Maybe twenty.
Just then, I felt something passing on my right, so I reached out, quickly yanking it back, when something moving fast struck it from behind. I felt like I’d been thrown into traffic as I spun around and was smacked by something that made me fall backward. Suddenly, I was seated, skimming along above the gravel at a surprising speed.
It was like a dream, one of those flying dreams, but the ride wasn’t smooth, not at all. My head bounced up and down with some kind of vibration, but other than the whirring noise there wasn’t any motor sound.
“Hang on, Sheriff!”
I wasn’t sure who was talking, but we sped forward. I spread my hands out and gripped anything I could, my fingers wrapping around metal tubing of some sort.
“Is he armed?”
My head jostled and felt like it might disconnect at any moment as I tried to figure out who was talking to me. “What?”
“Is he armed?” I looked back and saw that the driver was my fellow marine, Delmar, doing his best to hold on to me and navigate the trail in his tricked-out electric wheelchair. “Hell, does he have a gun?!”
“No, no he lost it back at the bridge, but I’ve got it now—at least I think I have it, if I didn’t lose it when you ran over me.”
The sergeant major laughed and shouted in my ear. “Gave you permission to come aboard, you mean?!”
Coming into a curve, I felt myself sliding to the right, the motorized wheelchair on two wheels.
“I don’t think we’ll catch him with the two of us on here, but we might. I’ve been working on this bad boy. Stole a motor out of an old washing machine they were throwing out, so we are good for almost twenty-five miles an hour!”
“God help us.”
“What?” We slammed back on four wheels, and I almost slipped off before Delmar could get hold of me and I could get a foot on the platform below. “He looks to be impaired so maybe we’ve got a chance!”
I could sort of see that we were gaining on the other veterans, and farther up, I could just make out Conrad turning the corner. I felt Delmar put the wheelchair into another gear, and I shook my head at the absurdity of it all as we rapidly gained on the others.
Whizzing along, I glanced up at the crimson and gold of the Corps flying above our heads and couldn’t help but feel a momentary surge of pride in the old warriors, who had somehow figured out where I was and had charged in to afford assistance.
We bumped along, and I could see that Kenny, the navy chief petty officer, was wearing his N-1 Deck Jacket for the event and his cap was reversed so as to provide less wind shear. “He’s up ahead! When he saw us, he panicked and dropped the painting. He picked it up again, but we’re gaining on him!”
Ray, the air force master sergeant, was wearing a blue, one-piece flight suit with a natty white scarf neatly tucked to give the impression of an ascot. “He’s making the turn, Delmar! If he’s smart enough to take to the woods, we’ve lost him!”
“Roger that!”
Clifton, army command sergeant major, the only one dressed like a sane person in a weathered Carhartt and his ubiquitous boonie hat, called after us. “Go get him!”
The trail took a rise, and there was another bridge leading north, across the creek, running toward what I recalled to be the location of the first turn-out. If the Wavers didn’t get him before then, we stood little chance.
Delmar was now pushing the makeshift chair to its limits, and I was getting worried that we might fly off the trail.
Westin turned to look at us and when he did, he tripped and dropped the canvas again. As luck would have it, the canvas began rolling toward us, but as luck would have it, not far enough; Conrad limped after it, finally scooping it up and glaring back as the super-motorized motorcade advanced.
He had to avoid us, but he had to get to the car parked somewhere up ahead—which meant he had to cross the bridge before he could do anything.
I figured a good hundred yards, and at the rate we were gaining we might just catch him.
It was then that we seemed to slow.
“Damn it to hell!” Delmar fiddled with the speed adjustment, but it appeared to be doing little good. “The washer motor takes a hell of a lot more electricity than the standard motor—should’ve daisy-chained a few batteries together!”
The speed was tailing off at a steady rate.
My head was starting to clear, and I figured on foot was the only way, so I gestured for the marine sergeant major to let me off. “I’ll take it from here!” As the chair ground to a stop, I stepped off the small platform at my feet and stood there for an instant, attempting to get my bearings.
As I waited there wavering, Delmar studied me. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”
“Fit as a fiddle.” I took a step and lost my balance and promptly fell, face first, onto the gravel.
He gave me a polite moment before asking, “Um, you all right?”
Elbowing up, I pushed off the ground. “I might be a little out of tune.”
Kenny, Clifford, and Ray were on us now, the army command sergeant major the first to speak. “What’s he doin’ down there?”
I stood and realized I wasn’t going to make it. I pointed toward the figure in the distance. “Get him.”
They lurched forward like a cavalry charge.
It was going to be close.
Stumbling forward, I reached up and straightened my hat in an attempt to keep in as much brain as possible and then turned to glance at Delmar, who sat there in the broken down chair. He saluted. “You’ll send somebody to get me, Lieutenant?”
I returned the salute. “We never leave a man behind, Sergeant Major.”
