Deadman

by Jon A. Jackson

  Rossamani's account to Humphrey left out all reference to Vetch and his friends, of course. Otherwise, it was accurate.

  “Very interesting,” Humphrey said. “You've done good, Ros-sie. The trouble is, it don't make sense.”

  “Why is that, Boss?”

  “Well, it sounds like our little Helen is still working with Joe. But if she's working with Joe, why did she contact me in the first place? Joe would know what to do with the money, and he sure as hell wouldn't want her talking to me. No, something else is going on, but you might be right: She might have gone to meet Joe at their old hideout. Smokey doesn't know where it is?”

  “Not exactly,” Rossamani said, “but this Tinstar isn't a big place, Humphrey. We oughta be able to find it.” He nodded toward the windows. “It's hell out there, though. Maybe we oughta just call. Heather's there. She oughta be in control of the situation.” This was a less than candid proposal, a strawman, and Rossamani was pleased to hear Humphrey demolish it.

  “No, no,” Humphrey said, waving away the suggestion impatiently. “Hell, for all we know, Joe has already heard the message I left on his machine and he knows I'm in town. He'll be on the lookout for sure. And this Heather . . . who knows if she's on top of it? If Joe is well enough to go out on day trips, he's probably popped her by now. No, you and Tino better go out there. But leave Smokey here—he knows enough about our business already, and the more he knows the more it costs us. Take one of his guys, someone who knows the terri’ tory. When you find the place, don't do anything, just call me and keep an eye on the joint. Or maybe you could send Smokey's guy back. We can figure out what to do from there.”

  This was precisely as Rossamani preferred it, except for the idea of not doing anything once they found out where Joe and Helen were holed up. And, of course, Vetch and his hands would ride along. Why, if you looked at it that way, Rossamani told himself, it was like a goddamn posse. He was especially hoping the broad, Helen, would be there. This could be fun if she and Joe didn't want to talk.

  Mulheisen was dead tired and cold. He couldn't remember when he'd been so cold. He had worn normal winter clothes on leaving Detroit—a hat, an overcoat, a scarf. There was no snow on the ground in Detroit, although the temperature had been hovering around freezing ever since Thanksgiving. Salt Lake had been a little colder, but he wasn't aware of it since he'd never left the terminal. But just walking to the bus in Helena, and what he'd seen out the windows of the bus en route to Butte, had frankly scared him. Walking to Jacky's Blazer at the airport and sitting huddled in the vehicle while it warmed up had been enough to convince him that nothing would happen tonight. He would go directly to the Finlen Hotel and get a good night's sleep and then, in the morning, they could go out and round up the crooks. That was his plan.

  Jacky Lee had a different plan. He too had thought that nothing would happen on such a brutal night, but then he had monitored a radio broadcast from another sheriff's deputy, concerning a woman in a rented Mercury stuck on the westbound Interstate 90. A highway patrolman had overheard Jacky's subsequent query and responded with the information that the woman had returned to Butte. From his description, the woman was Helen. But if she had returned to Butte, where was she? Jacky put out a bulletin to all law enforcement and emergency vehicles on the Mercury, whose license number the highway patrolman had dutifully logged. Soon enough, a plow driver, who had stopped at the rest area on Homestake Pass, reported that a woman in a Mercury had followed him into the rest area and had then gone on eastbound on I-90. Why the woman had been westbound in the first place wasn't at all clear, but if she was now eastbound, she was at least headed in the general direction of Tinstar.

  When Mulheisen heard all this, he asked, “Did Service return from his jaunt to the cabin?”

  They quickly learned that he had not. They visited Smokey's Corner. It was nearly empty, except for a couple of hardy drinkers. The barmaid said Smokey was at home, but one of the drinkers, whom Jacky knew from high school, said that Smokey's day barman had been in a while earlier, with two strangers in overcoats. “City boys,” the drinker said. “They were going somewhere, in a real hurry. I tol'em, ‘Ain't a fit night out for man nor beast.’ “

  “Amen to that,” said the other drinker. “A man'd be crazy . . . a man'd have to be some kinda nut . . .” The man babbled on, hoisting a glass of beer.

  The other one broke in, “Jacky? Jacky? Cal was pickin’ up the Suburban.”

