Devil's Run

by Frank Hughes

  I stood up and looked over the divide. I saw nothing and heard nothing. I climbed over and dropped into the empty bay. The warehouse smelled of propane, diesel, and stale beer. The truck was parked head in to a box canyon formed by heavy duty shelving supporting towers of canned beer three pallets high. Similar towers stretched out in both directions, criss-crossed by open lanes wide enough for the forklifts to maneuver. It was like a small city made of beer.

  I took the boot liners off and made my way towards the noise and light, keeping close to the towering pallets of beer. The smell of stale beer grew overpowering. I followed it around a corner and found the breakage pile, a mass of half smashed cases, warped cans, and rotting cardboard.

  From behind it I could see a big rig pointed towards the open door of the warehouse. Two guys in forklifts were loading pallets of empty beer kegs, driving directly up a ramp into the trailer. On the other side of the truck was a one story dispatcher’s office. Directly to the right of my hiding place was a giant cooler with sliding doors on the side closest to me. Black trails from hard rubber forklift tires radiated out from it. I could see similar stains extending from the front, so there was a door there as well.

  The two men finished loading the truck. When they were done, one of them parked his forklift and went in the office; the other took off towards the back of the warehouse. Almost immediately, two new men came out of the office. One was bald and wore an old cardigan. The other, I guessed the rig driver, had a stained leather coat with fur collar. Neither man was underfed or overly concerned with good grooming. The driver peered in the trailer and said something. The dispatcher stepped back and scribbled on a clipboard. The driver closed the doors and secured them with a padlock. The dispatcher ran a thin cable through the door mechanism and crimped the ends together with a lead plug. Finally, he pasted a yellow seal across the doors.

  The driver got a pink copy of the form. While the dispatcher headed back to the office, the driver inspected the tires and checked underneath the cab. He went around to the driver’s side of the cab and came back out moments later, minus his jacket and carrying a silver thermos.

  I looked around for something I could use as a prop. Breakage was where they sent the low man on the union totem pole to sort through the wreckage and salvage usable beer. To that purpose, there was a clipboard hanging from a hook on the wall, a dated record of cases salvaged by type. A cheap ballpoint pen was secured to the clipboard with a piece of twine.

  On summer break from college I’d worked in a grocery warehouse loading trucks and driving a forklift. Nine times out of ten, I could get away with doing nothing for hours, as long as I carried a clipboard and acted like I had a purpose. I took the clipboard from its hook and walked to the cab of the truck.

  No one yelled at me. I climbed up on the passenger side and opened the door. The driver’s leather coat lay on the passenger seat. I went through the pockets and found nothing but a pack of Marlboros and a half eaten Hershey Bar. I found the pink copy of the paperwork in a beat up ledger next to the driver’s seat. According to the manifest the truck was carrying a cargo of empty kegs back to a brewery in the Mid-West. There was no mention of the full kegs I’d come in with. I memorized the address of the receiving facility and put everything back where I’d found it.

  I started walking quickly back towards the breakage pile. Halfway there I heard the sound of an approaching forklift. It appeared from out of the stacks, carrying a pallet of crushed boxes, beer dripping in a steady stream. I changed direction, raising a hand in greeting as he passed me, keeping my eyes on the clipboard. He waved back, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him do a double take. He set the pallet down, spun the forklift around and headed back towards me.

  “Hey!” When I ignored the shout and kept walking, he yelled louder. “Hey!”

  I just kept walking, scribbling on the clipboard. He went past me and cut me off, forcing me to stop. He jumped down, leaving the motor idling.

  “Hey, asshole. Don’t ignore me.” He was a big guy and not in the best of moods.

  “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

  He leaned into me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I showed him the clipboard and pen. “Taking inventory.”

  “The hell you are. You don’t work here.”

  “Bill, what’s going on?”

  The dispatcher had come out of the office. The other forklift operator and the rig driver were in the doorway behind him.

  “I caught some guy sneaking around.” Then to me he said, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Who the fuck is he?” shouted the dispatcher.

  “Whaddya think I’m asking?” Bill took a step closer to me. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I told you, it’s unbelievable. Trust me, you would not believe me.”

  “Try me,” he said, smiling a way meant to be menacing. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m the man who kicked you in the balls.”

  I slammed my leg up into his crotch and whacked him across the face with the clipboard. He keeled over sideways, both hands clutching his groin.

  I jumped up onto the idling forklift and put it in gear, speeding away from the shouting. I looked back as I rounded a bend. The dispatcher was running after me, the other warehouseman was following in his forklift. Behind him, the big overhead door was rising.

  I heard a shot as I turned into the stacks. The bullet struck midway up a pallet of cans. Foam spurted from the hole.

  Just as I reached an intersection, the overheads came on, lighting up the entire warehouse. I spun the forklift, raising the forks as I turned. When the circle was nearly complete, the thick steel prongs sliced into the lower part of the middle pallet of beer cans. White foam sprayed everywhere. I continued the circle, moving closer to the pallet, cutting deeper. The stack of cases began to collapse.

