“And the girl?”
“No sign of her,” Ramon said. “Hey, I mean, we asked, but the guy wasn’t exactly cooperating.”
“And where’s the gun now?”
“Threw it far as I could,” Eddie said.
“You puto,” Diego said, twisting a finger at Eddie. “Should shoot you in head.”
“Shit happens, main thing is it got done,” Rudi said, lining up shot glasses, saying, “Man goes through something like that, he needs a drink.” Filling glasses, he slid them forward, picked one up and toasted, “To . . .”
“Amado,” Diego said.
Everyone drank, saying the name, Rudi pouring another round, waiting till everyone downed theirs, then looked at Ramon, saying, “You first, let’s see that hand.”
“What?”
“Lay it on the bar,” Rudi said, tapping a spot in front of him, reaching under the bar, bringing up the pipe.
“What, no, come on . . .”
Regular Joe and Billy grabbed Ramon, forcing the hand down.
“Want you to tell it again,” Rudi said, smacking the pipe in his palm, putting on a show for the Mexican. “This time, the way I want to hear it.” Giving Ramon a second to think about it.
“It was like we said.” Ramon struggling, the bikers holding him, pressing the hand down.
Rudi swung the pipe, crushing bone, shot glasses dancing on the bar top. Ramon screamed through locked teeth, Joe and Billy letting him go, pushing him out of the way.
Diego and Reyes looked on, captain of the tug twisting away, clutching his arm, growling through the hurt.
“Now you.” Rudi said to Eddie.
Eddie tried to bolt, Billy shoving him into Reyes, Reyes shoving him at the bar, Joe grabbing him.
Clutching his hand, Ramon pushed past them, went out the staff-only door, couldn’t watch, Billy and Joe pressing Eddie’s hand to the bar, Eddie twisting and yelling.
Rudi swung again, Eddie screaming, Rudi doing it twice, Billy and Joe letting go, Eddie slumping to the floor, clutching his hand.
Tossing the pipe under the bar, Rudi looked at Diego, saying, “How we do things.”
Diego shrugged, thought the two got off light. He turned and went out the door, Reyes following, saying in Spanish how Ismael would have done it.
Filling his glass, Rudi said to Eddie, “Want to get some ice on it, kid.”
Joe and Billy helped Eddie up, sat him on the stool, Joe handing him the glass, saying, “Give you a lift over to Fraser Canyon, have the medics take a look at it.”
Eddie in shock, tears rolling down his cheeks, Rudi telling him to drink up, asking, “Know what happens next?”
Eddie shook his head.
“Joe brings you back from the medics, I’m going to ask you again.” He refilled the glass. “What you don’t want,” Rudi said, tapping Eddie’s good hand, “is give me the same bullshit twice. Might want to pass that on to Ramon.”
Eddie nodded and drank.
Joe motioned for him to follow.
Holding his hand, the pain incredible, Eddie shouldered through the door marked Authorized Personnel Only.
The Town Car was right out back, its engine running, Ramon behind the wheel. Eddie coming out the back door and going around the car, Joe stepping to the driver’s door, tapping on Ramon’s window, telling him to slide over, said he was driving.
Swinging onto the passenger seat, Eddie pulled the door shut, saying, “Told you we should —”
Ramon stared past the dangling rosary, his shirt slick with blood, Joe tapping on Ramon’s window. Eddie realizing Ramon was dead, stabbed in the chest. First instinct was to jump out. Then he leaped and punched down Ramon’s door lock, doing the same on his side, Joe grabbing the handle, shaking the whole car, yelling at him. Sliding across, Eddie pressed into Ramon. Someone else yelling. More hands grabbing at door handles, fists pounding on the glass. Diego and Reyes trying to get in.
Crowding Ramon, Eddie twisted the key and ground the starter, the engine already running, Joe punching at the window. Throwing it in gear, Eddie jerked the Town Car forward, knocking Reyes away, Diego jumping on the hood, grabbing at the wiper arms, cursing and thumping a fist on the glass, black eyes full of rage.
Tromping his foot down, Eddie gave it gas, wanting to run the Mexican over. Steering with his elbow, he tried reaching Ramon’s .357 under the seat. Diego hanging on.
