The New Guinea Job (A Case Lee Novel Book 2)

by Vince Milam

  “A pull, a tug. Ill-defined at the moment.”

  A gust kicked up sea foam, the water gunmetal gray.

  “Both events depress me,” Catch said. “Depress the hell out of me.”

  Jutting rocks the size of substantial buildings squatted amid the near-shore waves, mute and inhospitable. Gray sky met gray water. Tree-topped cliffs hemmed us against the ocean.

  “You’re going big sky?” Catch asked.

  Our former Delta team leader, now a Montana rancher. Marcus Johnson. I hadn’t visited him since fall.

  “Yeah. Been a while.”

  “Why not come back here afterward?”

  “Mom and CC.”

  “Move them here. And your old tub. The Ace. Park it on the Willamette.”

  “I like the concept,” Bo said. “It rings of wholeness.”

  Catch produced a flask of peach brandy. We stood together and took pulls of the fiery sweet liquid. Bo’s wild hair dripped from the flyaway ends. Catch’s beard collected rain and funneled onto his rain-geared chest. Gusts of wind carried salt water and dark, unknowable life. Three warriors, brothers, alone. No one for miles. And alone in another sense.

  “I’ll miss you guys,” I said. “As always. Don’t know why we’ve ended up where we are.”

  “Separate paths, my brother. The cosmos is wide, opportunistic, and occasionally brutish.”

  “We know a big reason,” Catch said. “There’s three million dollars huddled around this flask.”

  The bounty. The ugly backdrop to our lives. “We’ll find the source. The paymaster. Eventually.”

  “The sooner the better,” Catch said. “I’m settling down.”

  “A fine woman,” I said.

  “The best. But my name isn’t on anything. Fake driver’s license. No utility bills or credit cards or online presence. I’m tired of that. Willa is, too.”

  We turned and faced the ocean, huddled. Bo inhaled deep, head back. Catch extended an arm and gripped Bo’s shoulder, squeezed, released.

  “You set the stage, Case,” he said, and paused for a slug of brandy. “The first of us. Found a great woman. A partner. You settled down. Showed us how it could happen.”

  I didn’t want Rae with us now. The environment too elemental, too gray, too weighted. She had dragged me, saved me, from a lost existence. Too painful.

  “Hope you’ve dropped the hair shirt,” Bo said, referencing my guilt and remorse. “And have committed.”

  “To what?”

  “Another go at it, oh stunted one. True happiness. A devotion toward such endeavors.” We circled again, the flask passed. “We’ve reviewed this. Multiple times. Most recently in the Dismal.”

  “I know.” Subject change time. “Tell us about Willa, Catch.”

  His eyes drilled holes, brooding, as he gauged my pain. Dark eyebrows collected center forehead, but he respected ending the Rae path of conversation.

  “Yes. Tell us of love, hairy one,” Bo said. “The great mystery of your joining with another on the banks of the Willamette.”

  “Reach out,” I said.

  “Share,” Bo added.

  We laughed, the flask passed again. A flop of Bo’s wet hair raised and lowered with the wind gusts.

  “I love her. Plain and simple. She’s real. No artifice.” He took a long peach brandy pull. “And she puts up with me. Rumor has it that’s no minor thing.”

  “What about those console doodads?” I asked. When fishing for hot sauce in the SUV’s center console, I’d run across a variety of knickknacks. Handmade earrings, carved hair berets, assorted essential oils—local and organic. He’d bought a handmade wooden coaster at the Tillamook store stop and added it to the collection, the ultimate recipient clear.

  “I write Willa a love letter every week. Put one of those with it.”

  It was too serious, too impactful, for laughter or ribbing or any sort of hard time. He was in love, and—with quintessential Catch style—pedal-to-the-metal in love. And he wouldn’t relent. Not Catch.

  We faced the ocean again. Waves struck offshore rock shoals; foam and sheets of Pacific slid up the beach. Nature spoke. We remained silent.

  “About the bounty,” I said, rubbing the wound. It had entered a serious healing phase and vacillated between small shards of “here I am” and itching. “The paymaster. We’re going to find him. Sooner or later. And I want to talk about it.”

  “You can forget about the solo crap,” Catch said.

