West of Sin

by Wesley Lewis

  The pilot removed her helmet and ran a hand through the short, dark hair underneath. “Allison was pretty vague about what’s going on, so I’m just going to ask you two point-blank: Am I safe here?”

  Jennifer turned to Crocker and waited for a reply.

  He gave a less-than-reassuring nod. “More or less.” He pointed to a footpath running up the left side of the valley. “But if you see trouble coming down that trail, go ahead and take off.”

  The pilot frowned. “What would trouble look like?”

  “Men with guns.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah,” said Jennifer, “it’s been that kind of week.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  After months in the desert, Crocker’s body was no longer acclimated to this altitude. The two-hundred-yard run up the side of the valley had left him panting for air. Behind him, Jennifer leaned against a tree, trying to catch her breath.

  “Can . . . you . . . see . . . anything?” she gasped.

  The house itself was hidden by the trees, but he could see where the dirt road rounded the hill and turned toward his driveway. The ground was bone dry, which meant that if anyone had driven that road in the past five minutes, a cloud of dust would still be visible.

  “I think we beat them,” he said. “You ready?”

  Jennifer joined him at the ridge, still panting. “How much farther?”

  “We’re halfway there. It’s downhill from here.”

  “Can you see the house?”

  “Not from here, but that bend in the road is where I plan to pin down Dudka’s men. It’s clearly visible from the guest bedrooms on the second floor.”

  “How far from the house?”

  “Almost eight hundred yards. It’s a difficult shot but doable. I’ll keep them busy dodging three-oh-eight rounds until SWAT arrives. With any luck, you’ll be back at the chopper before the shooting starts. C’mon.”

  He took off down the wooded path, accelerating to a fast run, then slowing a bit as he reminded himself that the downhill part of a hike is always the most dangerous.

  The sound of feet shuffling behind him told him Jennifer was keeping pace.

  The previous August he could have run this path blindfolded, but the intervening months had taken a toll on both his recollection of the trail and the trail itself.

  I should warn—

  Jennifer screamed.

  Crocker glanced back in time to see her hit the ground, hard. She tumbled and came to a stop a couple of yards behind him.

  He spun and hurried to her side. “You okay?”

  She shook her head and, through gritted teeth, said, “Ankle . . . Twisted my ankle. . . . Damned rock rolled right out from under me.”

  “It’s my fault. I should have warned you.” He knelt to check her ankle. “The winter ice dislodges the rocks.”

  “Help me up,” she said. “We have to keep going.”

  He gave her his hand and helped her to her feet. “Can you put weight on it?”

  She tried and winced. “Yeah, but it’s not fun.”

  “Take a couple of steps.”

  She hobbled forward. “You go on. I’ll catch up.”

  He considered his options. Sending her back to the chopper wouldn’t work—he needed her to show Tom and Ashley the path. He could wait for her to catch up, but that would delay Tom and Ashley’s departure.

  “Raise your right arm,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’ll get you to the house. Tom and Ashley can help you back to the chopper. Raise your arm.”

  Jennifer complied. Crocker grabbed the arm, knelt, and hoisted her into the fireman’s carry he’d learned in the marines.

  With Jennifer slung over his shoulders, he ran.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Jennifer saw the two-story log cabin the moment they cleared the trees. Riding sideways on Crocker’s shoulders prevented her from studying it in detail, but it was every bit as big as he’d described.

  His heavy breathing was growing wheezy, but he didn’t break stride until they reached the porch. He struggled up the steps and set her in a rustic porch swing.

  She grabbed one of the chains supporting the swing and pulled herself to her feet as he hurried to the front door.

  “Tom!” Crocker pounded on the door and sucked in another wheezing breath. “Ashley!” He kept pounding. “Tom . . . Ash . . .” His voice trailed off as he gasped for air.

  “Tom!” screamed Jennifer. “Ashley! Open the—”

  The door opened.

  Tom, dressed only in a pair of boxer briefs, held a silver revolver at his side. “Christ, y’all just about scared us half to death. How’d you get here?”

  “Where is Ashley?” asked Jennifer. “We have to get out of here, now.”

  “She’s upstairs. What’s going on?”

  Crocker opened his mouth, but only a guttural wheeze emerged.

  Jennifer hobbled toward the door. “We’ll explain while you get dressed. Where’d you get that gun?”

  In a strangled half-whisper, Crocker said, “Not . . . real.” He sucked in another breath. “Prop.”

  Jennifer placed a hand on his back and led him into the house.

  Tom shut the door behind them. “The gun was mounted on the wall. Are you two okay?”

  Jennifer leaned against a table for support. “We could be better. I sprained my ankle, and I think he’s having an asthma attack.”

  Crocker nodded and stumbled toward a large sofa.

  Jennifer surveyed the high-ceilinged living room. It struck her as the type of place Teddy Roosevelt would have hung out. Native American art adorned the walls. A painting of a herd of elk hung above the stone fireplace.

  Crocker collapsed onto the sofa.