Misjudging the turn on the service road, Eddie bucked the Town Car into the ditch, nose first. The Mexican flew into the reeds. Ramon and Eddie slammed into the wheel, both heads striking the windshield, pain shooting through Eddie’s hand. Diego gone from view.
Forcing the door open, Eddie spilled over Ramon, his uncle flopping out into the marsh, head down in the muck. Eddie reached under the seat, grabbed the pistol, leaving Ramon like that, scrambling through the muck and reeds. Not sure where the Mexican landed.
Voices from behind him, running feet. Eddie scrambled around the nose of the Lincoln, knee-deep in the putrid water, feet sticking in the soft bottom, clouds of bugs rising. Moving through the reeds, he made fifty feet before he dropped and listened, ignoring the hurt, knowing what getting caught meant. A lot of yelling going on behind him.
. . . BETWEEN THE LINES
“What the fuck?”
Running down the dock, Beck stopped at his empty slip. Then Hattie was at his side, Tilley hat with the ponytail out the back, straw bag in her hand. She put her arms around him, but he shook free, looking at her. “You call the cops?”
“I called you.”
“Where’s Griff?”
“There were three of them,” she said. “Looked like Griff was forced.”
Beck tried to calm down, Hattie describing what she saw, told how Griff took the men out.
Had to be the ones he put the flare gun on. Must have looked up his registry, come around and found Griff on board, forced him to take her out. Taking his cell, Beck tried Griff’s number, getting voicemail.
Hattie said she already tried, saying they better call the cops now.
Hitting redial, he tried again, the call going straight to voicemail again, Beck hanging up. Crossing the dock, he hopped onto First Light, going to her marine radio, his cell ringing in his hand. Checking the display, he answered.
The voice on the line asked him to identify himself. British accent.
“You first, asshole.” Had to be the guys that jacked his boat, making demands.
“Still acting the goddamn wally,” the voice said. “Shouldn’t be a surprise.”
“Who the fuck’s this?” The voice familiar.
“Hanson, as in Captain John.” The accent stuffed with authority.
Beck remembered. “What the fuck you want, Hanson?” Not sure if it was about his boat, or getting towed in last Friday night, the C-Tow guy lodging a complaint.
“Sure that’s the best way to start this?”
The two of them had history going back to Beck’s rookie days, never took a shine to each other, nearly got into it one night at a cop hangout, enough off-duty guys there to peel them apart. No secret Hanson thought of Beck as more cowboy than cop, too hot-headed for his own good, thinking it got him stabbed on that loading dock, the guy always ignoring procedure. He was glad when Beck took his leave. As far as Hanson was concerned, Beck bought the boat on a pension he hadn’t earned.
“Little busy for your bullshit right now, Hanson. You got something to —”
“Calling about a thirty-foot Grady-White, Triggerfish across the back?” Hanson read out the ID number.
“She’s thirty-two foot, and how about skipping to the part where you tell me where she is?”
The attitude wasn’t helping, Hattie nudging him, telling Beck to take it easy and ask about Griff.
Dialing it down, Beck tried again, saying somebody jacked his boat, asking about Griff
in Cramb.
“That who ran her up False Creek, doing double the five-knot speed limit?” Hanson said, guessing Beck was back on the bottle, blaming some imaginary friend for his cock-up.
“Where’s my boat, Hanson?”
“Waiting with a two-hundred-dollar fine.”
“Tell you what, give me your twenty, and I’ll come let you cite me personally.”
“Right out back of the Granville Market,” Hanson said. “Looks like a six-year-old tied her up. That or a lousy drunk.”
“Nobody on board?”
“Anybody that was, isn’t now.”
Beck said he was on his way, throwing in, “Word to the wise, Hanson . . .”
“What’s that?”
“Lighten up or call for backup.”
“You spend as much time securing your hatches —”
Beck hung up and hurried along the dock, fishing for his keys.
On his heels, Hattie followed him to his Jeep, hand on her hat, clutching her bag, worried about Griff, still telling Beck to calm down.
