On The Inside

by Ted Wood

  “Thanks.” I felt like a bull in a china shop. Now the lights were on I could see I was in a beautifully finished recreation room furnished like something in a magazine. The couch I'd collapsed on was dark, fortunately, because my pants were coated with soot and they stank of the fire. “I shouldn't even be in here, dressed like this. I'm sorry. I didn't think.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “Would you like a drink?” I was weary enough to hesitate a moment but he coaxed. “What'll it be?”

  “Rye, please.” I stood where I was and he made a gentle shooing motion with his hands. “Lie down again. You've been cut and you've got your lungs full of crud. Relax.”

  “But your furniture?” I am not a drawing-room animal at the best of times, and this wasn't it.

  “It's for sitting on, not staring at. Sit.” He went to the bar and pulled out a bottle of VO and two glasses. He sloshed about three ounces in each of them and brought them over to me. “Here's looking up your address,” he said, holding one out to me. I took it and raised it to him. “Your health,” I said and took a good slug of the rye. It went down like liquid gold.

  He did the same, then set down his glass on the side table and went out of the door at the other end of the room. I waited and he came back in with a Winchester .3030, the kind you see in every Western movie. He flicked the lever down and passed the broken gun to me, butt first. I checked that it was empty and then cocked it and pulled the trigger, releasing the hammer carefully with my thumb.

  “I've got one box of shells,” he said. “Here.” He took the box from under his arm. “One gone, that's all. Will twenty-four be enough?”

  “I may not need any at all,” I said. “But thank you for this. Just don't tell anybody about it in the morning when the gold leaves town without a hitch.”

  “I don't think that's going to happen,” he said. “Not with somebody trying to kill both you and your partner. How are you going to manage now, on your own?”

  “I'm not sure. But if something happens, I'll be there. They won't be expecting me to show up.”

  Frazer took another sip of his rye. He blinked one eye as he swallowed, like a young guy with his first bottle, trying to look macho. I don't think he did a lot of drinking. “Speaking as a professional, what would you say will happen?” he asked. “I mean, how will they go about trying to rip off the gold?”

  “It depends on two things, their firepower and their determination.” I finished my own drink in one swig and set down the glass. “If they're ruthless enough they'll stop the truck by blowing the top off it with an armor-piercing round of some kind. If they haven't got that much weaponry, which is likely, they'll force the truck to stop and kill or overpower the men in it.”

  “And how would they stop it?” He narrowed his eyes and bent forward, his elbows on his knees.

  “The easiest way would be to sow the roadway with spikes—tear the tires off the vehicle to immobilize it. The driver will have to get out to change the tires and they'll hold a gun on him and force the guy in the back to open up and let the gold go.”

  Frazer sat back. “But what if the police car is ahead of them? Once it hits the spikes the gold truck will stop, intact and closed up.”

  “The police car will be behind them. It's policy when there's just one vehicle. You stay behind the load so you can see everything that happens.”

  “And where will you be?” The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

  “I'll be bringing up the tail, back a hundred yards, looking like some innocent road user who's not in enough of a hurry to overtake them.”

  Frazer stood up, pausing to gulp down the last of his drink. He moved to the bar, picking up my glass as well and setting both of them on the countertop. “Okay. You're going to need help,” he said. “You'll need outdoor boots and a toque as well as my jacket. And I think I can round up another man to come with you.”

  “Who?” I sat up very straight. “I don't want anybody else brought in. All I have going is surprise. I can't risk blowing that.”

  “Don't worry,” he said. “I'm coming with you.”

  “No.” I shook my head, suddenly fatigued again. “No. You're too important in this town. It's not your job. It's mine.”

  “I want to be there and see who does what,” he said. “In case you didn't know it, I'm one of the commissioners of police for the town. If there's any wrongdoing, I want to see the proof of it.”

  I swore but he shrugged it off. “No sense arguing. I can be just as obstinate as you.”

  “In that case I won't waste time. I plan to be out of here at six.”

