“Couldn’t work in Muhammad?”
“Young Joseph was a Nez Perce chief from the eighteen hundreds. The guy’s prints aren’t in the system, so they’ve been holding him while they figure out who he is and what to do with him. He’s reported as likely Native American, late twenties, five feet ten inches tall. They sent his booking photo, and I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy as the pic you sent, though he’s definitely the worse for wear. I’ll forward it to you.”
“Thanks, Julie. Quick work.”
“Thank the Feds.”
Wells passed the news to Coyle. By the time he was done, the booking photo had hit his phone. Tarnes was right. Milo Nighthorse was going by Emperor Jesus Young Joseph these days.
“Another one bites the dust,” Coyle said.
“Least we have good news for his mother.” Not the worst news, anyway.
The support group in Lewiston began an hour before the one in Pullman, so they went to Lewiston first. Wells might not have dared to make the approach if he and Coyle hadn’t been veterans themselves. As it was, he didn’t want to participate under false pretenses. He planned to ask if he could talk to the group for a minute before things started.
The Lewiston meeting took place at a storefront church a few blocks from the Clearwater River. A half-dozen middle-aged men and one woman stood around a table stacked with bottles of store-brand juice and a percolator that had been brewing coffee since Vietnam. None of them had the guarded eyes of soldiers who’d served in the infantry.
“New blood,” a tall white guy said. “Nice to meet you. I’m Clyde.”
“John. And this is Winston. We are veterans, but we came for a specific reason.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re investigating a woman who might have run a scam on soldiers in the area.” True enough, as far as it went. “We think she was targeting infantry. Specifically, snipers.”
Clyde shook his head. “We’re Guard and Air Force, mostly. I’m the only one who was Regular Army, but I was a mechanic. I mean, to be honest, we mainly get together to drink bad coffee.”
“I saw there was a group up in Pullman—”
“Yeah, those guys are younger. More of a PTSD-type situation.” Clyde almost but not quite saying: To those guys, we’re practically civvies, so we have our own little meeting here.
“Thanks. We’ll try there.”
“Hold on,” the woman said. She was forty or so, with the squint and lines that came from long days in the high-country sun. “This woman, what was her name?”
“She may have gone by Annalise. She was in her twenties, blond, pretty—”
“Three, four months ago, I was at the clinic, and I got to talking to this vet named Fred, who lives up by Pullman. He told me how he was out with a buddy, they almost got into a fight over some woman. I can’t remember her name, but it started with an A. Blond, real pretty. His friend fell hard for her, he said. Love at first sight. Like something from a cheesy movie.”
“This guy Fred mention the friend’s name?”
She shook her head. “I’m sure he was in the service, too, though. Just from the way Fred told the story. But that was it. I never saw the guy again—Fred, I mean. Don’t even know his last name.”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Kimberly.” She scribbled down her contact information. “If you have any questions, call me.” She winked at Coyle. “And you . . . You call if you have questions or not.”
The sniper list didn’t have anyone named Fred. But someone at the Pullman meeting would have to know him. If not, worst case: Tarnes could ask the military records office in the morning.
“Progress, as promised.”
Coyle grunted noncommittally.
“We confirmed she was here—”
“We confirmed somebody got into a bar fight over a blonde. Maybe.”
“You were right about Nighthorse, but you’re wrong about this.”
The second meeting was at a volunteer firehouse south of Pullman. The place had four bays and a big meeting room, where ten guys stood around sipping coffee. About half had serious ink on their arms or necks, and they all had hooded, downcast eyes. The real deal.
They, too, stirred as Coyle and Wells walked in, but the vibe was warier than in Lewiston, not exactly unwelcoming, but questioning: Sure you’re in the right place? Wells wondered if he should mention Annalise first. But he sensed he’d only have one chance. Finding Fred was the priority.
“This the veterans’ meeting?”