Pushing off, I set my boots in a line and started making slow progress.
I was trying to focus on my footing, but there was shouting ahead, and I couldn’t help but look up. What I saw choked a laugh in my throat. The three servicemen had circled Conrad, and every time he attempted to get past, they cut him off.
He’d picked up a branch from beside the trail and swung it at the motorized men as they circled like a war party on the concrete surface of the bridge. They would dodge in and then back up when he swung, and I was amazed at how deft they were. After one particular strike, Kenny revved his chair in, running over Conrad’s foot and then circling back out of the way.
It must’ve been the one that had been hit by the tire iron, and I watched as he grabbed at it while attempting to defend himself and keep hold of the painting.
Stumbling forward, I approached and watched as the men grouped into a barricade to keep him from crossing the bridge. Westin had his back to me and limped a few steps my way before turning, looking more than a little surprised.
“Howdy.”
He gestured menacingly with the branch that was about the length of a baseball bat. “Stay back.”
Reaching into the pocket of my jacket, I pulled out the SIG and palmed it in the moonlight so he would be sure to see it. “It’s over, Conrad.”
He swung the branch at me and began crying. “I don’t think so.”
“Then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”
He screamed. “You won’t shoot me!”
“Yep, I will. I’ll shoot you in the kneecap just because I’m tired of chasing you.”
He tried to wipe the tears away with a shirt sleeve and swung back with the branch. The Wavers looked unconcerned. “I’ll hit one of them and kill them.”
“That’s supposed to make me not want to shoot you?” I took a few steps toward him. “It’s over. Drop it.”
He did as I said, the branch clattering at our feet, but then he moved toward the railing with the oversize canvas—we all listened to the water rushing down from the mountains that stood above, dark and silent. “What if I throw this into the creek?”
I sighed and stepped
toward him again. “An iconoclastic and irreplaceable work of art? As an artist, I don’t think you’re going to do that.”
He looked into the water and his lip continued to quiver. “It’s not fair.”
I reached behind me for my cuffs but then remembered I’d already used them. “Generally, it never is.”
He turned to look past the three men in the wheelchairs, who looked a lot less forgiving than I did, his voice like that of a child. “But I almost made it.”
I stepped forward and took hold of his wrist with my bloody hand, and he winced. “No, you didn’t.”
EPILOGUE
We watched the private jet taxi out to the end of the runway and then turn, getting ready for the attempt at takeoff. Readjusting my hand on the hammer of my .45, I fingered the bandage in an attempt to assuage the itching. “Thanks for finding my sidearm.”
“All in a day’s work.” She glanced back at the plane. “Think they’ll make it?”
“I don’t know. It was kind of touch and go yesterday when they landed in the weeds at the end of the runway.”
“Yeah.”
Mumbling to myself, I sighed. “Twenty-four.”
Reaching down, she ruffled Dog’s ears and then stood straight, stretching her back and breathing in the scent of the dry grass at the end of the tarmac. “Twenty-four what?”
“Twenty-four stitches in my head. It was a bet I made with myself, about how many it would take to close. I was betting twenty.”
She continued to study the plane. “You do realize that being so conversant with wounds that you can estimate the amount of stitches needed to retain vital organs is not normal, right?”
I laughed. “What’s normal in this line of work anyway?”
“Good question.”
Walking out to the flight line, I slapped a hand against my thigh to break Dog’s concentration as he was paying far too much attention to a western cottontail out there in the grass at the edge of the pavement. He joined us as we watched Klavdii Krovopuskov’s jet rev the thrust, unlock its brakes, and shoot down the runway like a house afire, powering into the clear Wyoming sky and banking away from the Bighorns and toward the east. We watched it until it became a speck and then slowly walked back toward our tiny terminal.
She glanced at me. “So, Kiki the Bloodletter had nothing to do with the painting?”
“A passing interest, but when he found out there might be some shenanigans going on, he backed out.”
“So, what does the Bloodletter do exactly?”
“Plumbing fixtures.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.
“Well, that would explain why there were no traces of him in the intelligence community.” She walked and I limped through the gate of the chain-link fence and turned the corner, making our way toward her vehicle as she continued to study me. “Stop making that face.”
“What face?”
“That face you make every time you get in my truck—the one where you look like you’re going to die.”
“It’s an honest response.”
She hit the remote and a chirp issued from the Banshee, the name I’d given the blacktop beast.
I stood there looking at it. “Why is it when I really want something the county commissioners always say no, and when I really don’t want something they always say yes?”
She placed her hands on her hips and looked at her reflection on the glossy flanks of the speed demon. “I floated the rumor that I was going to go on a ticket-writing spree if they didn’t fund it.”
“Did it eat up the entire budget for the year, or can we still buy ammunition?”
“Two bullets apiece till January.”
She opened the door and started to climb in before calling over the bed. “Stop making that face.”
“I can’t help it. I’m fine, but Dog is far too young to die.”
She climbed in, and so did we after I closed the appropriately named, passenger-side suicide door. “Your dog is getting hair in my new truck.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to it.” I moved the cardboard roll to the side, sat, snapped on my seatbelt, and wished for a helmet. “So, Chuck Yeager, do you think we could keep it under the speed of sound?”
She hit the keyless ignition button, and we listened to the throaty bellow as she blipped the throttle. “I honestly think she’s as fast as Krovopuskov’s jet if you’d just let me cut her loose.”
I braced a hand against the dash. “Let’s not find out, shall we?” Pulling the thing into gear, she eased out of the spot and wound her way down the hill into French Creek Canyon toward town, the half-ton hugging the curves like a panther. “I don’t like these seats.”
“What are you talking about? They keep you from sliding all over the place like the ones in that three-quarter ton Conestoga wagon you’ve got.”
“I like my Conestoga wagon.”
Static. “Unit one, this is Base.”
I glanced around. “What the heck?”
Static. “Walt, are you on your way to the bank?”
Vic shook her head. “On our way, Ruby. Do I need to get there quickly?”
I raised my voice. “Please, don’t say yes.”
Static. “Roger that. No, but Wes called, and he said that Mr. Townsend was there at the bank and they were waiting.”
Vic nodded and spoke to the windshield as near as I could tell. “On our way.”
Feeling myself being pushed back into the kidney-hugging seats, I looked around. “Where’s the mic? For that matter, where’s the radio?”
“Built in. The mic is up here on the sun visor. There’s also a computer stand, but I thought that might be too much for you.”
I glanced out at the rapidly passing and changing world. “You’re right.”
* * *
—
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever been in the basement of the Bank of Durant, but if I had I’d forgotten it. We were seated at a central table adjacent to the private viewing area with the frosted glass where Bass Townsend-Stillwater had disappeared.
I’d voiced the opinion that considering recent occurrences, it was possible that somebody should be in the room with the man, but Wes had said it was protocol for the recipient of the safe-deposit box to do the initial opening in private.
The result was predictable.
“Are you shitting me?” From behind the door, Bass spoke again. “Are you shitting me?”
I glanced at Wes as he adjusted his glasses and then laced his fingers, placing them on his crossed knee.
The statement floated out from the room again. “You have got to be shitting me.”
I glanced at Vic, who covered a smile with her hand. “Now, at this point we should all place bets . . .”
There was some jostling at the door as Bass stuck his head out. “Um, Mr. Haskins, am I allowed to invite all of you in here?”
Wes stood. “Certainly.”
“I think there are some things you need to see.”
Crowding into the small space with the tiny table and two chairs, I stood against the wall as Vic joined me, and we looked at the assorted items Bass had taken from the metal box, including a rather large stack of bills held together with a rotten rubber band, a medium-size manila envelope, and a small box that had had twine tied around it, which now lay beside the box.
Bass pointed first at the bills. “Is that real money?”
Wes paused for a moment to see if anyone would object and then picked up the stack and examined it. “Looks real to me.”
“How much is it?”
“Hundred-dollar bills . . . This is just an estimate without going upstairs and running it through the counter, but I’m guessing close to three hundred thousand dollars.” He looked up at Bass, who appeared as though he might have an
other attack. “Mr. Townsend, how ’bout you take a couple of deep breaths?”
We all remained quiet as the musician did as requested, finally speaking. “I get this money, right?”
“I don’t see any reason why not. You’ll have to pay taxes on it, but as near as I can tell it’s yours free and clear. The million dollars for the painting will be tied up with the fortunes of Count Lehman, and the specifics on that will have to wait until his court dates and subsequent sentencing.” He glanced up at me. “There will be a trial?”
“For all three individuals, most assuredly.”
Bass folded his hands in his lap. “Who gets the painting, the Custer’s Last Fight?”
“Well, that’ll be tied up in probate for a while, but unless the federal government comes up with some kind of proof of ownership, which I seriously doubt, it will be yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yours, exclusively.”
He nodded. “What if I wanted to do something with it?”
“After probate it’s yours to do with as you wish.”
“What if I wanted to donate it to the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home up on the hill?”
We all looked at one another and then back to him. “Mr. Townsend, that’s a twenty-four-million-dollar painting you’re talking about.”
“I know, but it seems to me that everybody that’s ever had anything to do with that painting has come by bad luck. I don’t think I want to risk it. Besides, without those men in the wheelchairs that came to the rescue, it would’ve been gone, and I wouldn’t have the painting, would I? And if I kept the painting, it’s possible that this Count whatever-his-name-is could say the million was mine and the painting was his?”
“I suppose anything’s possible.”
He tapped the cash. “Sheriff, I haven’t ever had this kind of money in my life, and I know if Charley Lee was here, he’d say better a hog on the hoof than a pig in the poke, you know?”
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