  “I'll set the alarm,” he said. There was a chest in front of the couch, acting as a coffee table. He opened it and took out a couple of blankets. “Here. Use these for now, Reid.”

  “Thanks, that's great.” I took them gratefully. I was chilly.

  He stuck his hand out. “Shake, Reid. I want you to stay here and be our police chief when this is over.”

  I shook his hand. He had a good firm shake. “Does the offer hold regardless of what happens to the gold?”

  “Yes.” He backed away and reached for the light switch. “Personally, I don't see how anything can happen in the morning, but there's too much evidence to the contrary right now. Sleep tight. I'll call you at ten to six.”

  He switched off the light and left. I sat there, looking at the square of light from the doorway until he reached the top of the stairs and turned it off. Then I picked up the Winchester and the box of rounds. The chill of the metal against my fingers gave me reassurance, and I sat there in the dark, loading the gun, pushing six rounds into the magazine.

  When the magazine was full I levered one up the spout and inserted one final round in the mag. And then my old Marine training took over. I laid the rifle beside me on the couch before covering myself with the blankets and lying back, willing myself to wake up at six.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I woke as Frazer came down the steps. He was carrying a heavy sweatshirt and a thick wool sweater. “You're awake,” he said. “Good. Here. Try these for size.”

  I sat up, feeling the stiffness of the bandage on my chest. I was going to be sore for a few days. Unless something worse happened over the next couple of hours to take my mind off it.

  “Thanks. They look fine.” I took them out of his hands and stood up.

  “The can's behind the bar,” he said. “I'll be upstairs making some coffee. Don't come into the kitchen. It can be seen from next door. Just call when you reach the top of the stairs.”

  “Thanks.” I took the clothes and went into the bathroom. I would have liked a shower but settled for a brisk wash to get the sleep out of my eyes and the soot from my face and hands. With the clearheadedness of early morning I could smell the smoke on my pants and knew that Frazer's allergic little boy would be wrinkling his nose in disgust for months whenever he came down into the basement.

  As I dried my hands the bathroom door opened behind me and Fred said, “Hello, Reid.”

  She was wearing a big loose flannelette nightgown, something they must have had in the drawer for visiting grandmothers. She was smiling, but she looked pale and shaky. I held up my hands to keep her back a little. “My pants are covered in soot,” I said. Her huffiness of the previous evening was eating at me. For the first time ever I felt a little awkward around her.

  “I don't care,” she said. “Hold me, Reid. I'm scared.”

  We stood clinging to one another. Then she kissed me and whispered, “I'm sorry I snapped at you. After everything you'd done. I feel like a real bitch.”

  “Don't think about it,” I said urgently. “I'm acting like a combat Marine again and expecting you to go along, and you've never been through boot camp.”

  We kissed again and then she squeezed my arms and pushed me out of the bathroom. “Take care,” she whispered.

  I was a little surprised and covered it with a crummy joke. “Is this an adieu in the loo?”

  “Yes,” she said ur
gently. “I'll see you soon. Take care.”

  I winked at her and left, taking the Winchester, the shells and the down jacket from the couch. Women, I thought.

  Frazer was waiting on the landing with two traveling cups of coffee, the nonspill kind they sell in donut shops. “Black, right?” he asked.

  “Thank you.” I took the coffee and stooped to slip on my shoes, which were still lying on the little rubber tray by the back door.

  Frazer said, “No, try these,” and pulled out a pair of insulated snowmobile boots from the hall closet. They were a little snug but the insulation was soft enough that they would do for a short time without crushing my feet. I said “Fine, thanks,” and laced them.

  He held the rifle while I slipped into the jacket and filled the pockets with the remaining shells for his gun. Then he pulled on a heavy duffle coat over his sports jacket and pulled on a fur hat. He gave me a toque. I felt like a kid being dressed by his mother.

