Storm Runners

by Parker, T. Jefferson

  “I just had an idea,” said Frankie. She was halfway to the kitchen. “What if we get an apartment downtown? But instead of living there, we just sleep there, and spend the rest of our free time rebuilding the barn?”

  Stromsoe considered. “You’re just as exposed downtown as you are here. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out the change of address.”

  “Right, but we just sleep there. Then, bright and early, we get up and head for the barn. We’ll get the gate lock fixed so only we can get in. There’s only the one road. And once we’re there we can see in every direction, you know? If anyone came walking up or came in off road, we’d see them way early. Ted can stand guard. He’d love to. And we work outside until I have to go to work, we build a new barn and I can set up all the stuff. My formula works, Matt. It works.”

  “I saw it work, Frankie. I can vouch for that.”

  “We got four and three-sixteenths inches in two hours. Santa Margarita Preserve, right next door, they got two and three-tenths. Fallbrook got two and one-tenth. San Diego got two. Temecula, Valley Center, and Escondido got two and a quarter.”

  “I know, Frankie.”

  “What I’m saying is I’ve got the real thing, Matt. The real, actual thing that Charley was almost onto. I’m going to be a genuine, legitimate rainmaker.”

  “I’m a believer.”

  “You are?”

  “I am.”

  “Then wait right where you are,” she said. “I’ve got something for you.”

  She went down the hall and into the river room. He could hear the closet open, then the sound of objects being moved. A few minutes later he heard the closet door slide shut.

  She came back with a sheaf of stapled papers in her hand.

  “I had to make some small changes after last night. It’s all here—the components and where to get them at the best prices, how to make it, how to disperse it. It’s everything Charley started and I continued. You might need Ted or a chemist to figure out some of it. Oh, and when you stir the final mix don’t get the fumes directly in your face and don’t stir too fast. It’s not like whipping egg whites—if you go too fast the hydrogen atoms bond up too early with the chlorides and it gets mucky. Watching me in the truck mirror wasn’t quite enough for you to learn it right. There’s touch involved, and concentration.”

  She handed the booklet to Stromsoe.

  He looked up at her. “I never thought a few sheets of paper would make me feel so honored.”

  She sat down next to him. “Look, I can probably get the rest of the week off, but they’ll need me for tonight. I’ll call Darren.”

  “That’s a smart thing, Frankie. It’s not surrender.”

  “I might do some of that. Where shall we go?”

  “The mountains. You’ve never bottled the San Joaquin River.”

  “I’m there.”

  Ten minutes later it was set. Darren gave her four days off so long as she could broadcast this evening. And a dog-friendly cabin with a view of Mammoth Mountain was on hold with Stromsoe’s credit card.

  STROMSOE PACKED A WEEK’S worth of things then talked to Dan Birch, Ken McCann, and Warden Gyle. Tavarez had not been seen. Gyle learned that Lunce had been in El Jefe’s pocket and this was not the first time that Lunce had escorted Tavarez outside his cell for “unauthorized activities.” Some CO heads would roll, he said—the union be damned. His most trusted situation manager, Cartwright, was a good ear inside the guard union. Gyle was still not sure whether Lunce had uncuffed the prisoner and allowed himself to be surprised by the razor blade, or if Tavarez had concealed and wielded the blade with his mouth, then let himself loose using the guard’s key. It was also possible that the second or third parties who had cut the hole in the fence had subdued Lunce. He said it was the bloodiest thing he’d ever seen.

  “The guards are going to set up a fund for the family,” said Gyle.

  “I’ll kick in,” said Stromsoe.

  “I’ll let you know when we pick him up.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  He called John Cedros’s cell phone. Cedros said he and Marianna and Tony were already halfway to Bishop. Stromsoe said there was a GPU homing device under the rear bumper of his car, please pull it off and mail it to Birch Security. Stromsoe wished him luck and asked Cedros to give him his home address when he got a chance.