  “I second the sentiment, my brother,” Bo added. “We all go. Finish it.”

  They’d glommed onto my plan prior to vocalizing it. I’d take the SOB out. Somewhere on this good earth, I’d find and eliminate the threat and we could move on. Catch was settled. Bo off being Bo. I’d finish it. No worries.

  “You ugly bastards didn’t let me talk about it.”

  “’Cause we knew where you were headed. Bo’s right. We all go. Clean house.”

  There was no point arguing. A commitment woven in each individual’s cloth, and within the fabric of our collective connection. It brought warmth to an isolated, cold beach. The declarative statements brought us back to a circle. The flask passed around.

  “The killing. All of it over the years.” I tossed it on the wind, let it swirl.

  “Another discussion you and I have had,” Bo said. “Several times. It’s tedious.” He took a swig of brandy. “The universe drives. We buckle up and ride. A part of nature and cosmic disorder.”

  “I think about it,” Catch said. “Yeah, it bugs me. Not the here part. Later.”

  He spoke of judgment. Bo and I both understood.

  “’Bout the only damn thing I fear,” he added.

  “Yeah. Me too,” I said.

  Bo wrapped an arm around both our necks and pulled us close. Waves, wind, rain, and isolation. But far from alone. “It may surprise you two lower elevation thinkers,” Bo said as he bumped foreheads with both of us. Our heads dripped; salty drops lingered along facial creases. “But I do consider such things. And float in awe of the possibility. But we did right. Took out the bad guys. We cannot wallow among the yesterdays.”

  “There’ll be more,” I whispered. “Killing. We all know it.”

  A lone gull called, circling. A wet gust pressed, passed.

  “Yeah. I do know it,” Catch said, addressing the sand at our feet. “Willa does, too. Although she’s never mentioned it.”

  “We move forward,” Bo said. “And allow room to reminisce. And swallow a teaspoon or two of angst. And revel in love. We will love, my brothers. We will love.”

  It burned white hot at that moment, still and real and aching. And we each drew from it, drank deep. Because whatever lay ahead—fear, trauma, horror—the fury and love of blood brothers would abide.

  Chapter 17

  Marcus Johnson. Tango Bravo Bravo—his Delta Force call sign. It stood for tough black bastard. He was every bit of that, and an excellent leader.

  He stood outside the security area at the Billings, Montana, airport. Stately, I suppose. Rock solid, without doubt. One of the few black ranchers in this neck of the woods, and he dressed the part. A well-used felt Stetson, ranch coat, jeans, and scuffed boots. Hints of gray hair peeked below the Stetson’s brim. He also wore a side-of-the-mouth grin as I approached, with a constant nod, assessing.

  “You look good,” he said, shaking hands. “Been too long.”

  “Well, now it’s spring, Marcus. Sort of. For Montana.”

  I’d last seen him late fall and had reiterated a general lack of enthusiasm for Montana winters.

  “And you’re looking well yourself,” I said, tossing my rucksack over a shoulder. The wrong shoulder, and the wound kicked off a grimace.

  “You hurt?”

  “Minor stuff.”

  “Thought you James Bond types always dodged the bullets. And got the girl.”

  The sliding doors of the small airport opened. A strong breeze blew, the air crisp. Snow remained in shady spots along the
north side of buildings.

  “Failed to dodge an arrow.”

  He sighed. Long strides led toward the parking lot. “An arrow. Great.”

  “And not much luck in the girl area, either.”

  He turned and patted my back. “You’ll be happy knowing I’ve decided not to waste my breath on the talk.”

  The talk consisted of the usual admonitions. Move here. Share his house until I found employment and a place of my own. Settle.

  I smiled. It was fine and good and fulfilling seeing him again. “What are the odds that’ll last?” I asked.

  “Damn poor. But I’ll spare you today.”

  He popped open the back of his SUV. I tossed my rucksack and he handed over an HK45 semiautomatic pistol. “I know you prefer the Glock. But this is a better weapon.”

  I slid the pistol into the back of my jeans, grinning. Marcus was renowned for definitive statements.

