Hell Is Empty wl-7

by Craig Johnson

  It was a whining noise that rose and fell and then stopped.

  I listened some more but could hear nothing except the wind. The collar of my sheepskin jacket was providing little protection, but I improved the odds by pulling it up higher and buttoning the top button. I took a second to think about the numbers: that meant six fugitives including Beatrice Linwood and two hostages-Pfaff and the other Ameri-Trans guard.

  Just to make sure no one was hanging around, I checked the front of the Blazer at closer quarters, but it was indeed empty. Slogging my way back up the hillside, I remembered Santiago’s cell phone and pulled it out of the Ziploc. I flipped open the face of the device and watched as it searched for service. After about a minute, I decided it was another opportunity to wait for Memorial Day and pocketed the useless thing.

  I pulled the federal marshal completely from the road and covered his face with his hat. It was all I could do for now.

  The Suburban started up easily, and I punched off the emergency lights and flashers; if I ran into the DOC van farther down the highway, they weren’t likely to pull over. I kept the spotlight pointed in the general direction of the roadside and pulled out.

  I’d gone about a quarter of a mile when something caught my eye, and I stood on the brakes. It was the main entrance to Deer Haven, another of the shuttered lodges in the throes of renovation. The Chevrolet slid sideways but finally stayed on the road. I refocused the spotlight and could see a clear set of tire tracks leading into the deep snow.

  “Gotcha.”

  I wheeled the SUV into the entranceway, careful to avoid the deeper drifts to the left and the remnants of the broken swing gate where they had crashed through; the padlock was still hanging on the post to the right.

  There was a single, dusk-to-dawn fixture about thirty feet above the ground, with a bulb that created a giant, illuminated halo that lit up the blowing snow but didn’t shed a lot light on too much else. I repositioned the Suburban’s spotlight into the gloom. Up ahead, there was a forest service bridge with a large drift blocking the road, and it looked as if they’d attempted to head up West Tensleep but had been turned back. The tracks showed that they had reversed and then swung around just ahead of me and plunged into the area where the parking lot would’ve been.

  This was when a smart man would’ve parked the Suburban at the head of the road and waited for backup, and I thought about it. It was going to take hours for my reinforcements to get here, if they ever did, and I had a federal agent and a transport officer being held hostage. I applied the simple rule that allowed me to make stupid decisions in these types of situations: if I was down there, would I want someone coming after me?

  Yep.

  I swept the spotlight to the left and could see the complex of low-slung, dark log cabins-but no van. The tracks led straight across the flat area in front of them and then turned to the right, away from the main lodge. I drove slowly in their path and finally saw the van parked between two of the log structures that sat in a row.

  The place was a bushwhacker’s wet dream, with an assortment of cabins surrounding the seventy-five-yard open area, which I’d just crossed. They’d had enough time so that they could be anywhere.

  I followed the path the van had cut in the parking lot and saw that the DOC vehicle had gone off the edge of the gravel and buried itself in the drift between the cabins. The noise I’d heard back on the side of the road must’ve been them trying to spin their way out in two-wheel drive.

  There didn’t seem to be anybody in the van, so at least I knew one place they weren’t.

  Figuring there was no reason to give them a very clear target, I shut off the headlights on the Suburban. Also figuring that for my purposes it was just as good to have things be as quiet as possible, I went ahead and killed the engine. I pulled out my Colt and slammed it into the light in the Suburban’s overhead console. Bits of plastic fell onto the passenger seat, but I thought not giving them another target as I opened the door was a terrific option.

  Let the government bill me.

  I pulled the keys, opened the door, and stepped into the snow, the surface crusty from sleet. Something fell out along with me. When I looked down I could see it was Saizarbitoria’s pack that now lay on the snow-dappled steps leading to the porch of one of the cabins. I kicked it aside and figured I’d pick it up when I got back to the vehicle.

  There were no windows on the sides of the two structures that faced each other, only small ones in the fronts along with glass panels in the two doors. There was no movement that I could detect inside either cabin. I’d check them again after I searched the van.

  I eased the door shut and started toward the back of the DOC vehicle. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the occupants had all gotten out through the sliding door at the side and continued on past the cabins to the left.

  As far as I could tell, the only electricity that worked was the dawn-to-dusk at the entrance of the parking lot. There probably was no heat either, and huddled in one of the cabins or the main lodge, the group was most likely breaking up furniture to burn in one of the small fireplaces in an attempt not to freeze to death.

  The bodies of the two marshals were still lying on the floorboard of the van, both of them, as McGroder had indicated, having been dispatched with one of the appropriated shotguns and at close range. Benton was the nearest, so I reached out and closed his eyes-once again, there was little else I could do. The convicts had taken everything including the steak knife that I had left on the dash. I started to return to the rear cargo door where Santiago said that Benton had stored the enhanced Armalite; I figured I’d feel a lot better if I could get a proper rifle in my hands.

  Something moved above me.

  I scrambled back against the cabin wall and raised the big Colt.

  My back thumped into the dark brown logs, and I stood there in a two-handed grip, trying to get my blood pressure under control. There was a loud snarl like the kind you hear in the movies, but this one was up close and real. I figured it was going to take a couple of hours to get the hair on the back of my neck to lie back down.