  The night bartender conceded that she had given the keys to Smokey's Chevy Suburban—a four-wheel-drive vehicle that Smokey usually kept parked at the bar, to transport beer and booze and other items—to Cal, the day man. Smokey had called to say it was all right. No, they didn't say where they were going.

  “Well, we know where they're going,” Jacky said to Mulheisen when they were back in the car. “Your guy, DiEbola, is in town with his heavies, and he must have found out that Joe was up at the cabin. I guess Helen's gone up there, too.”

  Mulheisen had to agree with this assessment. The problem was, what should they do about it?

  Jacky shrugged. “We gotta go up there,” he said, flatly.

  Mulheisen sighed. “Yeah. Okay. But not like this.”

  “Right,” Jacky said. “I'll get you some warm gear. And, of course, we'll have to tell the undersheriff. We'll need help, Mul. You got Service"—he ticked them off on his fingers—"Helen, at least two shooters from out of town . . .”

  “Jacky, no sieges,” Mulheisen said. “That's a surefire way to get people killed. No SWAT teams.”

  “The undersheriff has to know what's going on, Mul,” Jacky said. “He'll call the DEA, the FBI . . .”

  “No, Jacky,” Mulheisen shook his head.

  “How ‘bout,” Jacky considered, “you, me, Conlin—that's the resident patrol down there. It's almost impossible to keep radio contact on the other side of the pass. We can contact Conlin when we get over the top.”

  “Is he a good man?”

  “She's very good,” Jacky said. “But Mul, we gotta tell the undersheriff something. The sheriff's out of town, and this guy figures on running against him in the next election. He'd never forgive me if I cut him out of it. He won't be able to get the Feds down there before morning, anyway. We could say we're going down to keep an eye on the situation, monitor it . . . make sure nobody tries to leave.”

  They discussed it further while they drove to the station, refining their scheme. As predicted, the undersheriff wanted to mount an all-out assault team. He was severely hampered, however, by the hour and the weather. After much argument, he agreed to send Jacky and another deputy, Steve Minervini, and they could pick up Carrie Conlin in Tinstar. He would get to work on alerting the rest of the team. With any luck, they could be in place by dawn, which was only a few hours away.

  “But if there's any shooting,” the undersheriff warned, “. . . well, there better not be any shooting. If they want to leave, let them leave, but follow them.” He shook his head. “This weather's no good for a chopper, but maybe it'll break by dawn.”

  Joe Service brought the cane down on Heather's head with every ounce of strength he could muster. The cane splintered, but she fell like an ox. He hobbled to the fireplace as fast as he could, merely glancing at the lusciously naked Cateyo, sprawled oblivious on the couch, as he passed. Oh my, he thought. He snatched up the heavy iron poker and hurried back to finish the job, but his rage had dissipated and he couldn't bring himself to use the poker. Perhaps it was the sight of Cateyo that had blunted his fury. He stood and trembled for a moment, then tossed the poker aside. He had never experienced such rage, he thought. The doctor had warned him that he might be subject to such quirks of emotion. People who had suffered brain injury often developed strange shifts of emotion and behavior. But it had gone as quickly as it had come. He was thankful that it had come, for he wasn't certain that he could have mustered the force to act, otherwise.

  But now he had work to do. He had no idea what Helen was up to, nor th
e Fat Man, but he had an overwhelming drive to get the hell out of there. He tried to rouse Cateyo, but she was sluggish and wouldn't come awake. At last, he went to the kitchen and fetched a glass of water, which he tossed full in her face. That got her. She spluttered and sat up.

  “Paul! Paul, what is . . . my clothes! What is going on?”

  “Get up, babe,” Joe snapped, “and quit calling me Paul, for chrissake! Listen, we've got to get out of here.”

  Cateyo staggered to her feet, her arms crossed on her breasts. Then she saw Heather. “Good heavens!” she cried. “What happened?” She darted to the fallen woman's side and gingerly touched her bloodied head. She looked around wildly and spied the fractured cane. “Pau—Joe! What have you done?”

  Joe had hobbled to the bedroom and returned with some clothes, which he flung at Cateyo. “Had to do it, babe,” he said, more calmly than he felt. “We've got to get out of here. Get dressed.”

  Cateyo yanked on a sweater and jeans, all the while talking at Joe. “We've got to help her, Joe. She's hurt.”

  “She was about to hurt us,” Joe said, pulling on a coat. “Help me with these boots.”