  We went into the garage and Sam welcomed me, fawning around me like a puppy. I fussed him for about a minute, then got in the backseat of the car and had Frazer open the garage door and let Sam out. He took a minute while Frazer started the car and then ran back and got into the front seat, twisting his head back to look at me as I lay across the rear seat, waiting to get clear of the house before sitting up.

  When we were on our way Frazer asked, “Where are we heading?”

  I told him and he asked, “Is some cop liable to see us there?”

  “I wouldn't think so. They won't be expecting trouble. They'll drive into the mine site, they won't go past it to check.”

  “I hope you're right,” he said. He began to whistle to himself, some little classical theme that I didn't recognize. He was psyching himself up. I could tell he was scared.

  I stayed flat on the seat as we drove through town, then sat up, checking the terrain. It was still dark, of course, but I was able to see enough in the headlights to remind me of all the details. The road was straight except for one bend around the edge of a small lake. On one side was a sheer cliff, on the other, the ice of the frozen lake came right up to the road. There was nothing there when we passed but it seemed the logical place for an ambush.

  We passed the mine gate three kilometers further on. It had a big streetlight outside it, the only light between here and town. Frazer drove past without slackening speed. Sure enough there was a plowed-out space, three hundred meters further, on the opposite side of the road from the mine gate. Frazer could park there almost hidden behind the banks of plowed snow and yet still see the mine gate from the driver's seat.

  “Now we wait,” he said.

  “This is the hard part,” I told him. “I'll come up front.”

  I got out and changed seats with Sam, who was much more relaxed to be in the back, able to see me. I reached over and patted him. “Easy boy. Nothing doing yet.”

  Frazer didn't talk. He sat staring down the road at the mine gate, whistling his little melody.

  “The police car will probably come in soon,” I said. “They'll most likely head through to where the truck is being loaded.”

  “If you say,” Frazer said soberly. “It hasn't come in yet.”

  “It'll be here.” I was tense myself and I took the precaution of checking the load on the Winchester, levering out the first round and replacing it in the magazine. Frazer watched me but said nothing. He had given up whistling now and was drumming his fingers lightly on the steering wheel.

  “There's the police car,” he said suddenly.

  “How many people in it?” I asked.

  “I couldn't see. It turned. I could only see the driver's side. I'll be able to check when he pulls back out.” His voice was high and nervous.

  “Don't sweat it.” I looked down the road.

  “You think anything will happen?” He almost squeaked the question out.

  “Most likely not. But if anything does, it will be about three clicks down the road, at the bend. I figure that's where a pro would hit.”

  “And what do we do?” He had control of his voice now, dealing with facts rather than fears.

  “The road bends to the left, coming at it from this direction. I want you to pull off the road to the right. I want to be able to see around the bend. Then I want you to get under cover. If there's anything going on, turn the car around and get back to the mine and call out their security people. If there isn't time for that, crouch down as low as you can in the front seat here, where the engine block comes between you and the scene.”

  “Doesn't sound like much to do,” he said.

  “It's enough. We don't have any more firepower and your safety is important to everyone in town. Don't forget that.”

  “What about yours?” He snapped it at me. “What about your wife?”

  The same worm of jealousy gnawed at my heart but I said nothing. Instead I concentrated on what I might expect if an ambush happened. And I tried to resolve how I would overcome the biggest problem, the darkness, which would prevent me from seeing the sights of the Winchester well enough to line them up accurately.

  I checked my watch. It was two minutes to seven. I sat looking at the sweep hand, not really seeing it, focusing instead on my breathing as I calmed myself down to be ready for whatever happened.

  “There's a truck,” Frazer said softly. “And there's the police car. Yes, there's a second man in the passenger seat.”

  “Let's go,” I said. “Keep the pace down. Hang back far enough that they don't get suspicious.”

  “Right,” he said. He let the little convoy get two hundred meters ahead of us before he pulled out, matching his speed to theirs so we trailed back, far away, like the last piece of paper on the tail of a kite. One vehicle passed us, going the other way. It looked like a small truck of some kind. As we approached the bend in the road, I told Frazer, “Pick it up a little, close us to a hundred meters, but be ready to hit the shoulder this side.”