  Jennifer hobbled toward him. “Do you have a rescue inhaler?”

  He nodded again. “Master”—he struggled for a breath of air—“bathroom.”

  “Jennifer!” Ashley stood on the second-floor landing atop the large staircase. Her hair suggested she’d just crawled out of bed. She wore a thigh-length Denver Broncos jersey and tube socks. “How did you get here?”

  “Get dressed,” said Jennifer. “Dudka and his men will be here any minute.”

  Ashley’s eyes widened. She nodded and turned away.

  “Wait!” called Jennifer.

  Ashley turned back.

  “Do you know where the master bedroom is?”

  “Up here. Do you want to follow me?”

  Jennifer sighed and hopped toward the stairway on one foot.

  “Are you okay?”

  Jennifer grabbed the banister at the foot of the stairs. “Nothing is okay.” She put her weight on the banister and hopped up one step at a time.

  Ashley rushed to meet her. “Here, let me help you.”

  Jennifer wrapped an arm around Ashley’s neck and hobbled up the remaining steps.

  When they came to the hallway at the top, Ashley said, “Almost there. First door on the right.”

  They reached the door and shuffled inside. Jennifer saw the unmade bed, paused only a moment to process that it appeared to have been shared, and then collapsed onto it.

  “What’s going on?” asked Ashley.

  “Too many things to list. Check the bathroom for a rescue inhaler. Crocker is having an asthma attack.”

  Without a word, Ashley turned and disappeared through the bathroom door.

  Jennifer heard cabinets being opened and drawers being rummaged. She lifted her injured leg onto the bed and saw that the ankle was starting to swell. She grabbed the corner of the bedsheet and pulled until it ripped. She tore a six-foot strip and began wrapping her ankle.

  “Found it!” Ashley
emerged from the bathroom carrying a plastic inhaler like the ones Jennifer had seen kids use in elementary school. “Want me to take it to Crocker?”

  “Yes. Then get your ass up here and get dressed. We have to go.”

  Ashley was gone for only a few seconds. She reentered the room at a run and skidded to a stop in front of a dresser on which sat three Walmart shopping bags.

  “I tossed the inhaler down to Tom.” She dug into one of the bags. “Let me grab some clothes; then I’ll help you to the car. I can change on the road.”

  “We can’t take the road,” said Jennifer, still wrapping her ankle. “We have to hike out of here.”

  Ashley stopped. “You and Crocker don’t seem in much shape to hike.”

  “Crocker isn’t coming. He has a hunting rifle in a safe downstairs. He’s going to assume a sniper position and hold off Dudka’s men.”

  “From how far away?”

  Jennifer threaded the bandage back through the wraps. “I don’t know. A long way.” She tied off the loose end. “I think he said eight hundred yards.”

  “Is that still going to work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m no sniper, but I grew up around enough hunters to know that you have to control your breathing to make the long shots. Can Crocker control his breathing if he just had an asthma attack?”

  Jennifer didn’t know the answer to that question, so she focused on what she did know. “This place will be crawling with SWAT teams in twenty minutes. With any luck, they’ll arrive before Dudka’s men do. Now get dressed.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Although the makeshift bandage had eased the pain in Jennifer’s ankle, she clung to Ashley’s arm and avoided putting much weight on the afflicted leg as they descended the stairs. There was no time for another mishap.

  Ashley had taken less than two minutes to dress in a Denver Nuggets sweatshirt, lightweight cargo pants, and cheap hiking boots that still had tags dangling from the laces. In her free arm she carried a grocery sack stuffed with Tom’s clothes.

  At the foot of the stairs, Jennifer let go and hurried toward Crocker as fast as her swollen ankle would carry her.

  Ashley tossed the sack to Tom. “Get dressed. We don’t have much time.”

  Crocker lay on the couch, breathing normally but sound asleep.

  “Jesus!” said Jennifer. “What happened?”

  Tom replied, “After he used the inhaler, he kind of relaxed and then—I don’t know—I guess he passed out or something. I’ve been trying to wake him, but he’s out cold.”

  “What now?” asked Ashley.

  “I don’t know.” Jennifer racked her brain for a new plan. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Where is that rifle you mentioned?”

  “It’s in the safe, but Crocker has the combination.”

  Tom pulled on his shorts. “I’ll get some water to splash on his face.” Still barefoot and shirtless, he turned and ran down the first-floor hallway.

  “How much time do we have?” asked Ashley.

  “I don’t know. Dudka’s men could have been here fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Maybe they took a turn too fast and drove off that nightmare of a road.”

  “If only,” said Jennifer. “Wait, what do you mean by ‘nightmare’?”

  “I mean I don’t know how this place ever operated as a bed-and-breakfast. They must have lost a carload of customers a week.”

  “Is it narrow?”

  “More like a horse trail than a road.”

  “Where is your rental car?”

  “Out back. What do you have in mind?”

  “If I can use your car to block the road, Dudka’s men will have to proceed on foot. That should buy you three enough time to get back to the helicopter.”