  Cateyo came to assist him, still asking, still demanding answers. Joe ignored her, telling her to get some warm clothes on. He went to the kitchen and rummaged about in drawers, frantically, until he came up with a roll of duct tape. “This'll have to do.” While Cateyo finished dressing he knelt and bound Heather's wrists behind her with the tape, then did the same for her ankles. “She'll be all right,” he snarled over his shoulder. “Get dressed! We've got to get out!”

  And then he was pushing her out into the screaming wind and shocking cold. “Jesus,” he yelled, “this is even worse than I thought! Get the car started.” He pushed her toward the car, which had been pulled into the shed. He realized he would need a flashlight. When he went back into the cabin to get the big dry-cell light he kept near the door, he saw that Heather had moved. She groaned. Joe gave her a kick in the head and she fell silent. Then he limped out, slamming the door behind him. He seemed to be having a little trouble moving his right leg. He could see that Cateyo had gotten the car started, the exhaust torn away by the furious wind. She got out of the car, and he yelled for her to come with him.

  Together they slogged through the snow drifts, into the biting wind, up the trail behind the house until they came to the old mine. He kicked around in the snow until he found the rock and retrieved the key. While Cateyo held the light, he fumbled the key into the lock and let them into the vault. It wasn't exactly warm inside, but it was out of the weather. Cool and dry. There was a peculiar odor, not strong, but insistent. Joe sniffed. He shook his head, dismissing it.

  “Joe, what are we doing here?” Cateyo demanded. “I have to know. Are we in danger?”

  “Yes,” he snapped. “We're up to our asses in it, babe. Here, help me with these boxes.” And then he saw the corpse. It was the same guy, the hitchhiker out on the highway, just before the curtain came down. His hat was askew on his disheveled head, his feet splayed out before him. Joe couldn't see the man's face, but he knew it. He reeled, a horde of images crowding in on him.

  With incredible control he turned, blocking Cateyo's view. She had not seen the corpse, or if she had, she must have thought it was just a pile of old clothes and gear. Joe thrust a cardboard box of money at her and snatched the light from her hand, directing the beam toward the door.

  “Here,” he gasped, “take this down to the car. Wait there for me. I'll be down in a moment. Can you find your way without the light? Just follow the tracks. Hurry!” He pushed her out of the doorway.

  When she had gone, stumbling through the drifting snow, he returned to the mine. He peered at the corpse. The face was withered and drawn, dried out. Joe couldn't repress the thought that here was a man who, if not exactly risen from the grave, seemed remarkably well’ preserved. A mummy actually. He couldn't begin to speculate on how it had come about. Dry air? Cool temperature? He must have lost all or most of his blood soon after death. And damned mobile for a corpse, too.

  But he had no time for this. He turned to his task. There was another whole box of money here, but there were also some guns. He couldn't carry both. Which was more valuable, at the moment? He decided on the guns. He was rummaging among them, trying to make a selection, when he heard a noise. He turned to the door, fearing that Cateyo had disobeyed him and returned.

  Heather stood in the door. She lunged at Joe. They fell to the floor together, tussling. Heather's powerful hands locked on Joe's throat. They were icy cold, the grim grip of death. “Die, you little freak!” she grunted.

  Joe was on the verge of blacking out. He lashed out with the lantern. It caught Heather on the side of the head and she tumbled sideways, into the lap of the corpse. She looked around and then screamed as the light fell on the dead man's face. Joe bashed her again. The lantern flickered and went out as Heather slumped.

  Joe disentangled his legs from her's—or were they the dead man's?—and crawled on his hands and knees toward the door, which was little more than a glimmer of lighter darkness. When he was outside, back in the howling blizzard, he slammed the door shut and floundered down the snowy path.

  He was almost to the cabin when he stumbled over Cateyo. She lay in a heap in the snow. Joe struggled to arouse her. She had been choked into unconsciousness and then idly tossed aside, but she wasn't dead. With enormous effort Joe got her to her feet and they managed to stagger to the cabin. Joe poured a glass of brandy and made her drink some. She spluttered and pushed the glass away.

  When she had recovered somewhat she began to wildly recount what had happened. “My god, Joe, she tried to strangle me! I thought I was dead! What's wrong with her? Has she gone insane? She kept asking where you had gone. I wouldn't tell her and then I just . . . I just . . .”