  His wirehaired bird dog, Jake, took the opportunity for a leap from the back seat, into the rear area, and out the back. He slammed into me with joyous leaps. Marcus ordered him to behave. He ignored the command, peed on a nearby pickup’s tire, dashed around, and ended up leaning against my leg. I scratched him behind an ear.

  “You may note the other items,” Marcus said.

  A variety of semiautomatic weapons were displayed, aligned and neat, across the back area of the SUV. He readjusted one Jake had kicked. “If your paranoia switch fires again, come select one of these. Pick your comfort blanket.” He waited for a nod of approval. It came, with a heartfelt smile.

  He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Tempus fugit, Case.”

  “Does indeed.” I patted his ribs. “Evidenced by your gray hair showing.”

  “It’s called distinguished.”

  “It’s called Just for Men. Should we stop and get you some?”

  We laughed as he shook his head. The large hatch door stood open, an array of weaponry evident, and a bird dog hanging with the guys. At an airport parking lot, thirty yards from the terminal. Welcome to the West.

  Marcus handed me a beer and we headed down the highway. I already missed Bo, Catch, and Willa but warmed with the deep glow of Marcus’s friendship. Plus I was making my way east. A Montana detour, sure, but the Ace of Spades waited. I was headed home.

  “Where you been?” he asked. “I take it the Zurich gnomes didn’t send you to Saint-Tropez.”

  “Papua New Guinea. PNG.”

  “Where you picked up the souvenir.” He sounded like Babe Cox.

  “Yeah. Upper left chest. It’s doing well.”

  “You may consider having a long and hard chat with your travel agent.”

  “Here we go. Haven’t even made it out of Billings.” A teasing reference to the talk.

  He lifted both hands from the steering wheel. Surrender. “Fine. Fine. So talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

  I did. And included Bo and Catch’s interpretations of PNG’s events. As well as parts played by Jules of the Clubhouse, Abbie Rice, and Marilyn Townsend.

  “Gears turn? Classic. Just classic.” He didn’t say so with a positive note.

  “Jules. What can I say?”

  “You could say you’ll remove that witch from your social circles.”

  “Wish you could learn to make more definitive statements. Quit being so wishy-washy.”

  He started to pop me with the back of his hand against my chest. Marcus is quick, an athlete. But I’m quicker and caught his hand before it could strike the wound area.

  A sidelong glance and “Sorry. Forgot about the souvenir.”

  “Old-age forgetfulness. I understand.”

  “Shut up. And Miriam’s coming over for dinner tonight.”

  “Good. Love seeing her.”

  Miriam—Marcus’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. She lived in Livingston, a hundred miles from Marcus’s place. A short Montana hop. I liked her. Salty, down to earth. And she balanced Marcus’s taciturn demeanor.

  “And I invited Irene. I understand you two have continued communicating.”

  “Yeah. It’ll be good seeing her as well.”

  “There any fire there?”

  “Why no, Mom. Not at the moment.”

  “You’ll have a hard time convincing a woman like her to live on a leaky wooden vessel.”

  “The Ace doesn’t leak. Much.”

  “Traipsing up and down the Intracoastal Waterway.”

  “We hit the city limits yet? Trying to get a feel for frequency,” I said, alluding again to the talk.

  He chuckled. “Got it. And I was just saying.”

  “Yeah. Understood. So you reckon she won’t like the Ace? Should I call off the wedding plans?”

  “You’ve grown sassy. That’s what happens when you miss a Montana winter.”

  “I’ll take sassy.”

  I’d maintained semiregular contact with Irene Collins. We’d met last fall at Marcus’s place. She’d inherited the adjacent ranch from her grandfather. We’d chatted several times over the winter—friendly talks, touching base. A vast improvement over our initial encounter.

  She had earned a biochemistry PhD from UCLA. Studied the chemical processes related to living organisms. Her conversational framework reflected an acute analytical mind. And it rubbed wrong the first time we met. Married once, divorced, no kids. Moved to Montana after her last failed relationship.

  And she appealed to me, big-time. Part of it was her incessant objectiveness. Her questioning. It kept me on my toes. I was ill prepared for it during our first encounter. Subsequent phone chats tempered those early challenged feelings. Very much along the lines of “How you doing?” with benign conversational strings of Montana winter weather and life on the Ace of Spades. And she was, by and large, a positive person. That was a biggie. And she was a looker. Jet-black hair, with facial components far from movie star status but aligned, formed in a manner best described as striking.