A tall guy turned to them, giving Wells a glimpse of the burn that scarred his right cheek. “You served?”
“We did. I was a Ranger a while back, and Coyle here just got out of the Marines. But we’re really just looking for one guy in particular. Named Fred.”
“We heard two guys have been knocking on doors today. That you?”
Wells nodded.
“And you work for?”
“We’d rather not say and we have good reason, I promise. You can call Sheriff Darby in Colfax, if you don’t trust us.”
“You’re cops, then?”
“We’re not, I swear, and Fred isn’t in trouble. Just hoping he can help us.”
The tall guy shook his head. Now Wells could see the scar tissue extended down his neck, under his shirt. “You two should go. Whatever this is, it’s got nothing to do with us—”
A fireplug of a guy stepped up. “I’m Fred.” To the tall guy: “It’s all right, Lyndon. I’ll talk to ’em outside. You hear me whistle, you come running and jump ’em.” He smiled so Wells would know he was joking, though he wasn’t.
Lyndon grunted: Hoo-ah.
They stood in the dark in the fire station’s parking lot.
“I’m John, and this is Winston.”
“Fred Urquhart.” Urquhart was a little man with oversized features: a big beak nose and a chin that belonged on a lineman. He sized them up with a mix of confidence and deference, the confidence of a man who had traded fire with the enemy, the deference of a grunt who was used to taking orders he didn’t necessarily like. “What brings you to beautiful Pullman?”
“This is gonna sound strange, but we’re looking for a guy with sniper training—”
“Can’t help you there—”
“Who met a woman a few months back.”
The look on Urquhart’s face said Should have let you finish. Even bosses get it right once in a while.
“This woman, she was blond? Great body?”
“I’ve only seen her face, but she was pretty, sure,” Wells said. “Maybe she called herself Annalise—”
Urquhart shot a stream of curses. “Not to us. To us, she was Allie. I knew she was trouble. That whole night, the whole thing, it didn’t make sense—” He caught himself, sputtered out.
Wells let him tell the story his own way, knowing they’d have the name soon enough.
“I’m sorry. I was at the Hyde Out—that’s in Colfax—back in the fall. This woman came in. These two guys were trying to pick her up, pretty hard, and Tom stood up for her—”
“Tom?”
“Tom Miller.”
Wells looked at Coyle: Believe me now? “He lives a little north of Colfax? Trailer?”
“Yeah, that’s him. To be honest, I never actually saw his place. Some woman from the VA hooked us up—we’re both on partial—she thought we’d get along, and we did. But wasn’t like we were tight tight, we’d only known each other a few months.”
“What happened that night?”
“This chick, Allie, comes in. She was more than pretty. I mean, it looked like she’d been rode hard and put away wet, but, even so, she’d stop traffic. She was alone, and these two jerks start on her. They won’t let go. You know, officer types. Finally, Tom decides he’s going to do something about it. And Tom’s l
ittle, but he’s tough, so that fight doesn’t last long, and it ends with both those dudes walking away with their rich little tails between their rich little legs. A couple minutes later, I left, too. Tom and the girl were looking at each other like Adam and Eve, and I swear that’s the last I saw of him.”
Urquhart poured out the story like he’d been mulling over that night for months. Wells believed every word.
“Why didn’t it make sense? He stood up for her, she fell for him. Old story.”
“Yeah, and I know you’re thinking I’m just mad I didn’t get to her first. But I’m telling you, it was weird. First off, those guys were a-holes. But it wasn’t like this chick was wasted, she could have walked out. It felt to me kinda like she was waiting for us to poke our noses in, which at the time I figured, you know, pretty girls, some of ’em like to start stuff. Get guys fighting. Second, even beaten-down, this girl was something. Clean her up and she was a nine. And Tom, I liked him. I don’t want to sound like a REMF here, but—” He broke off.
“Not a good-looking guy?”
