Rough Country

by John Sandford

  There was no high land nearby, but there was higher land, and a man running from guns instinctively took one of two paths—he ran through gullies or along creeks that concealed him from view, or he ran along the high ground, so he could see what was happening, could see the pursuit.

  Or, if he was smart, he ran just below the crest of a ridge, so he could move up, make a quick check around, and still be out of sight with a step or two.

  But higher ground was involved in all of it—either as concealment or for the view. Virgil was headed for the only nearby higher land. That ridge would also bring Slibe back past his acreage, while still in the deep woods—probably the land he knew best.

  Virgil could set up on high ground, he hoped, and catch Slibe as he went by.

  Because the cops weren’t going to get close, not unless Slibe was on a suicide run. If he was, the cops wouldn’t need Virgil to help handle that. . . .

  VIRGIL MOVED up the hill; the brush was thick, mostly small aspen, cut maybe ten years earlier, and he couldn’t see fifty yards. At the top, the land sloped away, and though he couldn’t see it, he sensed wet ground that way—there was more light coming through the trees than there should be, if it was all solid forest, which meant the trees ended somewhere downslope. The lake, probably, or a marsh.

  He backed up the hill, trying to find a spot with good sight lines. None of it was really open; he finally found a root hole where an old aspen had been blown over, and eased down into it, and sat on a chunk of rotting log. He was wearing his gray rain jacket, which wasn’t bad; he shouldn’t be too visible.

  Then settled down and listened, heard nothing, except some distant shouting. Not even squirrels—thought he’d probably spooked the squirrels himself, and they wouldn’t start bashing around again for another ten minutes or so.

  He’d turned the radio down when he got out of the truck, and now put it to his ear, picking up the electronic whisper of shouts and calls: this guy was moving left, that guy was moving left, the other guy didn’t see anything, nothing was moving out there, this guy was going to make a move farther around, that guy had come down to a swampy area and couldn’t go any farther.

  Virgil couldn’t quite picture it in his mind, because he didn’t know the ground well enough, but he got the impression that the deputies had pushed well out to Slibe’s left, and they now had a line that extended from the pasture down to the lake. So Slibe couldn’t go that way without shooting somebody. The deputies thought they had him pinned against the lake.

  Maybe they did; and maybe they didn’t. Slibe had known where he was going, and was moving fast.

  Virgil put the radio down and listened . . . listened . . .

  Listened for gunshots. Or footsteps.

  SLIBE CAME SNEAKING along the right side of the high ground. Virgil thought first that it might be a squirrel, because there wasn’t much sound. But it had been raining, a little, enough to wet the leaves, and mute the usual crinkle and thrash. When he heard a stick break, he thought it must be Slibe; squirrels don’t break sticks.

  Slibe could have been quieter, if he’d moved more slowly, and he probably knew that; but he couldn’t afford to. Virgil listened to him coming in, and wondered what was going through his mind. Where did he think he could run to? Was he going to kill somebody else, somebody back in the woods, somewhere—at a cabin, steal the car and an ID, maybe some money? He could be in Canada in a few hours, and that would slow down the search. . . .

  Kill somebody there, in another cabin, head north and west. Get up north of Calgary, in the oil fields. There were people from thirty countries up there, it was the Wild West.

  SLIBE WAS CLOSE, picking his way through the trees.

  Virgil peeked, thought he saw movement, lost it, but had an idea where he was. Saw it again; nothing was exposed but his left eye, and he tracked the other man coming in. Slibe was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, was wet, had a scoped rifle in his hand. Stopped, fifty feet out, looked around, looked back along the line he’d come, back where the deputies were.

  Listened, then came on, his face grim, his hair wet and stuck to his forehead, the rifle loose in his left hand, his right hand pushing through the trees.

  When he was close, Virgil said, not too loud, “Don’t make me kill you.”

  Slibe froze.

  Virgil said, “I’ve got a twelve-gauge aimed at your stomach. I can’t miss.”

  Slibe turned his head, looking for Virgil, finally found him, saw the gun.

  “Drop your rifle,” Virgil said.

  Slibe didn’t.