  We rode forty interstate miles and turned onto a seldom-used hardtop toward the tiny town of Fishtail, thirty miles distant. Marcus’s ranch lay another ten miles of gravel road southwest of the tiny crossroads. High-country sagebrush, bunchgrass, and remnant ground snow. Herds of pronghorns waggled ears as we passed. Massive mountains, sheet-white in places, loomed with our approach. The Beartooth and Absaroka Ranges, miles distant. We saw three other vehicles as we made our way to Fishtail.

  Visitor country. Native Americans, French trappers, mountain men. All visitors in the untamed craggy world of wilderness mountains. Where other elements reigned. Blizzards, grizzlies, and avalanches. Arctic cold, mountain lions, wolves. Through the ages we visited, wary. Then left, driven out by isolation and weather and indomitable turf. The vast mountain ranges soared stunningly beautiful, breathtaking. And daunting. They cast a jaundiced, skeptical eye toward us lowland travelers.

  “Call her,” Marcus said. We’d driven in comfortable silence for fifteen minutes. Marcus sang along with Johnny Cash. A Nine Inch Nails song. There’s an amalgam for the ages.

  “Townsend?” He’d clearly mulled over my recent activities.

  “Yes. You owe her. And before you say you don’t owe her squat, yeah, you do. Respect.”

  “Yoda speaks.”

  “You know I’m right. You don’t call her, you’re running away.”

  “I am running away.”

  “Not from obligations.”

  Damn. He was right. As usual. Five more minutes passed. Sagebrush bent with the wind. Blue sky peaked through gray clouds. We approached Fishtail.

  “You ever get tired of being right?”

  “A burden, my son. One I’ve learned to bear.”

  “I’ll tell that to Miriam.”

  We both laughed, loud, and pulled into the Dead Solid Perfect. Locals termed it the Solid. The lone Fishtail establishment. Two ranch pickup trucks, well used, represented the Solid’s happy hour crowd.

  Marcus tossed a “Howdy” as we entered and introduced me. They knew each other, and a lively d
iscussion of cattle, hay, and transporting heavy equipment during spring muck season followed. We ordered beers.

  “Sit outside?” Marcus asked.

  “Absolutely not.” I lifted a chin toward a corner potbellied stove, red-and-yellow flames evident through the door slots.

  Marcus shook his head and announced to the barkeep, “I’ll fire up a cigar in the corner.”

  “You worried I’m gonna call the DEQ?” The Montana Department of Environmental Quality. The barkeep and two other customers laughed, as did Marcus.

  “Hey,” the barkeep continued. “Band this Wednesday.” Take it when you can get it in Fishtail. If traveling troubadours could manage a stopover on a Wednesday, so be it.

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Marcus said.

  We pulled chairs close to the stove. Spring or not, the weather chilled. Marcus stretched his legs, lit the cigar, and said, “We’ve got a situation.”

  Alarms clanged. “You have cancer?” It was all I could think of. He would introduce such a subject with “We’ve got a situation.” Oh man.

  “No. I don’t have cancer. What’s wrong with you?”

  “You said situation.”

  “Which is what we’ve got. And it requires review before dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  “And that drives me nuts. Stop it.”

  He referenced my well-used “okay” responses.

  “It never means a thing other than you heard me,” he continued. “It does not mean you agree, or accept, or even half-ass understand.”

  “Okay.” I smiled.

  “I can still kick your rear.”

  “It would muss your gray locks.”

  “You’re worse than Catch.”

  He puffed, blew smoke at the ceiling, and added, “All right. No one is worse than Catch. But we have a situation.”

  “I’m listening, Obi Wan.”

  “And it needs airing before Miriam and Irene arrive. Because they’re going to talk about it.”

  “Where do I purchase tickets to hear the rest of this?”

  “Before I tell you, there’s a beginning.”

  “A beginning.”

  “Yes. And the beginning is you, Mr. Righteous. You will not get involved. In any way, shape, or form. Understood?”