Urquhart grunted like even admitting the fact hurt. “Tom was a five. On a good day. The normal move for that chick would have been to say, Thanks. And, by the way, the door’s over there, don’t let it hit your ass on the way out. But she looked at him like he’d just invented fire or something.”
“So you left?”
“Yeah, I left. I figured sooner or later he’d call me and tell me how he bought her a few drinks, and she went Poof! Or maybe he did get lucky and had the best night of his life. But he didn’t. After a week or so, I called him a few times. He never called back.” Urquhart shook his head. “And I dropped it, I admit. I stopped calling. I was a little pissed. And now I’m ashamed of myself, ’cause that is not how infantry does infantry. And you two look like the real deal to me. And I don’t think you came all the way to nowhere to track me down, however you tracked me down, to tell me he just won the 4-H prize for best pig. And Tom: He wasn’t the type to brag, but we talked a little bit about ’Stan. He’d taken down a bunch of hajjis. I doubt he’d have trouble playing Shoot the Cardinal at seven hundred yards.”
The fact that Urquhart had guessed so quickly why they were interested in Miller was yet another sign he was their man. “Did he ever mention any anti-religious leanings to you?”
“Nah, he was a nice guy. But he was alone up here. No family. His dad left when he was little, and his mom died a couple years back. I mean, I was like his closest friend. And he’d had a couple nasty concussions. If this chick twisted him up—”
“Understood. You have his number or email?”
“Just his number.” Urquhart gave it to them. “Want me to go up to his place with you?”
“No, we don’t think he’s there. And we need to talk to the sheriff, anyway. Obviously, keep this to yourself.”
Urquhart nodded. “Go easy on him, if you can.”
“If we can.”
Back in the Explorer, Wells called Darby.
“Sheriff, name Tom Miller ring a bell? Veteran, lives in Colfax?”
“Believe it or not, yes. His mom and stepdad died a couple years back. Overdose. There was a fight over who was in line for their pickup truck—it was brand-new—and we had to get involved. Title was in her name, so Miller got it.”
“How did he strike you?”
“Decent. You wouldn’t know it by his name, he’s Hispanic. I had the feeling he had a rough go in the service, but he never complained about it or played that card. He was happy to get the truck, though. Why?”
“He’s on our sniper list, and an Army buddy of his says he got into a fight over a pretty blonde at a bar in Colfax a few months back. And he’s not home, and it looks like he hasn’t been for a while.”
“Still seems thin.”
“His buddy thought he was the guy.”
A pause. Then: “I’ll meet you at his trailer.”
“You don’t have to do that, Sheriff.”
“Don’t go in without me.”
Darby’s Explorer waited a half mile down from the trailer, running lights only. Wells stepped out to talk to him. The night was quiet, only the faint rumble of traffic on 195 breaking the silence. The sheriff sat alone in his truck, a wad of Nicorette in his mouth.
“Once I saw you weren’t there already, I pulled back. Didn’t want to freak him out if he is in there. Though, I agree, it doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”
“We’ll follow you.”
Darby’s truck rolled slowly off. Coyle followed. He hadn’t said much since Urquhart.
“All right, Sergeant?”
“Hoping it’s not him.”
Wells understood. But hope meant nothing now.
They followed Darby down the short private road that led to the trailer. A stream cut through there, feeding a stand of trees that screened Miller’s property from the main road. Wells heard it burbling in the dark. Soon enough, they reached the clearing in front of the trailer. The blinds were as tightly shut as they’d been earlier, although in the darkness Wells glimpsed the faint glow of lights inside. But they could have been on timers. The building was clean and well maintained, no rust on its metal siding. Yet its vacancy was unmistakable. It looked as cold as an empty safe.
Wells and Coyle grabbed the pistols under their seats and joined Darby in the clearing.
“Tom!” Darby yelled to the trailer. “It’s the sheriff. Remember me?”
They waited. Nothing.