  Virgil said, “People keep talking about me massacring those Vietnamese up in International Falls. I’m not afraid to kill you, Slibe, but I don’t want to. Now drop the gun, and let’s go into town.”

  Slibe looked back along the line where the cops were and said, “You were the one I was worried about. I could have dodged Sanders’s boys.”

  Virgil said, “I’ll tell you what, Slibe. You’re going to prison—but you’ll get out. You’re young enough. You get a good attorney, you can deal. We don’t have anything solid on McDill or Lifry, and we got no idea about Washington or Windrow, where you put him . . . so it’s down to your wife and Hector, and you can deal. Ten years, maybe. When you get out, Wendy’ll be here with the business.”

  Virgil was lying through his teeth. Slibe would never see the outside again, not this side of eighty, anyway.

  “Wendy and that fuckin’ Deuce,” Slibe said.

  “Hey—he’s Wendy’s brother.”

  Slibe still had the gun in his hand; the drizzle picked up, and was dripping off the aspen leaves and soaking both of them. “You know about that?”

  “Yeah. People kept telling me about your wife running off with a Mexicano, and I finally took a look at the Deuce. He doesn’t look much like an Ashbach.”

  Slibe laughed, shortly. “I would’ve been okay if you hadn’t shown up. I had it under control.”

  “Ah . . . maybe,” Virgil said. “Why don’t you just toss that gun over there—”

  “You’re not really giving me a chance here, are you?” Slibe asked.

  “Not really,” Virgil said.

  Slibe looked back toward the shouting cops and said, “Ah, fuck it,” and tossed the gun to the side.

  Virgil didn’t move. “I worry a little about you having a pistol, so why don’t you just walk down the hill with your hands on top of your head, back toward the pasture.”

  Slibe nodded, and turned down the hill. Virgil followed behind, well back, called Sanders on the radio, and said, “I’ve got him. We’re coming down to the pasture, off to the right of my truck.”

  “Gotcha,” Sanders said.

  SLIBE LED THE WAY down the hill, then up the fence line to the left, saying, “There’s a hole in the fence up the way. I always meant to fix it; but it was a good spot to set up during deer season, so I left it.”

  “Did you break into Zoe’s one night?”

  “You recordin’ this?”

  “Nope. Just you and me. And given what else has happened, nobody’s gonna give a shit. I’d just like to know.”

  Slibe almost laughed. “I just wanted her to shut up. I went in there thinkin’ . . . I don’t know what I was thinkin’. I’d had a few bourbons, down at Jack’s. Anyway, I went sneakin’ in there, quiet as a mouse, and all of a sudden this voice says, in the dark, ‘I got a shotgun. I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.’ I was drunk, but not that drunk—I snuck right back out of there.”

  VIRGIL SAW THE HOLE in the fence, and Slibe crossed over into the pasture. Virgil followed, and down the hill, saw cops running for their cars. Slibe took his hands off his head, and Virgil said, “Hands on top of your head.”

  Slibe said, “Go ahead and shoot me down, right in front of all them witnesses. I don’t have a gun.” He pulled off his jacket. He was wearing a T-shirt, which was soaked and stuck to his body. He turned around, hands up: no gun.

  He said, “I got no gun, and you’re gonn
a have to shoot me down. Either that, or get your ass kicked. Because you are the one that done this to me, Virgil. Bigger than shit. I’m gonna kick your ass.”

  He came at Virgil with a rush, and Virgil tried to butt-stroke him with a shotgun—he’d once had a two-minute butt-stroke lesson in the army, and it didn’t seem any more useful then than it did now, as Slibe dodged the shotgun butt. Virgil twisted away, heard people yelling, almost lost his footing on the wet pasture grass, and then Slibe came back again, low, tackling, and Virgil tried to move around him, but couldn’t, and when Slibe hit him, he heaved the shotgun over the fence into the woods, and they both went down, rolling in the grass and the mud.

  He only had to hold on for a minute, Virgil knew, and the deputies would be there. Then Slibe clouted him on the side of the head and Virgil punched him in the kidneys a couple of times, best he could, but Slibe got over him on one of the rolls, and hit Virgil in the face with an elbow and Virgil felt his nose break.