  As Lonnie Little Bird would say, she was a big one, but she was thin, and I was lucky she didn’t have cubs or I might’ve been dead. She snarled down at me and backed her haunches into the cove section of the twin-peaked roof of the cabin on the other side of the van. Her eyes were the only things I could see.

  I’d never been this close to a mountain lion, and I had to admit that-even snarling with a ferocity that vibrated my own lungs-she was a beauty.

  Evidently, she’d taken advantage of the shelter provided by the overhang that gave her the ability to stay covered yet capable. I guess she hadn’t moved when the van had pulled in, but when I’d driven up and started poking around, she’d decided enough was enough.

  I waved my sidearm at her, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t slam a paw as big as Dog’s into the roof of the cabin in order to back me off. I stood there, a little surprised. The big cats usually aren’t so tenacious when confronted with human beings. I guess she figured there was nowhere better to go, and she’d been there first.

  “C’mon, get out of here. I’ll be damned if I’m going to march around waiting for you to hurdle off onto me. Scat!”

  I waved the pistol again, but she pushed herself deeper into the alcove. We were at a standoff, and there wasn’t much more I could do to make her move.

  With one more glance, I eased around the van and shot a breath from my nose, pulling the handle on one of the rear doors. Just as the Basquo had said, there was a Hardigg polyethylene deployment case lying there-olive drab, my favorite color, or so the Marine Corps had taught me.

  I gave another look to the roof of the cabin where I hoped the cougar was still crouched, stuffed my fingertip into my mouth, and yanked the glove off with my teeth. I slipped my naked hand into the plastic handle and pulled the case toward me. I was always amazed at how light the M-series rifles were-they had always felt like plastic toys
.

  I flipped open the antishear latches and opened the case, revealing the foam cavities for a full cleaning kit and extra magazines and the laser sight. There was a cutout for an M203 grenade launcher with accessories, which had been filled in with foam. The attachment had obviously not been in there-the problem was, neither was the short-barreled rifle.

  It was about then that I noticed, for just an instant, a tiny green dot reflected in the van’s rear window.

  5

  I threw myself sideways, multiplying the speed of my descent by slipping on the ice.

  The report of the. 223 was very loud. I hit the ground with a grunt immediately following the sharp spak of the bullet going through the back window of the closed half of the van where I’d been standing.

  I rolled over and looked at the bullet hole in the glass, small shards and snow still floating down on me as I reconsidered what an intelligent man would’ve done in this situation. I had an image of my smarter self, munching on a year-old Snickers bar, seated in the relative warmth of the Suburban, which I would have parked at the road head.

  It’s a maxim that in these situations the first person to move is the first person to die. It was possible that the shooter thought he’d hit me and I could wait to see if he’d show, but that meant lying in the snow, exposed for longer than I really cared to be.

  If I wanted a clear view, I was going to have to crawl out from between the two vehicles, which meant really showing myself, something I was loath to do. I reached over and picked up my hat, dusting it off and placing it back on my head.

  Small comforts, but I always felt better with my hat on.

  There were noises coming from the other side of the parking lot and then some voices. I couldn’t make out what any of them were saying, but they said a few things to one another and then it was silent again.

  I waited for a few moments more and then looked around the passenger-side fender. With the blowing snow, it was almost like playing tag in a river. There was someone outside, and I just caught the fleeting image of a man darting past the windows on the porch of the main lodge.

  It looked to me as if he were carrying one of the shotguns, which meant that someone else was probably still out there with the. 223 and that the runner was going to try and flank me from the cabins at my rear.

  I had to move, but I wasn’t going to attempt crossing the lot-not with the Armalite waiting for the possibility of another lucky shot in the current conditions. If I squeezed past the DOC van and right, I’d probably meet the shooter somewhere out there. I leveraged up on my elbows and knees and glanced back to see if I could triangulate the rifle fire. It looked like it had come from slightly to my right-the same basic area where I’d seen somebody moving at the main lodge.

  I crouched and moved, picking up the Basquo’s backpack as I went, sliding between the van and the cabin where the cougar had been. The snow slid off the van and landed on my hat and shoulders. I didn’t wipe it off this time, in hopes that it might provide some cover from the scope, but when I turned my head, there was a SIG SAUER P226 muzzle pointed up and under my chin.

  “Move back.”

  With the shadows, it was difficult to see who was holding the semiautomatic, but hearing the Latino accent, I had a good idea. I retreated with my. 45 held above my head. “Hey, Hector.”

  “Raise your arms and shut up.” As he stepped into the minimal light afforded by the parking lot lamppost, I could see the pant leg of his orange jumpsuit and the tactical boots that he must’ve taken from the dead marshal. He also wore a three-quarter-length parka, which he must’ve appropriated from the convict transport. He motioned for me to move to my right. “Step over there.”

  I did as instructed and, knowing that a little cover was better than none, was careful to place myself between the DOC van and the Suburban.

  Hector stepped around as well, carefully holding McGroder’s Sig at an angle-gangsta style. He raised a hand to his face and yelled back toward the main lodge. “Got him!” I shifted, with my hands still above my head, and his eyes darted back to me. “I said don’t move.”

