The Town (Rob Stone Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  “Why do you care?” McClusky asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I think what you’re doing is admirable. About time people made a stand. But why her? Why Maggie? Why you, and why stay around here?”

  Stone walked back to the Ford, then turned around and looked at the mechanic. “I don’t think you have to ask, Gator. You know why. You people are just out of practice, that’s all.”

  Stone drove the Ford on up the strip and past the hotel. He pulled across the road and parked in front of the diner. There was a pickup out front. It wasn’t the one Bart Conrad had been driving before. He got out and climbed the steps. Deborah was serving two guys at a table in the middle of the floor. She looked up, but glanced at the two men before looking back at Stone. She looked concerned.

  Stone was good at reading situations. His life had depended on it too many times to count. He stepped inside. One of the men was chewing, holding a burger the size of a softball. The other was working his way through a double slice of pie with extra cream. The man chewing on the burger still had his back to him. He was two hundred and sixty pounds and broad. He didn’t bulge much fat. But he bulged an odd shape high above his right hip. Stone looked up again at Deborah. She shook her head, ever so slightly.

  Stone smiled. “Coffee please,” he said. He walked in, studied the tables and chairs on his way and decided that the chair next to the big guy with his back to him would do. “This chair free?”

  The man put his burger down. He was still chewing when he turned around. Stone could see that he was slightly muscle-bound. Not the worst he’d seen, but it was right up there with having the mobility of a slipped disk. “Plenty of free tables to sit at.”

  “I didn’t ask that,” Stone pulled out the chair, clear of the table. “I asked if it was free.”

  “You ain’t joining us, mister.”

  Stone whipped the chair out, swung it above his head, caught hold of the legs and brought it crashing down on the man’s head. It was a heavy chair, solid. The back of the chair did not break. The man’s head compressed into his neck and he was out cold. He was sliding to his left as Stone reached under the man’s shirt and pulled out the Colt .45 automatic and let him fall to the floor. The hammer was back and the safety was on, so Stone knew it was chambered. The other man still had a mouthful of pie and cream when the muzzle turned upwards and remained steadily aimed at his throat. He stared, his mouth agape. He didn’t know whether to chew, swallow or spit.

  “I love good old forty-fives,” Stone said. The man remained stock-still. “I read about a US GI in World War Two killing thirty Germans running from a bunker in France. Just up, point and bang. One shot, one kill. None of this double-tap crap, none of this sustained fire. Just bang; dead. Bang; dead. Bang; dead. These Germans were all running for their lives too. High on adrenaline. They were all about twenty yards away, some made it out to fifty. But they kept dropping and none of them were wounded. All killed outright. The guy got the Congressional Medal of Honour.” Stone moved the pistol lower. “One move and a forty-five bullet blows out your spine. Might even suck your kidneys or liver out through the exit hole. A lot of pressure at this range.”

  The man swallowed hard, taking down a quarter pound of apple, pastry and cream. “What do you want, mister?”

  “I’m going to ask you a few questions. You answer and you don’t get killed.”

  The man nodded.

  Deborah hovered at the counter. “Rob, please. You’re going too far. These guys mean business. There are more to take their place.”

  “We’ll see,” Stone said without taking his eyes off the man’s own. “Who sent you?”

  “Claude Conrad.”

  “Does Big Dave or Bart know?”

  The man shrugged. “Look, please. Kill me or let me go.”

  “What were your orders?”

  The man hesitated. “To bring you in.”

  “Where?”

  “His place.”

  “The old silver mine?”

  The man nodded. “It’s called The Homestead. He lives out there.”

  “Hold out your arm.”

  “What?” He looked nervous. “Look, I’ve told you. Now let me go.”

  “Hold out your arm.”

  The man did so, slowly. Stone gripped his wrist with his left hand, then whipped it around savagely, the man screamed, but not as loudly as when Stone bought the butt of the pistol down through the elbow joint, smashing the bone and twisting the arm upwards. Stone pushed the chair backwards as the man writhed at the table. He edged around him and took his pistol off him. Same high belt rig, conceal carry. This one was a Glock model 17, 9mm. He checked for spare magazines, but there weren’t any. The man was still screaming, tears and spit all over his face. Some pie too.