  “That's all right, babe,” Joe assured her. “You did okay.” “Where is she?” Cateyo suddenly panicked. “She'll find us!” “She's out there, looking for us,” Joe said. “We've got to get the hell out of here.” Cateyo was eager to fly. He told her to back the car out of the shed, he'd be right behind her. As soon as she was out the door he hobbled to the little closet off the kitchen. He slid back the concealed panel and looked at the array of switches. He sighed. He'd known when he had installed this apparatus that one day he would have to activate it. He hated the thought. He'd loved this place. But he'd always known he couldn't have it forever.

  Some day the killers would come. They had come at a bad time. That's the way it always happens, he supposed. He hadn't been here to deal with them and when he did get here, he wasn't functioning very well. Well, he was a prudent man. Some might call him paranoid, but that was not the way he saw it. Be prepared. He hoped his preparations were adequate. Now he had to concentrate to remember the exact activating sequence. But it was confusing. He was blocked. He just couldn't get going with it. Long, long seconds flowed by, swept by. He almost screamed in frustration. It just wouldn't come to him.

  And then he smiled and stepped back. Don't think about it, he told himself. Just do it; it'll come. He reached out . . . and his fingers did what was necessary. They flipped this switch, pressed that button, threw another switch, and that was that. He slid the panel closed and went out.

  The wind was still roaring but there didn't seem to be as much snow and the car was out of the shed, turned around, and aimed down the road. He huffed up the trail and found the box that Cateyo had been lugging. He carried it down to the car. Cateyo was behind the wheel, anxiously craning around, looking for Heather. Joe put the box in the rear seat and climbed in next to her. “Let's go, babe,” he said. Cateyo needed no urging. She powered forward. It was so lovely and warm inside, Joe almost fainted with gratitude. But he roused himself and kept a lookout as Cateyo steered the car slowly down the mountainside, busting through the occasional drifts. The wind had swept the road relatively clear. They made the highway with no great difficulty.

  “Which way?
” Cateyo said, as they bumped across the Garland Ranch cattle guard.

  “Right,” Joe said. And they turned toward the Ruby Valley and Salt Lake City.

  After a while, when they were both sufficiently warmed and calm, Cateyo said, peering into the flying snow, “Do you think she'll be all right?”

  “She'll be fine,” Joe said. “She'll be back in the house, by now, drinking wine and wondering how she's going to get home.”

  But Heather wasn't in the house. She was in the pitch-black tomb with a dead man. She was cold, but not freezing. There were blankets and warm gear. But the door, when she found it, would not open. It had locked when Joe slammed it shut. She lunged against it with her shoulder, time and again, but it was solid, gave no hint of yielding. She told herself not to panic, to take her time. She would investigate this tomb. There would be something in here that she could use to attack the door. Just don't panic.

  Outside, the tracks in the snow soon drifted over.

  Joe glanced at the backseat. The box sat there, safely. He smiled and slumped back. In a little while, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, someone would come to the cabin and they'd begin to tear it apart. Soon enough, they would find the security panel in the utility closet and a couple of red lights would convince them it was on, that there was an alarm system. He was confident that they would throw the On-Off switch. They might even throw it back on. It didn't matter. If the system wasn't armed, as he had just done, it wouldn't make a difference, nothing would happen. But when it was armed, unless you punched in the disarming code, an internal switch would open a little valve on the propane line just a couple of feet from where it passed through the concrete foundation, and the odorless gas would seep into the sealed crawl space under the house. Because the gas was heavier than air it would begin to pool. After a time a short circuit would occur in a section of the wiring that provided power to the electric hot-water heater. This would cause the insulation of the wiring to smolder and ignite some noxious chemicals. Fumes would issue upward. This was a kind of early warning device, a humane device in Joe Service's mind. It would alert the intruders; it should, in fact, drive them out of the house. He sincerely hoped so. He hoped nobody would be in the house when the spluttering line finally burned through and fell into the pooling propane. The explosion would be very destructive. It would also mask another, simultaneous explosion up on the ridge above the old mine. Several tons of rocks would shift down the hill, forever masking the mine entrance. The house and any evidence about Joe Service would be completely destroyed, aided by a few judicious incendiary devices here and there. Joe was fairly confident that only the shrewdest arson investigator would ever figure it out, except to say, “Aha! Leaky propane line, faulty wiring. Case closed.”