  “I’m mailing you the evidence against Choat,” said Stromsoe. “I’ve got copies and so does Birch Security. Choat clearly solicits you to burn down the barn. He roars it out, over the sound of the river. The fact that Mother Nature did it for him doesn’t change anything. I doubt he’ll ever bother you again.”

  “Thanks, man. I really mean it.”

  “Thank Marianna for making that call to Birch. It saved at least one life. Take care of your family.”

  “Vaya con Dios, PI.”

  “Always.”

  Stromsoe sat in the living room for a moment, listening to the hum of water going through the pipes to Frankie’s shower. They’d be leaving for her work in less than an hour. The thought of Frankie Hatfield cheered his heart and he looked through the windows. The guns of Pendleton began thundering away in the west.

  A faint feeling of relief came to Stromsoe, and he was surprised by how large and welcome it was.

  He loaded his bags into the pickup, then Frankie’s as she got them packed.

  Frankie was in the kitchen packing up some food to take when Stromsoe’s cell phone rang.

  “Hello, Matt.”

  “Hello, Mike.”

  Frankie looked up and her face went pale.

  “I’m out.”

  “I know.”

  “I didn’t think it would feel this good.”

  “Enjoy it while you can.”

  “I’m going to come see you sometime soon.”

  “Let me know when you’re in town.”

  The artillery went off again. Stromsoe heard the concussion of it hit his chest like a bass drum in a marching band.

  He also heard it coming through the cell phone into his ear.

  He motioned Frankie to the floor. She pulled the gun from her purse and sank down, her back to the refrigerator. The dogs waddled over and Frankie had the presence of mind to reach up and set the gun on the counter then take each animal by its collar.

  Think of something. Keep him on.

  “I heard you made a real mess up there,” said Stromsoe.

  “I can’t get the smell off.”

  “The ocean can.”

  “First things first.”

  Stromsoe went to the foyer and looked out the windows to the avocado orchard.

  “That razor-blade-in-the-mouth trick,” said Stromsoe. “I read about it years ago in the FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin.”

  “I did too.”

  “You going to kill Frankie, or both of us?”

  “Frankie.”

  “Weren’t Hallie and Billy enough?”

  “Nothing is enough.”

  The artillery sounded against his body and through the phone. From the corner of the foyer Stromsoe scooped up four shot shells and stuffed them into a pocket. Then he tucked the butt of the blond shotgun under his right arm, slid off the safety, and trotted down the hallway.

  “You’d like Frankie,” said Stromsoe. “You wouldn’t hurt her if you just knew her a little.”

  “That’s very Matt, Matt.”

  The master bath was damp and still smelled of soap and shampoo from Frankie’s shower. There was a sliding-glass door leading outside to a small patio with wooden furniture and a chimenea. Beyond the patio was a stand of eucalyptus trees, and beyond them the orchard. Stromsoe believed that Mike was in that orchard, watching the front of the house. He was armed and intended to kill them both when they came out the front door. This was only a guess but a guess informed by the twenty-four years he’d known the boy and the man he became. It was possible that Mike had someone with him but Stromsoe believed he was alone. In his own way, Mike had always
been alone. Stromsoe’s plan was to get fifty yards into the looming avocado trees without being seen, then come up on Mike from behind.

  He quietly slid open the door and stepped outside.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that Ofelia was an accident? I wasn’t there, Mike.”

  “You created the there,” said Tavarez. “You made it what it was. At a certain point, the only thing that can happen is what does happen. This is called consequence and it’s a simple concept, my old friend.”

  Stromsoe passed through the eucalyptus and into the fragrant shade of the orchard, balancing the shotgun on the meat of his right arm like a bird hunter, left hand raised to his ear with the cell phone, eyes searching the orchard beyond the drive. His heart was pounding wild and fast.

  The cannons boomed through the sky from Pendleton.

  And echoed through the speaker of the phone.

  “Why don’t we make a deal?” asked Stromsoe.

  “You don’t have anything I want.”

  “We were friends once, Mike.”

  “You’re not asking for mercy, are you?”

  “Haven’t you had enough blood?”