Going up the steps to the dark parking lot, Beck was first to see the wash of headlights, a Metro cab pulling up, a lime-green hybrid. Getting out the back, Griff stood looking at the two of them, his clothes drooping, wet shirt clinging to his skin, hair matted on his head.
“What the fuck, Griff?” Beck closed the distance.
“Try flagging a ride when you’re soaked, middle of the night.” Griff backed against the cab, his sneakers squeaking, looking to Hattie.
Beck got in his face, Hattie prying them apart, the cabbie stepping out, saying somebody owed him a fare, Hattie pushing Beck back.
“I owe this guy like fifteen bucks,” Griff said, throwing in he got the back seat kind of wet.
Beck dug into one pocket, then the other, turning to Hattie, asking if she had it.
Reaching in her bag for her wallet.
“Hold on,” Griff said, remembering the money the guy on the boat gave him, pulling out the soggy bills, peeling off a twenty and handing it across the roof. “Keep it,” Griff told the cabbie, the cabbie looking at it, getting in and pulling away. Griff saying, “There were three of them . . .”
Beck folded his arms, waiting.
“Jumped in the drink when the shooting started, lucky I made it to shore. Waves like this . . .”
Beck told Griff to go wait on Hattie’s boat, said they’d talk later, going to his Jeep. Following Beck, Hattie told Griff there was a sandwich in the icebox, tea bags in the top drawer.
. . . AFTER LIFE
The Mt. Baker Highway took Ashika Shakira east through the national park. The car in her rearview was far enough back but had been following for several miles going the same speed. Just past a bridge, she pulled off a side road and waited, but the car never passed. Getting dark now, she would have seen the headlights.
Tossing the burner phone off the single-lane bridge, she took the replacement from the glovebox and drove on the main road till full dark, eyes on the rearview, nobody behind her now, finding a spot off a dirt track along the Nooksack River.
Fetal on the passenger seat, she tried to sleep, turning the key to auxiliary, dialing up the heat to fend off the cold, the sound of the babbling water below her. Finally, she drifted off. No idea for how long.
It was a flashlight beam that snapped her awake, a guy in khaki with a big hat, tapping a ring on her window. Her hand went reaching for her bag. First thought, the guy was a park ranger here to tell her there was no overnight parking.
But this guy held a pistol, wagging it, telling her to keep her hands in sight.
Not a park ranger.
Tapping the barrel against the window, he told her to pop the lock. She did like he said. Middle-aged guy, kind of handsome, with a square chin. The kind of guy who had pictures of the grandkids on the mantel. His car was up against her bumper, blocking her in.
“Not an easy gal to find,” he said, wagging the pistol again, meaning he wanted her to step out. Marty Schmidt said her name like maybe she didn’t know it. Even with the new look, Marty made her, always good with faces. Told her he was with Global Trace. A bounty hunter. Had been dogging her for the better part of a week.
The Bersa was in her purse. Nothing to do but step out.
Marty tugged her arm, standing her up, spinning her to face the car, pressed a knee against her, getting out the flexi-cuffs. Did it like he’d done a hundred times, saying, “Behave and we do this easy, but if you —”
She shot a heel back into his crotch, ringing his bell. Marty folding, wheezing air, dropping the cuffs. Couldn’t believe he didn’t see that coming. Age slowing him down. Spinning, she drove her knee up, feeling his nose crunch.
Knocked back, ass in the dirt, Marty saw a double image of the woman diving across the front seat, grabbing for her bag. Catching hold of an ankle, he pulled, cursing, blood frothing from his nose. She kicked to break his hold, got her hand in the bag.
Dragging her one-handed, he grabbed for his pistol with his free hand.
Her shot took him high in the chest, firing right through her handbag, Marty getting off a round, putting one through the Accord’s headliner. Knocked back down, he was looking like he couldn’t believe he’d been hit, trying to raise the pistol.
She stepped out of the car, long legs up over him, knocked his pistol away and said he was too old for this line of work, asked his name again.
He told her, and she said, “Nice meeting you, Marty Schmidt.” Ashika firing again.