  “Actually, you didn’t.”

  “Shut up!” He paused and turned slightly as we heard noises coming from the big building. “And gimme your gun.”

  I thought about my situation, how I was soon to be surrounded by some very desperate and well-armed individuals. I thought about how the odds of one-on-one were a hell of a lot better than five-on-one.

  With my hands still raised, I tossed the Colt up onto the roof of the van.

  Otero looked at me. “What the fuck?”

  I shrugged. “You said to get rid of the gun.”

  He studied me from the depths of his acrylic-lined hood. “What, you don’t think I can get up there or what?”

  “Well, you are kind of short.”

  He gestured with the. 40 for me to back up, which I did with my hands still raised, as he placed a foot on the doorsill of the van and pulled himself up by the gutter rail. “Fuck you, Alexander Dumb-ass.” He really was kind of short and had to reach across the top of the snow-covered van with one hand while keeping his pistol pointed at me. It was quite a balancing act.

  I retreated another step.

  “I said don’t move!”

  The wind blew another gust from the roof of the cabins and pushed the hood of Hector’s parka against his face; he kept yanking it back, but it continued blowing forward.

  I was beginning to wonder how much movement it was going to take.

  To give her credit, she didn’t make a sound until she moved and when she did it was something to behold. She bounced once to contain her speed and swiped out with a massive paw at Hector’s hooded head. He jumped when the sound and fury came out of the alcove, and his foot slipped on the wet sill. The cougar’s lethal claws raked the cloth on the top of his head, his face was pushed forward by the force of her swipe, and he flipped backward to land at my feet. The Sig should’ve gone off, but it didn’t.

  I landed all two hundred and fifty pounds on his chest with a knee and listened to the air go out of him, which for a moment stopped the screaming, and then the semiautomatic popped from his hand.

  It was a calculated risk, turning my back to the cougar, but I figured Hector was the moment’s primary threat. I snatched the. 40 from the snow and then whirled to face the mountain lion, but she’d stayed on the roof of the van and was snarling and spitting.

  “Shoot! Shoot the motherfucker! Shoot!”

  Evidently, Hector had gotten his wind back.

  “Shoot! ”

  She slapped the roof of the van again with her big paws, and I guess she was waiting to see who, between Hector and me, was going to come out on top. I figured she was planning on eating the loser. I flicked off the safety lever near the slide action, something you might not know to do if you were unfamiliar with the weapon, and kept the semiautomatic on the cougar.

  “Shoot! ”

  Leaning on the grill of the Suburban next to Hector, I kept the sidearm trained on the mountain lion but glanced at the Latino. Trickles of blood were running down his face from where the lion’s claws had gotten him. “I think you’re annoying her.” The wind blew more gusts of snow, and I could hear footsteps along with a few shouts. “I think you better tell your friends you haven’t got me anymore.” He looked at me questioningly. “Go ahead-yell.” He paused for a second, but I gestured with the gun toward the angry cougar. “You don’t yell, I’m going to let her have you.”

  The mountain lion continued to snarl and again slapped the roof of the van.

  “Hey, he’s got my gun-and there’s a fuckin’ tiger over here! ”

  I could still hear them moving closer and figured it was time to take action. I might regret the loss of ammunition later, but I needed to back everybody, including the cougar, off. I raised the P226 and fired off a couple of shots.

  There was more cursing, but I could hear them scrambling back toward the lodge.

  When I glance
d up again, the mountain lion had disappeared.

  I wedged my shoulder against the grill of the Suburban and peeked over the hood. There wasn’t anyone there.

  When I realized I hadn’t breathed in a while, I took a deep one and slowly exhaled, feeling like a portion of my soul was escaping along with the vapor from my nostrils.

  Hector was feeling his head and wiping the blood off his face. “That thing bit me!”

  I pushed the barrel of the P226 in his ear. “New rules-stop complaining.”

  My Colt was still on the top of the van. I figured the big cat was gone, but I still wasn’t too hep on the prospect of climbing up there and getting a. 223 in my spine. I could always make Hector do it, but I wasn’t sure that they wouldn’t shoot him, too.

  I glanced back at the main lodge. “Hey Hector, do you want to go up there and get my gun?”

  His eyes looked like ping-pong balls with pupils. “Fuck that.”

  “That’s what I figured.” I glanced at him. “So they’re all holing up in the lodge?” He didn’t say anything, so I nudged his ear with the Sig, reinforcing the rules.

  “Yeah, yeah… they’re in the lodge thing.”

  “They’ve got the FBI agent, the blonde woman?”

  “Yeah, they got her.”

  I made some quick calculations and took the barrel of the gun away from his head. “What about the other Ameri-Trans guy?”

  He looked at me for a moment. “Yeah, they got him, too.”

  I wondered briefly why they hadn’t simply killed him, but it was possible that they were smart enough to realize that they should hang on to all potential hostages. “What about Beatrice Linwood?”

  “Who?”

  “I need you to pay attention, Hector.” I sighed. “The waitress from South Fork Lodge, the one that served us lunch.”