish—I don’t, but I will.” I let that one sink in.
“I don’t think you’ll shoot me, even for a twenty-six-million-dollar painting.”
“Twenty-four.”
“The price is going up.”
“Don’t count on it—you’re a killer, and I’m not likely to forget that.” Aiming into a dark copse of conifers by the buttress, I breathed in their scent, along with an expensive cologne. “You killed Charley Lee.”
“Did I?”
“I’m assuming by bribing the security guy, Gene Weller, who probably didn’t know what you were up to.”
“What was I up to?”
“Injecting Charley Lee with suxamethonium chloride.”
“Prove it.”
“I have. The elements of the drug are only traceable in a urine sample taken from a living subject. Unfortunately for you, Charley Lee used the bathroom but then forgot to flush, instead stacking his books on the seat.” I stepped closer. “And when Gene Weller finds out this concerns a murder, he’ll flip on you like a Busy Bee pancake.” I took another step. “Why kill Serge?”
“He was a pig.”
I continued to move forward, even though I was pretty sure he was aiming right at me. “Not a good enough reason.”
Silence. “He was making a mess, and it was only a question of time before he began talking.”
“Still not good enough.”
“The painting was paid for.”
“Not by you.”
Conrad Westin stepped sideways, an oversize rolled canvas under one arm, and a SIG Sauer P320 9mm pointed at me in his other hand. “Might as well be. How’s my partner?”
“Loaded into an ambulance and headed for the hospital.”
The young man smirked. “I hope he makes it.”
“No hard feelings?”
“He made me what I am.”
“A murderer?”
He barked a laugh. “A self-made man.”
“You took the artist proof at the Buffalo Bill?”
“I had to. You were getting too close.”
I moved forward, hoping to cut him off. “And you started out replicating Russian paintings for von Lehman?”
He nodded, countering my movements, keeping a little ahead of me with the SIG still carefully aimed at my middle. “It was a start, but then I got introduced to a richer clientele.”
“Krovopuskov?”
“Among others.”
“He’s coming back for his painting?”
“Maybe.” Conrad shrugged. “The thing is getting heavy.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”
His phone began chirping again. “By the time you have any say, I’ll be in Helsinki, Berlin, Paris, or some other place leading a whole new life.”
The phone continued chirping. “You want to answer that?”
“It can wait, I’ve got time.”
I gave a slight gesture with my .45 Colt. “You’re forgetting something.”
“Not really, but you are.” He smiled confidently, too confidently. “That or you never knew.”
The first blow was a pretty good one, causing me to stagger forward and almost drop my weapon. The second one from behind forced me to my knees. I tried to clear my head with a shake, but that only made things worse as a vertigo and nausea rose in the back of my throat.
Westin’s foot kicked my sidearm from my line of sight as I tried to push myself up, the final blow from behind sinking me flat on my chest as I lay there.
She spoke, breathless from the exertion of clubbing me like a baby seal. “Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so. Where the hell have you been?”
I could see her boots as she walked closer to him. “I had to get my car. Where’s Philippe?”
“There’s been a slight change in plan . . .” He scuffed some gravel toward me. “One of them shot him in the foot.”
“Where is he?”
“They got him. Look, it’s me and you now.”
“Conrad, this is crazy.”
“Where’s the car?”
“Up ahead, at one of the turnouts.”
“Are the keys in it?”
“Yes.”
I reached out and firmly grabbed an ankle.
“What the hell?”
Katrina Dejean tried to kick at me, but even as hurt as I was, I held fast, started to stand, and reached up to grab her by the back of her jacket. She swung what looked like a tire iron at me again, but I got my other arm up to block it and crushed her against me, facing him.
I stripped the bar from her hand and flung it at him.
My aim was maybe not the best, but he fell backward into the railing as the metal hit his hand, and he dropped the P320, which fell halfway between us, the bar falling onto his foot. He stood there hopping and thinking about going for the SIG, but I was too close.
He clutched his wrist, and the painting fell.
I tried to focus, but my head was killing me, and I could feel the blood spreading down the side of my face. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” He looked at the 9mm again. “Don’t. Don’t even try.”
He stared at me for a moment and then nodded, stooped to pick up the painting instead, and backed away on the concrete surface of the bridge. “Fair enough.”
Katrina struggled and then stared at him. “What the hell do you mean, fair enough?”
He shrugged. “Honey, there’s nothing I can do.”
She struggled some more, stomping on my foot and throwing her head back into my chest, but I held her fast. “You rat-bastard! Help me!”
“Darling, I would, but he’s too big, and I can’t get to that gun without him getting hold of me.” He continued backing away in a limp, cradling the canvas with two hands. “You say the keys are in the car?”
She screamed. “You son of a bitch!”
I shook my head, still trying to clear my vision. “You’re not going to make it.”
“No joke—I think you broke my wrist, not to mention my foot.” He backed away. “Well, I guess I’ve got to give it a shot, huh?”
I tried moving forward with her, but there was no way I was going to catch him wounded as I was and burdened with a hostage. “Look, Westin—”
He laughed.
“There’s nowhere to go.”
“See you around, Sheriff.”
She screamed again. “Conrad!”
“Love you, babe.” He gestured toward her hand. “You can keep the ring.”
“You bastard!”
He turned and limped across the bridge toward the mountains as we stood there, her struggling against my grip as I studied the railing.
Reaching behind me, I pulled my cuffs from my belt and snapped one over her wrist before pushing her toward one of the pipe rails. She struggled some more but sensed there wasn’t any way she was going to stop me as I flipped the cuff over the steel railing.
Stepping to the side, I dodged as she kicked at me, still glancing around for my sidearm, but to no avail. “Let me go, you bastard!”
Taking a deep breath, I started off but had to catch myself on the other railing, al
most toppling over it and falling into Clear Creek.
“Let me go, and I’ll go get him.”
Holding on to the railing for support, I walked back and picked up the SIG Sauer he’d abandoned, glanced at her, and then started off at a very uneven pace.
“You’ll never catch him, you idiot.”
I grimaced back at her. “Well, I guess I’ve got to give it a shot, huh?”
She screeched some more, but for the life of me I couldn’t really hear her through the ringing in my ears. The tire iron whizzed by me, striking the ground ahead.
I knew I’d forgotten something.
Trudging forward, I picked up the pace, ignoring the pain in my ankle and the increasing one that ran through my head like a camp ax. I mumbled to myself. “I should’ve shot the little bastard.”
I tried to keep my balance, but I was wavering, and I knew it. I went around the next bend into another straightaway, and I could see him up ahead, impaired, but moving a lot better than I was.
I raised the 9mm and held it on him but figured no, not until there weren’t any other options. Instead, I fired the semiautomatic into the air in the hopes that someone might hear it and find us. The report bounced off the canyon walls, and I had to admit it would be hard to tell where the shot had originated.
Stuffing the SIG into my jacket pocket, I started off again, but it was harder to get going this time, the heels of my boots digging into the fine gravel. I tried to keep moving, but the sound in my head had become a high-pitched whine. When I shook it, I drifted to the side of the trail and almost fell over.
I took a couple of deep breaths and started off again.
Stretching my jaw, I thought about how many times I’d been hit in the head but took assurance that it was my hardest part—or so everybody told me. Reaching up, I felt above my ear and ascertained that yes, I was bleeding and at a pretty good rate. Nudging my fingers against the flap of skin and hair, I pushed it up and held it as I walked. Usually I occupy myself by trying to estimate how many stitches it was going to take to put Humpty Dumpty back together, and I was thinking about a dozen. Feeling the warmth of the blood trailing down my fingers and into the palm of my hand, I reassessed at maybe eighteen.
Perhaps I’d start wearing a helmet, even at the office—most accidents happening close to home and all. The whining in my ears was getting worse, so bad that I took my hand from my head and held my nose as I blew in an attempt to clear my ears. Big mistake. I almost fell to my knees, my sense of balance completely leaving me.
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