  Stone bent down and felt the pulse of the man on the floor. It was there, but it wasn’t the strongest it had ever been. Stone bent down, lifted the man’s leg up onto the chair, and then stamped down hard on the knee. It snapped in much the same way as the other man’s elbow. Except for the fact that the man on the floor made no noise. No doubt he’d be making some fuss when he came round. Stone estimated both men would be no threat to anyone for six to eight weeks. Possibly more. In fact, given the location, medical services available, follow-up physiotherapy and aftercare, both were out of the game for months on end.

  Stone didn’t feel anything for them.

  If you want to dance, eventually you’ve got to pay the band.

  Deborah stared in horror, her hand up to her mouth. Stone walked over to her and picked up the coffee she’d poured him. He took a sip, the .45 pistol still in his hand, the Glock tucked into the front of his pants.

  “Jesus Christ! What did you do?” She was shaking, poured herself a cup of coffee. Some spilt on the counter. “You’ve done it now. You’ve really done it now.”

  “You heard that guy. They were sent to take me. Last night two men beat up Maggie and knocked me out. They drove me some distance away in the trunk of that Ford out there and dug a grave for me.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I killed one with a knife and somebody else shot the other. The one who was shot was about to tell me more about the Conrad brothers and what it was all about.”

  “Who shot him?”

  Stone shook his head. “I don’t know.” The guy with the broken arm was still making a lot of noise. Stone stepped forwards and brought the butt of the .45 down on the base of the man’s skull, right where it met the nape. He slumped forwards onto the table. “So who do you call when I leave here?” She looked at him, perplexed. “Come on, I leave, you’ve got two guys out cold, both need medical attention – but who will you speak to? To get this cleared up?”

  “Big Dave, I guess. Or Claude,” she answered, subdued. “I can’t just leave them here like this.”

  “Can you do me a favour?”

  “What is it?”

  “Give me fifteen minutes to get clear.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. “Sure thing,” she said.

  13

  Stone drove the big Ford to the other end of town and pulled up outside the hardware store. He tucked the Colt .45 into his inside jacket pocket and put the Glock in the glovebox. It was a conscious decision, the Glock held seventeen 9mm rounds and if he needed a weapon to fire from the car he may as well have more firepower to compensate the lack of steady aim. The Colt held only seven rounds but on foot he would have the luxury of more precise target acquisition. He got out, climbed the steps and opened the door. The door rang the old fashioned swing bell. The storekeeper wasn’t in the shop. Stone presumed he had a room out back. Somewhere to brew coffee and have his lunch. He walked over to the counter. There were no pistols on display. The rifles and shotguns were gone too.

  “Help you?” The storekeeper eased his way out of the door from behind the counter. He looked stiff and sore. His brow was swollen and his cheek bruised.

  “No firearms for sale?” Stone paused. �
��You had a good selection yesterday.”

  “Decided against it.”

  “I thought this town would have a roaring trade,” Stone said. “From what I’ve seen there’s plenty to be scared of. Plenty to defend yourself against. And what about all those bears?”

  The storekeeper looked at Stone, then sighed. “You know what’s going on. Least ways, you have a fair idea.”

  “I wish I did.”

  “You know Claude Conrad owns this town.”

  “Figured as much.”

  “I thought I was on to pure gold. The guns sold well. Damn near everybody who is still living around here bought something. Things have gotten, well, out of hand of late.”

  “And Claude Conrad figured he was under threat?”

  “He told me somebody would be down to relieve them from me. That was right before you had words with him and his two brothers. That’s why I was pushy for you to have a weapon. Figured you’d either be needing one, or I could make at least one last sale.”

  “And they gave you a beating.” Stone shook his head. “Who was it?”

  “One of the truckers who works for Big Dave. Horse, he’s called. Don’t get up close to him, Sir. He’s made of three of you. Damn near seven-foot-tall and four hundred pounds. Drives everywhere in a big rig on account of him not being able to fit in a car.” The storekeeper shuddered. “He just played with me like a cat with a mouse. Tapped me about but I nearly went through that wall. He was laughing, the son of a bitch.”

  “Have you got anything left?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ammo?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Nine millimetre and forty-five?”

  “Some.”

  “Magazines?”

  “A few.”

  “Glock seventeen and nineteen eleven.”

  “They’re about the two most popular semi-autos. I’ve got a few for the nineteen eleven and a twenty round for the Glock. It will hang out the butt a few inches but it’s designed for all Glock nines.”

  “Perfect.”

  The storekeeper went out the back for five minutes. Stone looked around the store, picked up a few items while he was there. When the storekeeper came back he dropped the bullets and magazines on the counter. Stone opened the cardboard cartons and started to load up the magazines. The .45 rounds were big and tactile, the 9mm less so. The Glock magazine’s spring was stiff and the last few bullets were awkward to load. He tapped the rear of the magazine against the edge of the counter, making sure the bullets sat back. More important for automatic rifle ammunition, less so for pistol, but old habits die hard.

  “Do you have some paper and a pen?” Stone asked, pocketing the magazines in his cargo pants.

  “Of course.”

  “Write down and draw me some directions to the Conrad brother’s properties.”

  The storekeeper frowned at him. “Now, mister…”

  “Stone. Call me Rob,” he said. “Do you hunt?”

  “Used to. With my son.” He rubbed his beard, his eyes a little moist. “Don’t so much now. He died in Iraq.”

  “I’m sorry.” Stone said. “I served in Afghanistan.”

  “Thank you for your service,” the storekeeper said.

  “No, we should thank your son.” There was an awkward pause, Stone looked at the man. “Look, I was going to use a hunting metaphor, but I’ll just cut to it. I’m going to flush out what I can. Figured the Conrad brothers have been pushing, thought I’d do some pushing back.”

  The man smiled. “Son, you’re going to go up there to stir up some deep pit full of shit and see what floats to the top,” he said. “Two things you should know. One, you stir shit, you’re going to get your hands dirty. Two, be sure it ain’t you who sinks to the bottom.”

  14

  The mountain road was steep at first, the gradient severe. The road twisted with right angle turns, the traction slipping from time to time in the big Ford sedan. It was an automatic box, but not like the ones in modern sports cars or SUVs – this was old school and the gear changes were lazy and at times inconvenient. It was a great cruising car for the interstate, or as a highway law enforcement vehicle or taxi cab, but not cut out for this type of road. After a thousand feet or so the road lengthened between corners, the gradient decreased and although he was travelling higher and therefore the mountain should theoretically reduce in mass; plateaus and hills gave way to more mountains. Each time Stone thought he was near the top, another plateau led to another steep incline. Before long Stone could see thick pine forest in the distance taking up a huge expanse of hillside. Beside him pines spread up the mountain and to his left a small lake ran the length of the road. It was eighty metres wide, fairly consistent in width. The lake was at the base of a large mountain, the steepest imaginable. Stone slowed the car to a crawl and looked up at it in awe. It gradually gave way to one of the tallest, and certainly sheerest cliffs possible. A full vertical wall, some two-thousand feet or more rising from the lake and into oblivion. Above would surely lead to another plateau or mountain, but it was the most impressive cliff he had ever seen. A climb way beyond his skillset, but one he would always aspire to. Maybe as part of a controlled and organised climb with a team buddy or two and an instructor. Stone stopped the vehicle and studied the face. There were tiny holes in places, worn through hundreds of thousands, or millions of years or erosion. Just softer rock washed away by rain. The lake below was most likely run-off water caught and held, constantly evaporating, endlessly topped up. Maybe there were fish in there too like the lake near Abandon where Peter had supposedly drowned. Stone remembered reading somewhere that fish were brought across the plains by settlers, transported in barrels on the wagon trails and released in ponds along the way. Settlers had brought with them a sustainable food source and in doing so had shaped the nature and wildlife of the nation.