  “Gotcha,” he said. He was driving with tight control, both hands on the wheel, staring down the road ahead of us. The first light of dawn was brightening the sky to my right. It was enough for me to see that there was nothing waiting between us and the bend, no truck on the shoulder, no unexplained pedestrians. Then the gold truck passed out of sight around the bend.

  The instinct of a thousand patrols made me flash a look behind me as we came up to the corner. And as I did, a Jeep-style vehicle roared by us with two men in it. They glanced into our car as they passed and I could make out only one detail in the dim light. The man on my side was wearing a ski mask, rolled down.

  Frazer reacted with a start as the Jeep whooshed by us. “Drop back,” I shouted. “Those guys are masked.”

  “What?” He shrilled out the word but he didn't lose control. He punched the brakes rhythmically so we wouldn't skid on the slick road, his eyes focused tight on the Jeep.

  We were fifty meters from the corner. The police car was just rounding the bend when it slid sideways suddenly and stopped across the road. And then the Jeep jerked to a stop behind it. “Stop,” I shouted and Frazer did, half skidding so that the right side, my side of the car, was almost flat on to the Jeep.

  “Get back to the mine,” I shouted. I rolled out, clutching the rifle and whistling for Sam. Ahead of me the driver of the Jeep was stepping down. I could see the bulk of a long gun in his hands. I lay prone, thumbing back the hammer, pointing rather than aiming the rifle, still unable to see the gunsights. “Drop that gun,” I shouted.

  He turned and fired, a round orange flash that filled my eyes and gave me the contrast I needed to line up the shallow rearsight on the blade of the foresight in its round protective tunnel. As the sound of his shot reached me, I squeezed the trigger and saw the man fly backwards, dropping the gun.

  Ahead of him the doors flew open on the police car. A man jumped out of each side. At that distance in the poor light I couldn't recognize them but the guy in the driver's seat was wearing a parka, the one on the left was
in a long topcoat. That was the chief. Then I saw the chief buckle at the knees and heard the quick popping of pistol shots, sounding almost playful after the crash of my rifle. The cop in the parka dropped to one knee and I saw the quick muzzle flashes of his return fire. Then the Jeep turned off the road and lurched over the drift left by the snowplow beside the road and out onto the frozen lake.

  He was lost to me, in dead ground, below my sightline, but the cop in the parka stood up and fired again, rapidly. I saw one answering flash from the Jeep as it headed across the ice. I stood up, lining up on the back tire of the Jeep, making lightning calculations for distance and speed. I was lucky, he was driving directly down my line of fire. I didn't have to allow deflections. I squeezed off a shot, then levered another round and aimed again, but it was unnecessary. The Jeep had skewed to the left, his rear tire gone.

  “Come,” I called and Sam followed as I ran up the road to the policeman.

  He stood there, pistol raised. I checked myself twenty yards from him and sank to one knee, covering him with the Winchester. “Reid Bennett. Identify yourself.”

  “Reid, for Chrissake! They said you were dead.” I recognized the voice before he added his frantic, “It's Scott. What's happening?”

  “Let's stop that guy,” I said. “Come on.”

  “Right.” He ran with me, awkwardly, trying to reload his pistol as he ran, scrambling over the snowdrift and onto the ice with its overburden of crunchy slush. Ahead of us the Jeep was making time still, its driver pulling hard to keep it on track, its three good driving wheels compensating for the torn tire. I crouched and fired again, aiming higher this time, letting the bullet slam through the back of the vehicle, but keeping to one side of the driver. He jinked but didn't stop.

  “Don't let him get away,” Scott shouted. He braced himself and aimed his pistol, using both hands, squeezing off six rounds without pausing.

  The Jeep drove on, two hundred meters from us. I knelt and drew a long breath, letting half of it out, allowing myself a couple of meters lead and aiming high, at the center of the motor over the front tire. I squeezed off the shot and saw the front tire flapping.