  The guns of Pendleton thundered and again Stromsoe heard them in his chest and in his ear.

  “I mean, you’re free now, Mike. Why not just head to Mexico, find Ofelia’s ghost, or her sister, marry her, spend your millions?”

  “What are your plans? Do you love this tall news lady?”

  Stromsoe stayed to the middle of one row, moving deeper into the orchard. The fallen leaves were thick on the ground but they were soaked from the recent storm and allowed him to pass quietly. Led by faith and instinct, Stromsoe made the turn that he hoped would lead him to Mike. He had never missed his left eye like he did now.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You’re very lucky to love twice. You must say your prayers every night, and pay your taxes, and go to church on Sundays.”

  Stromsoe saw Mike standing beside the trunk of an avocado tree, facing the driveway and the house, his back to Stromsoe, an arm raised to his ear. Alone.

  Stromsoe looked down before each step, keeping away from the leaves and on the damp silent earth left by the heavy rain.

  “I’m not much of a churchgoer,” he said.

  “Can she really make it rain?”

  “She really can. It’s impressive.”

  “Think how valuable she would be to the deserts of Mexico. Think of the thousands of acres of poppies.”

  “Bring us down as your guests when you get settled. She’ll make some rain. Funny, though—I have the feeling you’re already there.”

  “I went north. Everyone will be looking south.”

  “That was smart.”

  “Enjoy your time with the rainmaker. I’ll see you when you least expect it. And I’ll make you one promise, Stromsoe, for an old friend—I’ll never use another bomb.”

  “Maybe a razor, like the guard?”

  “Too wet, even for me.”

  Stromsoe was seventy feet from Mike now. Mike had on a white dress shirt tucked neatly into his jeans, and cowboy boots. The sun hit him in a shifting pattern allowed by the big-leafed trees. He leaned on one elbow against a low tree limb and he looked like a gentleman farmer sizing up this year’s crop.

  The artillery thundered again.

  Sixty feet.

  Mike hummed a few bars of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  Every nerve in Stromsoe’s body stood up and listened.

  Lord, how I want to be in that number…

  Fifty feet.

  “Adios,” said Mike. “Always watch your back, my friend.”

  “Good-bye,” said Stromsoe. “Don’t forget to watch your own.”

  He guessed that Mike had heard him, but Tavarez was still and silent for a moment.

  Then Mike wheeled quickly to his left and Stromsoe saw a flash of steel in the sunlight.

  Stromsoe swung his left hand up to the gun stock as Mike dropped and rolled and fired.

  The double blast took out the limb. The bullet from Mike’s handgun screamed past Stromsoe’s head. Tavarez zigzagged into the grove, his white shirt flickering amid the tree trunks.

  Stromsoe barreled after him, reloading the twenty-gauge without looking at it.

  Tavarez scrambled up a hillock, made the top, and whirled around. Stromsoe saw the muzzle flash and heard the wooden knock of the round hitting the tree beside him. Mike was gone by the time he had the shotgun to his shoulder.

  Stromsoe thought ambush as he reached the hillock, knew that if he rounded the crest he’d catch a bullet, so he veered out around the rise and tried to do it fast so as to keep Mike at least guessing.

  He came around the back with the shotgun held out and two fingers on the two triggers but Mike had already made the road. Stromsoe charged ahead. Through the trees he watched Mike lope across the asphalt into more orchard and he could see the blood on the white shirt.

  Mike made straight between the trees now, trying to stretch his lead, but Stromsoe stayed heavy upon him. Bars of shadow and sunlight held Mike as if inside a large cage but Stromsoe knew that if Mike could get out of sight, Mike could surprise and kill him, so he willed his legs to do more.

  Then he came up a gentle swale. The grove ended abruptly at a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Beyond the fence were rolling hills of flowers—an ocean of reds and yellows and white stretching all the way back to the blue Fallbrook sky.

  Mike ran parallel to the fence but geometry was on Stromsoe’s side now and he closed the distance.

  Mike fired but Stromsoe could hear only the roar of the two barrels and feel the sharp kick of the butt against his shoulder.