  He got moving again, the sheer imposing nature of the cliff making him feel dizzy. After a mile he saw a semi driving towards him laden with timber. Stone couldn’t imagine how the articulated vehicle would make it down the twisting roads he had just driven, but almost instantly noticed a road to his left. The lake and cliff face ended, and a valley was opened up with a wider road cutting through it. There was no road sign to the town of Abandon, but Stone saw an interstate sign and a big sixty-two in figures. That would make sense, the storekeeper had sent him by way of a shortcut and Stone quickly worked out that he had saved about ten miles. Not bad, and he’d taken in an impressive view as well. The sheer impressiveness of the cliff had further convinced him to keep at the climbing and leave the motorbike in the showroom a little longer. He passed the semi and saw it was carrying two loaded trailers. He watched his rear view mirror and sure enough it turned up the valley and disappeared. After a mile Stone saw the entrance to the lumber yard. The road was hard core and shingle compressed tightly. The entrance simply bore a sign that read: one mile to loading yard. Stone knew it would, the storekeeper had told him so.

  Stone passed by. The road wound hard to the right and kept going. Wrapping all around the mountain. The road then started to drop dramatically and turned to hard switchbacks much as it had out of Abandon. There was no satnav or compass fitted in the old car, but Stone was aware enough to tell he was circling just short of the summit and coming back down towards town. The terrain was different here, a little moister with less pines and far more bracken and moss on the forest floor. After a few hundred yards he noticed smaller bushier trees with light green shoots sprouting. Apple trees. Stone remembered the storekeeper saying that Big Dave owned half the mountain and Bart owned the other. The directions were basic, but so was the route. He was simply driving down into Bart Conrad’s orchards.

  Ahead of him he saw a pickup truck parked up on the side of the road. It was the same truck that had pulled up at Dr Fallon’s medical centre. Bart Conrad’s truck. Stone pulled onto the side of the road some fifty metres before the truck. He took the Glock out of the glovebox and checked it. He p
ut the pistol, along with the spare twenty round magazine into the door pocket. Nice and close. Next he checked he could get to the Colt .45 and the three spare magazines. It wasn’t ideal, but he could reach into his inside jacket pocket quickly enough and he had a magazine in three separate pockets to avoid them clanking on each other. He eased the car forwards and pulled a three point turn in the road, parking up just in front of Bart Conrad’s truck. He was facing back the way he had come because he knew that road and didn’t know the layout ahead.

  Stone got out of the car and listened. There was no sound. No wildlife noises at all, which told him somebody was close. That in itself was no surprise, as the truck was nearby. He looked across the road and up the slope. The apple trees were in organised, prepared lines. Down to his left, the same was true. There was a tree every thirty feet, but Stone imagined that in full growth and bloom, in late summer and fall when the trees bore fruit ready for picking, that the canopies would be close to touching. He had to think about apples. He didn’t know much, but he knew that some varieties were ready later than others and you could be eating one type in the summer and another towards Christmas. His grandfather had liked Russets and they were still being picked in the snow at the old family home.

  “Come for the hunting?” the voice was loud, but from the carry, not near. “I told you that you better make sure what you hunt doesn’t hunt back.”

  Stone opened his arms out a little displaying a far from confrontational demeanour. “Just a talk,” he said, looking towards the voice.

  Bart Conrad stepped out from a particularly large apple tree. He had a pair of long handled secateurs in his left hand. He leaned back against the tree. “Not feeling too conversational today.”

  “Just a few words. One veteran to another.” Bart was quiet for what seemed a long while. Stone walked slowly towards him, ambling. “Professional looking set-up. Those Seattle hippies did well.”

  Bart scoffed. “They did shit! What you see here is the product of hard work, investment and commitment. They had plans, big plans. But they couldn’t bring them to fruition.”