  “There’s a helicopter?” asked Tom as he arrived with a glass of water.

  “Wake Crocker,” said Jennifer. “He’ll show you the way.”

  “You show the way,” said Ashley. “I’ll block the road. You can’t possibly get back here on that ankle.”

  “Neither of us will have time to get back here. But it’s going to take two people to help Crocker up that path, and I won’t be any help on this ankle.”

  “So let’s all four make a run for it.”

  Jennifer shook her head. “We’d move too slow. Dudka’s men could arrive before we reached the tree line; then we’d be fucked.”

  “So you’re going on a suicide mission?”

  “I’ll block the road and hide in the trees until the police arrive. Dudka’s guys aren’t going to stop to search the forest.”

  Ashley looked as though she was considering another protest, but the debate was cut short by the sound of splashing water.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Jennifer focused on keeping the worn-out Jeep Grand Cherokee centered between the trees to her right and the steep embankment to her left. Her speed was beyond reckless, but she was past the point of worrying about dying in a car crash.

  As she neared the first bend in the road, she risked a glance down the embankment, saw a shallow creek a hundred feet below, and made a snap decision: She would not be abandoning the car and hiding in the trees.

  She let off the gas and eased on the brake. The road ahead made a sharp turn to the right, following the creek. She slowed to a stop twenty yards short of the turn and surveyed her surroundings.

  Ashley hadn’t exaggerated the narrowness of the road. It reminded Jennifer of riding mules along the North Rim of the Grand Canyon with her parents when she was twelve. Her inner Realtor wondered if the developers who’d defaulted on this land had failed to factor the cost of road construction into their plans.

  She rolled down the windows and listened. The only sound was her own car engine. She stared at the point where the road disappeared around the bend and marveled that she could feel so much fear in a place so inherently peaceful.

  Seat belt!

  She pulled the belt across her chest and buckled it. Then she grabbed the steering wheel at ten and two, remembered the airbag, and moved her hands to nine and three.

  The replica revolver lay on the seat next to her—Tom’s idea of a backup plan. It was a bluff, but it might be better than nothing.

  When she’d left the house, Tom and Ashley had been trying to coax the safe combination out of Crocker, who’d seemed only vaguely aware of what was happening. Jennifer hadn’t seen any benefit in waiting around to retrieve a gun she didn’t know how to use. At least she couldn’t hurt herself with a replica.

  She glanced at the mountain peaks in the distance and wondered how it was possible that only a day had passed since she’d stood in Crocker’s trailer, listening to him describe this place.

  Stay focused.

  Her hands tightened around the steering wheel.

  What is taking them so long? Did they stop to eat?

  She imagined Dudka’s van blocking a drive-thru line as a half-dozen hit men sorted out their orders.

  Maybe they heard about the FBI raid and turned around.

  The dashboard clock read eleven fifteen. The police would arrive at any minute. Jennifer loosened her grip on the steering wheel and allowed herself to hope that the danger had passed.

  Then she heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

  She glanced again at the clock and realized she had no way of knowing if she was hearing one of Dudka’s vans or a SWAT vehicle. She eased her foot off the brake and let the Jeep crawl forward.

  Ahead of her, a white van nosed around the bend.

  She wasn’t sure if she was looking at one of Dudka’s vehicles or a small-town police van, until she saw the driver. Scarlett’s favorite client, Sasha, was behind the wheel.

  Jennifer pres
sed the accelerator to the floor and steered toward the van.

  Sasha’s eyes widened at the sight of the oncoming vehicle.

  The Jeep struck the van’s left front quarter panel. Jennifer’s vision went momentarily dark, then totally white.

  She gasped for air and watched the world reappear as the airbag deflated. The collision had stopped the Jeep in its tracks. The van was nowhere to be seen.

  A cloud of dust hung over the road. Through the ringing in her ears, Jennifer heard a staccato series of crunches that could only be the van rolling down the embankment.

  The Jeep started forward at idle speed. Without thinking, she threw the transmission into park, grinding the gears and bringing the vehicle to an abrupt halt.

  Part of her wondered how many men had been in the van, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She was too dazed to feel anything beyond a vague sense of surprise that her plan had worked.

  She tasted something warm and salty and realized that her nose was dripping blood. A quick dab with the tail of her what happens in vegas T-shirt only succeeded in smearing the blood. She needed cotton balls or gauze to stem the flow.

  Every aching muscle in her body told her to wait there for the SWAT medics, who would have cotton balls and gauze aplenty. But the thought of her friends flying away and leaving her alone was suddenly more than she could bear.

  Steam hissed from beneath the Jeep’s crumpled hood, but the engine still hummed with life. Jennifer threw the vehicle into reverse and backed up the road. She drove slowly, now very aware of the perils of the narrow path.

  She ignored the blood dripping down her chin and focused on keeping the cabin centered in the Jeep’s rear window. As Crocker’s two-story dream home grew closer, she felt an overwhelming desire to spend a whole day just sitting on the porch swing, doing nothing but rocking and listening to the birds.