  The dispatcher saw what was happening just a moment too late. He tried to stop, but slipped and fell in the fast growing puddle. He slid on his back right beneath the cascade of beer cans. I stopped my spin in time to see him put both arms up, the gun still clutched in his right hand. His scream was cut off by the crunch of metal and splash of foaming beer.

  I turned right and kept going through one intersection, turning right at the second, trying to head back towards the entrance. As I flew past the next intersecting lane, the other forklift turned and fell in behind me. At the end of the row, I spun the wheel and scooped up a pallet of beer. Turning towards my pursuer, I raised the forks as high as they would go and charged. Just before the pending collision, I braked and tipped the forks forward, sending the pallet crashing down on his forklift.

  I reversed out of the lane and turned back towards the main door of the warehouse. It was completely open now, and the tractor trailer’s lights were on. Two men in matching blue parkas ran in, pistols drawn.

  I turned to head back into the warehouse, but the guy on the other forklift had recovered and was coming right at me, forks raised to eye level. I spun the wheel again and drove towards the cooler. One of the security guards fired a couple of shots. The other ran towards me, then, realizing he couldn’t reach me in time, jumped onto the forklift chasing me and hung from the cage.

  I pulled the chain hanging from the ceiling. The cooler door split open and I accelerated through. Just inside the cooler was another chain. I yanked it, closing the doors behind me. They were halfway shut when the pursuing forklift struck. The doors crumpled inward and jammed, the tip of one fork spearing the metal and wood. The operator slammed forward into the console and the security guard flew off.

  I scooped up a pallet of kegs and pulled the chain for the opposite door. The second security guard was in the process of running over to his fallen buddy. My reappearance forced a moment of indecision that gave me time to turn towards him. By the time he brought his gun up, the only target was beer kegs. He got off two shots before the pallet clipped him in the head
, knocking him to the floor.

  The big rig was halfway out of the warehouse. I did a tight one eighty to follow. Two of the heavy kegs flew off, bouncing across the concrete floor and into the walls of the dispatcher’s office, shattering one of the windows.

  A path for the truck had been heavily salted, turning the snow to slush. The forklift tires immediately began spinning. I jumped off and ran towards the rear of the trailer, my wool socks soaking up water. I was slopping and splashing with each step by the time I was able to lunge forward and wrap my arms around the step plate. The truck dragged me along, my feet carving rooster tails through two inches of slush.

  Then we were out the gate and turning towards the road. Headlights were already visible back in the yard. They would catch up quickly, and I couldn’t hang on anyway. When the truck finished its turn onto the main road, I let go. Momentum carried me stumbling to the far side. I dove over the bank of plowed snow and tumbled down a short slope into the woods. Moments later, the pursuing vehicle rushed by.

  Once they realized I’d abandoned the truck, they’d have people combing the area. I started towards the lights of the residential neighborhood through nearly waist deep snow. By the time I made it through the trees, my socks had long since frozen stiff and my feet were turning into blocks of ice. Behind me I heard the howling of dogs. Of course they had dogs. Why not? Machine guns, artillery, forklifts, dogs; the arsenal was apparently bottomless.

  A windrow of snow running parallel to the trees marked a roadway. I struggled to the top, and I slid down into a recently plowed street. Now that I was out of the cloying snow, I could run, but I was leaving a trail Helen Keller could follow. They really didn’t need the fucking dogs.

  My mouth and throat were swollen and thick. I veered one side and skimmed a handful of snow off the pile, violating a primary survival rule by cramming it into my mouth. I had to keep moving, but for my body it was the final straw.

  The timing and sequence of what happened next is a blur. I remember turning into the neighborhood, still running, numb with cold and on the verge of exhaustion, but sometime after that I ceased to be fully conscious. I have scattered memories of stumbling and falling more than once, drawn towards a blue light that seemed to beckon, offering salvation. Then, in a brief moment of lucidity, I realized I was lying face down in the snow. My aches and pains were fading, replaced with numbness and a strange feeling of euphoria. I remember thinking, just before falling gratefully to sleep, that if this is death, I welcome it.

  50.

  My next clear memory is of such indescribable warmth and comfort, I briefly assumed I had indeed died and gone to heaven. Only heaven was surprisingly wet. I opened my eyes to find myself in a big Jacuzzi tub, complete with scented bubble bath. It occurred to me that God might be a woman.

  “Ah, you’ve come back to us.”

  The voice was female and familiar. I looked up to find Chief Catherine Masterson standing over me, hands on her hips. She was in full uniform, but her holster was empty.

  “I’m going to smell like my grandmother’s sofa,” said a croaking voice I barely recognized as my own.

  “You’re welcome, since I’ll assume that was some sort of thank you.”

  “How did I…?” I gestured weakly with an arm that dripped big soap bubbles.

  “Get here? You don’t remember?”

  “Not really. I think I was on autopilot. For some reason I have a vague picture of the blue fairy in my head.”

  “There were no fairies involved. That was my porch light.”

  “Oh, my God. I must have remembered that silly story of yours.”