  Then Virgil was on top, bleeding, and really pissed, and he gave Slibe a shot in the eye, and they rolled again. Slibe twisted, so they were facing each other, Slibe on top, and Virgil got an arm around Slibe’s neck and squeezed the other man close, with Slibe flailing away at Virgil’s ribs and trying to pull free.

  If he pulled free, he’d be on top with both fists loose, and in a position to really pound Virgil; and his head was slippery, and he was pulling out of Virgil’s hold. But Slibe’s ear was right there, and Virgil bit into it, hard as he could, and squeezed with his arms. Slibe started screaming and thrashing, and Virgil bit harder and they rolled around again, Slibe on top and then Virgil, and Virgil was thinking that the cops had to be close, and his eyes were full of blood and he couldn’t see. . . .

  And the deputies landed on Slibe, a couple of big Scandinavian kids, and yanked him loose and Slibe screamed again, and Virgil realized that while Slibe was over there, being pinned to the ground, most of his ear was still in Virgil’s mouth.

  Virgil spit it out and groaned, and one of the cops screamed, “You been shot?”

  Virgil said, “Ah, man,” and sat up. He was covered with mud and grass and maybe, if his nose was still working right, a little dog shit.

  Slibe was sitting on the ground, his hands cuffed behind him, blood pouring down the right side of his head. He said to Virgil, “Kicked your ass.”

  Virgil said, “Tell your ear that, motherfucker.” He looked around on the ground, couldn’t see it; crawled around for a minute, blood streaming out of his face, spotted it in a wet footprint. He picked it up, and held it up so Slibe could see it.

  “It was worth it,” Slibe said.

  Sanders arrived, looked at Virgil, and said, “Your nose is bent.”

  “Ah, it’s busted,” Virgil said.

  “Does it hurt?” Virgil looked at him, and Sanders held up his hands and grinned and said, “Sorry.”

  A COP with a medical kit gave Virgil a gauze pad to hold to his nose. He retrieved the shotgun and pointed the deputies to the spot where Slibe’s rifle was. Waited until one of them came up with it, then staggered over to his truck. Slibe was put in the back of a cop car, and they all rolled slowly up the pasture back to the house.

  Virgil got out, head tipped back, still pressing the bandage to his nose. Wendy was there, and said, “You didn’t kill him.”

  “No, but I beat the shit out of him,” Virgil said.

  She looked at the blood running down Virgil’s face and chin, and said, “Yeah. You look like it was pretty one-sided.” She could see Slibe through the side window of the cop car, looking out at them. “Can I say good-bye?”

  “I don’t care,” Virgil said. Still bleeding. “Yeah, why not?”

  One of the cops popped the back door of the car, at Virgil’s request, and Wendy bent over and said, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  Slibe, soaked, muddy, bleeding, looked at her and said, “All I wanted to do was love you women. That’s all I ever wanted,” and Wendy began bawling again.

  Virgil thought he saw a flicker of satisfaction cross Slibe’s face, as he watched his weeping daughter; and Virgil slammed the door again.

  27

  VIRGIL GOT OUT of the hospital with an aluminum splint holding his nose straight, and a crisscross splotch of tape holding the splint in place. His face hurt, his neck hurt, his ribs hurt, and he’d pulled a muscle in his groin, he thought. He sat in his car and called Davenport, and filled him in.

  Davenport said, “Uh-huh,” about six times, and then, “So how soon can you get back here? We’ve got some serious shit going on.”

  “I’m going fishing,” Virgil said. “I’ve got my vacation and I’m taking it, and not only that, I’m putting in for time-and-a-half, for all my overtime. I’m putting in for thirty hours of overtime, goddamnit. You guys are gonna pay for a trip to the Bahamas.”

  “I’ve been to the Bahamas,” Davenport said. “They’re really . . . flat. And hot. Flat and hot. You won’t like it. I recommend a quick trip to Mille Lacs, catch some walleyes, you know, have a couple of margaritas. Get wild with some of those outstate women.”