Something else she couldn’t tell the voice on the phone. Dragging the bounty hunter’s body behind some scrub, she kicked dirt and tossed branches over him. Rolling his Mini Cooper down a dirt track leading to the river, hidden from the road. Wiping away the tire tracks, Ashika got in the Accord, straightened the wig and kept driving east, ordered the early-bird breakfast at the place called Art’s Grill, sitting at the counter like she’d been told: sausage with grits running into her eggs, the coffee bitter, strong and hot.
When only the grits remained, the bell jingled over the door behind her. A stocky man stepped in and sat next to her, daily paper folded under his arm, a heavy smell of aftershave. Catching him in the reflection of the stainless backsplash: a pocked face with a broad nose, a checked shirt and denims. Ordering coffee, black, the man laid his keys and phone down. Never once looked at her. Pressing his weight up, he sighed and headed for the rest room.
The waitress set his coffee down, Ashika waiting and switching her keys for his, picked up his phone, left enough to cover her tab, something extra for the girl, and headed out the door.
Glancing around, she climbed into the same-color Corolla next to the Honda and backed out. Drove a couple of miles before opening the glovebox. The envelope there held cash and a new map, Ashika heading for the rising sun.
Forty minutes later the big man’s cell made a duck-toy tone, the familiar voice telling her to pull off at a place called Omak, said it was marked on her map. An end unit with efficiencies at the Riverside Inn was waiting for her. He hung up.
They were moving her around more, meaning she had some purpose. The room not so bad, its front window facing out to a driveway of grove trees, the main house in view, a shake roof, smoke curling from its chimney. In spite of the country quiet, sleep was fitful the first few nights. The Bersa stayed close. Scrabbling sounds behind the wall panels kept her up, Ashika sharing the place with an infestation of mice.
The Corolla was gone from the parking spot the next morning. Their way of letting her know they were keeping watch. Red tinged the sky to the east, and the scrabbling in the walls stopped. The owner’s boy came tapping on the door, leaving a breakfast tray on the step, a tea towel covering it: a bagel, single-serve pack of Smucker’s grape, a pad of fresh butter, strips of bacon, nice and crisp, scrambles with fresh-squeezed juice and a carafe of coffee. Drinking the
coffee black, she ate and watched the kid play by the main house, riding his scooter around the drive, talking to an invisible friend. Got her thinking about her own daughter, thinking how many years it had been. Fatima would be ten now. She tried recalling her face, the sound of her voice. Tried not to cry.
Tossing the scraps in a corner for the mice, she set the tray outside the door, a handful of change for the kid. She switched on the TV, jiggling the old-school rabbit ears on top. Cable hadn’t come to this part of the country, Ashika glad to reconnect with Brooke and Eric and Ridge. Didn’t matter about the snow on the screen.
The phone call came on the fourth morning, the voice saying the Times ran a story about a bounty hunter killed off the same road she drove down.
“That so?”
He didn’t say more about it, told her to get to a place called Tonasket. Some miles north, according to her map. She scribbled a new address, and he hung up. No car mentioned this time.
Putting on the wig and Black Cat shades, she thumbed her way along Route 20. First farmer stopped his faded Dodge, guy named Hank, his pickup bed loaded with cucumbers.
The landscape rolled by, all dried and brown, a contender for the plainest place on Earth, Hank dropping her at the outskirts of Tonasket.
Walking a mile of gravel, she found the rancher, its roof sagging, with a chimney in need of pointing, thistles and crabgrass for a front yard.
Stepping in with the Bersa in her hand, she looked around, then kicked off the ankle boots, found a Frigidaire stocked with Birds Eye, Libby’s and Swanson. Stove Top in the pantry, a tin of Green Giant, another of Del Monte, some Folgers and a bottle of soda. An old-school TV and a ratty couch for a bed. This place with cable.
First time in her life she woke to a rooster’s crow. Scared the hell out of her. Came close to blowing the beast off the fence rail that first morning, the bird a silhouette against the rising sun, like the one on the Corn Flakes box.
Summer in Tonasket meant the smell of manure coming off the fields, Ashika cooking on the hot plate, the mice in this place bolder than the last, showing themselves, leaving turds and dashing for crumbs. Didn’t bother her much.
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