  “If it wasn’t for that silly story you’d probably be dead. I dragged you off my front lawn.”

  “You must work out.”

  “You helped a little. Very little. Let’s just say you’ve got bruises you didn’t have when you arrived.”

  “I see.”

  “There’s coffee brewing. How do you take it? Wait, I remember, black.”

  “Right.”

  “You should be about ready to prune by now. Towel’s right there. Your clothes were a little rank. Blood and God knows what else. That stuff on the vanity should fit you.”

  “Thanks. Just one more minute, Mom, then I’ll get out.”

  “Modesty compels me to give you your privacy. Have you recovered enough for me to leave you alone? Not going to pass out and slip under?”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  “Good.” She turned to leave.

  “Oh, Chief?”

  She turned back. “What?”

  I splashed a few suds away so I could look down in the water. Then I looked up at her and raised an eyebrow.

  “Your clothes were soaked,” she said.

  “I see.”

  “I’m a big girl, Craig. It’s not like I was seeing anything special.”

  “Just what a man likes to hear.”

  “Oh, don’t take me wrong, that’s not what I meant.” She nodded towards the bath water. “Speaking of that, are you sure you’re Irish?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but I’m black Irish.”

  Ten minutes later, after a preview of what it’s like to get dressed when you’re ninety, I was wearing some other guy’s flannel lined jeans, work shirt, and black wool turtleneck. I followed faint noises and the occasional transmission from a police scanner out into the hall and found my way to the kitchen. Catherine turned from the counter as I entered.

  “Do they fit?”

  “Pants are a bit loose and he’s a mite taller than me, but this’ll do in a pinch.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers. I’m not putting whatever’s on your clothes in my washing machine. What size shoes do your wear?”

  “Ten and a half.”

  “Those UGGs of his over there should fit you. You’ll want to stay warm. Your toes were close to frostbite when I found you.”

  “Yeah, it’s a tad chilly out there.”

  “Most people wear something besides socks in a blizzard.”

  I sat down at the table to put the boots on. The kitchen was large and well-equipped for such an old looking house. All the appliances were top of the line stainless, and the coffee machine looked like she got it at a Starbucks garage sale. I noticed a black gun safe on the counter next to it. Like most cops, at home Catherine kept her gun locked away, but easily accessible. A quick pattern on the four numbered pads and the revolver would be in her hand.

  She brought over two steaming mugs and handed one to me.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. I put the cup down and went back to the footwear. “Considering my weakened condition, I’m lucky this guy didn’t show up while I was naked in your Jacuzzi.”

  She took a seat across the table from me. “Not much chance of that. He’s dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Second tour in Afghanistan.” She smiled without humor. “Didn’t even die in combat. Mechanical failure. Chopper just dropped out of the sky.”

  “I’m truly sorry.”

  She sipped her coffee and said nothing.

  “You on duty?” I asked. Nice segue, Nick.

  “I’m the chief, I’m always on duty. However, your surmise is correct. I was headed out the door to deal with an emergency, but you came calling.”

  “Couldn’t be much of an emergency if you had time to bathe me.”

  “Well, I figured you were the emergency.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “Why me?”

  As if in answer, the scanner came to life with a brief report that Patrolman Gibbons was taking statements at the hospital from the victims of the warehouse break in.

  She sipped some coffee. “I think the sudden influx of traumatic injuries to our already overburdened emergency room was my first clue.” She sipped some coffee. “My second was the urgent request from Kohl’s security people to help them find an armed and dangerous man whose description fits you down to the eye color.”<
br />
  “I have one of those faces.” I had some more coffee.

  “They also said his name was Nick Craig.”

  “Really? So why am I not in custody?”

  “I wanted to chat first.”

  “Very unusual for a cop.”

  She grunted or laughed, I couldn’t tell.

  “I spoke with my counterpart in Bedford,” she said.

  “Nice guy, as I remember.”

  “Seemed to be. Actually, he reminded me a lot of my Dad. In any case, he must like you, too. He inquired after your health.”

  “I’m happy to hear he’s still breathing.”

  “Yes, he mentioned your cautionary advice. Anyway, he filled me in on what went on there, including a Colorado phone number on a cell you directed him to.”

  “Did that lead anywhere?”

  “It was unlisted, a number for a throwaway phone. Our conversation got me thinking about some of the things you said. So I thought we’d spend a few moments together. Off the record.”

  “I am yours to command.”

  “For starters, who are you?”

  “Exactly who I told you I am. Nick Craig,” I said, pausing dramatically before adding, “private eye.”

  “So you say, but after our previous conversations, I did some checking. No Nick Craig is registered at any hotel within fifteen miles of here, and wasn’t for any of the time I personally know you were in town.”

  “I usually stay in a manger. Old habits die hard.”

  “However, the Sheriff’s office did have one report of credit card fraud from a charming motor lodge just outside of town.”

  “I see. And this concerns me how?”

  “It seems a David Somerset paid cash for a room, and then disappeared. When the cash ran out and Mr. Somerset had not vacated the room, the clerk ran the card for the balance. It was disallowed.”