  “Bullshit. I’m going to the Bahamas,” Virgil said. “But first, I’m going to take a week right now, sick leave, to get my nose straight, and maybe do some fishing on the side. And we’ve got things to do up here. We haven’t found Windrow.”

  “That’s a detail best left to the people who know the countryside,” Davenport suggested. “You know where he is—he’s buried. Now they just have to find the exact spot.”

  “They don’t consider a dead man a detail up here,” Virgil said. “So. If somebody dies, feel free to call me for a funeral donation. Other than that, I’ll see you in a week or so.”

  “Seriously, Virgil, you all right?” Davenport asked.

  “My nose hurts worse that I can possibly believe,” Virgil said. “My nose hurts so bad my front teeth hurt.”

  “I know how that is,” Davenport said. “I’m on my fourth nose. If you like to fight, that’s what happens.”

  “I don’t like to fight,” Virgil said. But maybe he did, a little; he’d absolutely kicked Slibe’s ass, he thought, not counting the nose.

  “Could have shot him,” Davenport said.

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “Then quit bitching about it,” Davenport said. “See you in a week. Take some time at night to get all the paper done. I’ll okay the overtime—you can even add a little to it. Take it easy.”

  “Okay.”

  Virgil was about to hang up when Davenport said, “Hey—wait a minute.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Weather wants to know—what happened to the ear?” Weather was Davenport’s wife, and a plastic and reconstructive surgeon.

  “I don’t know. It was all ripped up, and we didn’t treat it too well. It got stepped on, and got some dog shit smeared on it. . . .”

  “Dog shit?”

  “Yeah, this was just down from the kennel, in a field they used to train the dogs. Anyway, it was pretty messed up, and they couldn’t get it to go back on,” Virgil said.

  “So . . . what’d they do with it?” Davenport asked.

  “I don’t know. Disposed of it, I guess.”

  “How do they do that?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Virgil said. “Throw it in a ditch?”

  SLIBE WAS TAKEN UNDER the wing of his attorney, who didn’t allow him to say anything about anything; but Phillips was happy. “We’ve got him. We know it and they know it. We don’t need anything else—Lifry or Washington or McDill.”

  “We’re gonna get Washington and McDill, because of the rifle,” Virgil said.

  “We’d have to prove that he was the one that used it, and not his son,” Phillips said. “Now, we don’t really have to do it. We can pack all that information into the sentencing recommendation, to clean it up for the relatives of the dead people.”

  “What about the Deuce? He’s all shot up.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see,” Ph
illips said. “I anticipate further court proceedings.”

  “Yeah. I anticipate a court order that says, ‘Dear Itasca County: Please drop your shorts and bend over.’ ”

  “Maybe. We’ve got further issues with the Ashbach family that are still outstanding,” Phillips said. He seemed happy at the thought of the further issues. “Like Wendy lying to you. All those issues could go away in a proper settlement.”

  “I love talking to lawyers,” Virgil said. “It gives me a fresh, clean view of life.”

  VIRGIL RAN INTO SANDERS’S father, Ken Sanders, in the hall outside the sheriff ’s office, and the old man said, “I missed all the excitement. I understand Slibe beat the crap out of you.”

  “Ah, I had him,” Virgil said. “I didn’t want to hurt him, when it wasn’t necessary.”

  Sanders smiled: “I guess that’s one view. And I guess I’d rather have a broken nose than one ear. Though, I gotta tell you, you look a little odd with those white things sticking out of your nose.”

  “I can take them out in an hour,” Virgil said. “I’ll be good as new.”

  “Except for the nose brace and the tape.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Sanders stuck an index finger in Virgil’s gut, said, “Check you, cowboy,” and went on his way.

  VIRGIL WENT BACK to his motel and found Zoe walking down the hall, apparently having gotten no answer when she knocked on his door. She looked miserable. “Well, it’s all over for me and Wendy. I rushed out there when I heard, but she’s back with Berni. Big-time.”

  “Zoe . . . give it up,” Virgil said. “She doesn’t love you. She loves herself. I mean, you’re not going to be able to compete with that.”

  “Oh, I know it,” Zoe said. “Sig keeps saying that I ought to get more in the scene over in Duluth, or down in the Cities.”