“You home? Tom, if you’re in there, I’m gonna turn on the light. Don’t shoot us!” Darby flipped on the spotlight attached to the Explorer’s light bar, bathing the trailer in white. Still no movement.
“When did it last snow, Sheriff?” Wells said. A thin rime covered the clearing. Animal tracks were visible, but nothing resembling shoe- or bootprints.
“A couple inches Tuesday night. Safe to say, nobody’s been here since then.”
“We need to go in.”
“No warrant?”
“Welfare check. His buddy hasn’t seen him, nobody’s picking up the mail, the truck’s gone. Maybe somebody shot him, stole it.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m gonna take a look around back.”
Wells walked slowly around the trailer, his feet crunching through the stale snow. He hoped to find something that might force the sheriff’s hand, but the snow was unbroken back here, too. The blind in the middle rear window was up a couple inches.
“Fine,” Darby shouted from the front. “You win. Welfare check.”
Wells heard Darby and Coyle walking to the front door. “Hold tight. There’s a blind up—”
Wells edged to the window, glimpsed a couch, a coffee table—
“Tom!” Darby yelled. “Just want to make sure you’re okay—”
Wells looked to the front door. Fishing line had been strung horizontally from the doorknob—
Too late, Wells understood the trap. They’d been so busy catching Miller and the Russians, they hadn’t seen the Russians catching them, too—
“SHERIFF—”
Wells watched helplessly as the door swung out, opening up, the line pulled taut. He could just see Darby’s gray shirt—
No—
The thunderclap of a shotgun tore the night into a thousand pieces.
Darby crumpled backward and vanished.
Wells ran for the front. In the distance, he heard an owl hooting for prey.
Darby lay flat on his back in the snow. Wells didn’t have to touch him to know he was dead. He hadn’t been wearing a vest, not that it would have mattered. The 12-gauge shot had carved him open. He wasn’t even twitching.
Coyle had been hit, too, high on the right side of his chest. He was on his knees, his hands pressed against the wound, wordlessly watching his own life stain the snow. He must have been
a step down from Darby. The sheriff’s body had saved him, at least temporarily, but he was in bad shape.
Wells slid his arms under Coyle’s shoulders, pulled him up. The sudden movement seemed to wake Coyle. He gave a single groan, low and agonized. “Sheriff.”
“We have to go.”
Wells tried to turn Coyle, walk him toward the Explorer, but Coyle had nothing in his legs and sagged into the snow. Wells slung an arm under Coyle’s knees and picked him up, no easy feat: The Marine was short but dense. Wells hauled Coyle to the Explorer as Coyle’s blood painted him. He pulled open the door, shoved Coyle in. Coyle slumped against the window, glassy-eyed. Wells remembered how Tony from Tampa had bled out in fifteen minutes, no golden hour for him. He wondered how long the hospital in Colfax would need to bring in a surgeon. It was 9:15 now. Would they even have anyone on call or would they just put him in an ambulance and send him to Pullman? The hospital there had to be bigger, better equipped. Wells would need an extra fifteen minutes to reach it, but he could call them, tell them to be ready.
He snapped on Coyle’s seat belt and bumped down the dirt driveway and left onto the one-lane road that led to 195. “Sherf . . .” Coyle mumbled.
“We’ll come back—”
“Sherf . . .”
“Shh. Save your energy.”
Wells turned the heat on high, grabbed his phone, found the emergency room number for the Pullman hospital.
“Pullman Regional ED.”
“I’m bringing in a patient with a shotgun wound to the upper body. He’s conscious but in shock—”
“Sir. Slow down—”
“I’m in Colfax now—” Wells swung south onto 195, and gunned the Explorer’s engine. He wished he’d taken the sheriff’s truck. He could have run with the emergency lights. Too late now, he’d just have to hope he didn’t come across a cop on the way south. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Please, have a surgeon ready, or my friend’s gonna bleed out.”
The Deceivers Page 33