  He stepped behind the trunk of an avocado tree, reloaded the side-by, and flicked the safety off. He could see Mike outstretched on the ground. Stromsoe aimed down the barrels as he walked.

  Mike’s chest was a bloody mess and he was breathing fast. One arm was out and one was trapped beneath him. His legs were spread. His pistol was on the ground by his right boot. Stromsoe lowered the shotgun but kept it pointed at Tavarez’s head as he kicked away the handgun. Mike’s eyes followed him but he didn’t move.

  Stromsoe went to his knees beside Mike and looked at his white, blood-splattered face. “Mike.”

  Mike opened his hand and Stromsoe wondered what he meant by it. It’s over? I have nothing? You mean nothing to me?

  The eyes stared at him with the same broad mysteries. Stromsoe saw nothing cruel or furious in them, nothing illuminated or forgiving—just the partial understanding that is all a man can have.

  “This isn’t how I pictured it, Matt.”

  “Me neither.”

  Mike stared straight ahead and said nothing for a moment, as if listening to the speed of his own breathing.

  He blinked. “We did our best with what we were given.”

  “We were given everything, Mike. This is what’s left of it.”

  “I never once felt like I had enough. Never.”

  The breeze stirred Mike’s hair and something in his throat rattled and caught.

  “It doesn’t hurt, Matt.”

  “Good.”

  “Come closer. I can’t hear you. All I hear is wind.”

  Stromsoe moved closer.

  With a groan Mike freed his hidden fist and swung but Stromsoe caught the wrist and slowly turned it back on itself until the switchblade slipped from Mike’s hand.

  “Your luck will run out,” hissed Tavarez. “And the luck of your pale race and your soulless country. And the devil will then fuck you to death one at a time then all at once.”

  “Yes. He’s practicing on you right now.”

  “You still believe in the God who ignores you?”

  “I believe, yes.”

  “My faith isn’t strong like it used to be.”

  “Faith doesn’t make God.”

  “Or hell.”

  “That either,” said Stromsoe.

&nbs
p; Mike tried to slow his breathing but this made his throat stutter like a truck on a washboard road. He gagged and swallowed loudly. “Tell my children I loved them. Tell my wife I’m waiting in hell for her.”

  “I’ll tell the children. But you’ll have to pass along your own curses, Mike. You always find a way.”

  “You were never as smart as me,” said Mike.

  “Never. But I’ll be here an hour from now and you won’t.”

  “That’s an arguable privilege.”

  “It’s not arguable to me at all.”

  Mike took a series of very shallow breaths, then coughed weakly. His voice was a whisper. “We did have everything, didn’t we?”

  “Everything.”

  “I don’t have a single regret.”

  “I’ve got a million,” said Stromsoe.

  “Except that I didn’t shoot you first.”

  Mike managed to lift his head off the ground. His eyes searched for the pistol but his head lowered back down to the leaves. Then his fists slowly opened and the light left his eyes.

  Stromsoe sat for a long while. He could smell the blood and the rich earth. It was cool in the orchard with the sun streaking the leaves. A painted lady landed on the toe of Mike’s right boot, fanned its wings in a spot of sun.

  Stromsoe remembered the time Mike had helped him run down the kids who threw the rocks at the marching band, and how surprised he’d been at Mike’s ferocity as well as his own. He thought again of the abandon, when every nerve and muscle was needed for that good fight, when he was stronger and faster than he would ever be. What a pure thing, what a rarity as the years had gone by—a moment to be right, and to have a friend there with you.

  He looked down at the body and thought of the many people who had died so that he could sit here in this dappled garden. Long ago, standing in the burnished afternoon light of a Southern California cemetery with his father and mother, Stromsoe had understood with a child’s simple wonder that some lives end so that others may continue. Later he came to understand that a man’s life can be made rich through love as by Hallie and Billy and Frankie, or cursed through hatred as with Tavarez, but it was all their lives that coursed through him now as he reached out and closed Mike’s eyes forever.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE