JO02 - The Brimstone Murders

by Jeff Sherratt

  “Hammer, you gotta listen to me! They’ll see us—”

  “You’re under arrest. Put him in the unit, Butch.”

  The cop shoved me toward the detectives’ unmarked vehicle. “Goddamn, Hammer, they’ve got guns, assault weapons.”

  The plant’s whistle let out a long blast.

  Hammer peered at the complex as teens filed out of the mess hall, nudged along by guards jabbing them with automatic rifles. The kids paraded back toward the main building.

  “Hammer, you gotta believe me!”

  Butch pushed my head down, trying to get me in the back seat. I banged him with my shoulder. He cocked a fist.

  “Hold it a second,” Hammer holstered his gun and, without taking his eyes off the borax works, gestured for Butch to cool it.

  One of the guards looked up. He saw us standing out here on the road. Nudging the man next to him, he pointed at us and shouted. “Hey! Who are you guys?”

  “Police, official business,” Hammer shouted back.

  The second guy started to raise his assault rifle.

  “Good Christ,” Hammer said. “What are they doing?”

  “Move! They are going to kill us.”

  Butch shoved me aside, jumped in the cop car and grabbed the radio mike. Then he dropped it. “Goddamn radio, too far out, can’t raise anyone…”

  A rifle shot banged in my ear. Butch’s head exploded.

  “They’re firing!” Hammer exclaimed. We jumped behind an outgrowth of rocks at the edge of the road. Three more rapid gunshots; the bullets buzzed over our heads.

  “We got to get out of here,” Hammer said as he peered over the rocks. “We’re outnumbered—” Then he saw Butch’s body lying in the dirt. “Oh, Jesus! Jesus Mary Joseph, oh God—Goddammit!” Sliding down below the rock’s edge, he fell silent. He bowed his head and his body deflated slowly, like his soul was leaking out. Maybe it was.

  I raised my head until I could barely see over the top of the rocks. Buddy barged out of the office.

  The guards huddled up with him, pointing furiously in our direction.

  “Go get ’em. Shoot the bastards,” Buddy roared. His voice carried across the valley.

  I ducked down.

  “Let’s go, O’Brien, move it!” Hammer grabbed my arm.

  “Hammer, listen to me! We can’t leave. We’ve got to save Rita.”

  He gave me a blank look. “What?”

  “Rita’s down there. She’s in the office. They’ll kill her!”

  “There’s nothing we can do. We got to get to the car.” He started to crawl away. A bullet almost took off his head. He jerked back. “Must be eight or nine of them. They’re moving out. Shit, man, let’s go. They’re coming after us!”

  I thrust my bound wrists at him. “Here, for chrissakes, unhook me. I didn’t kill Robbie, they did.”

  He grabbed a key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs. Then he snatched a gun from his ankle holster. “I don’t know if you murdered anybody or not, but you used to be a cop. Here, use this. We’ll lay down some fire, and then make a dash for the car.” He handed me a small automatic, a Beretta, not exactly police issue, and not much of a weapon.

  He pulled another gun, a big revolver, from his shoulder holster, checked the cylinder, and snapped it closed. With a determined look on his face, he said, “I’ll go first. You follow. Barstow’s down the road and—”

  I shook my head. “Forget Barstow, the chief’s one of them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Dead sure.”

  “Aw shit. Maybe I can flag a Chippie on Highway 58. We’ll take the cutoff road. Don’t worry. We’ll come back for your secretary. Now, let’s go!”

  No, I was staying. I held the small pistol and thought, how am I going to hold off nine guys firing AK-47s with this peashooter until he returns with the 7th Cavalry?

  I took a deep breath and let the air escape from my lungs. I figured I might not make it, but I couldn’t leave without Rita.

  Raising my head, I peered over the edge. Hammer was right. The men were coming, crouching military style, creeping forward cautiously. They couldn’t know how many of us were out here. Maybe I could spook them.

  I got off three quick rounds. The guards scrambled for cover.

  Buddy stood defiantly in the middle of the gravel road and shouted, “Hey, we just want to talk. No sense in gunplay. Come on out with your hands in the air. I’ll hold my men back ’til I count to three. If you don’t come out, then we’ll be a-comin’ for ya. And I’m afraid we’ll have to kill you.”

  I took a shot at him, missed by a mile. He dropped to the ground and looked around. When he saw one of his men, he raised his hand and tossed out a signal, his finger stopping when it was pointed right at me. The guard swung the weapon around.

  Adrenalin coursing, I dove down next to Hammer. A heavy barrage of gunfire ensued. The rapid fire rattled my teeth. Slugs bounced off the granite in front of us, rock shards flying.

  I tried to burrow deeper into the dirt.

  An eerie stillness suddenly filled the air. I glanced at the red ants crawling up my arms, gnawing my flesh, and waited for the bullets to start flying again. I could hear my heart banging against my ribs.

  Hammer said, “There’s a riot gun in the unit. You’ll ride shotgun…” He paused, seemingly appraising me. “You ready, O’Brien?”

  “Not going.”

  “You crazy bastard…” He started to say something else, but didn’t. “It’s your funeral.”

  Buddy’s voice rang out: “Okay, I’m countin’.” He paused for a second. “One…”

  Hammer’s eyes locked on mine. “Cover me.”

  “Two…”

  Rita’s image flashed in my mind. Hammer had to get help. I rolled sideways, out from behind the rocks, sprang to my feet. “Three! You son-of-a-bitch,” I shouted. Then I fired.

  All hell broke loose.

  I got off two more fast rounds. The shots missed, but Buddy’s men scattered.

  I darted to my right, dropped, rolled, and shot again.

  Buddy shouted at his men as they scattered. “Goddammit, get back here.” He swung around, drew a pistol and fired two quick shots over their heads. They stopped and turned. “Shoot that cocksucker! Now, goddammit!” He pointed right at me. The men raised their guns.

  My heart raced.

  Suddenly, to my left, a series of huge blasts sounded. Hammer, gripping the riot gun, stood next to the police car, pumping rounds into the line of guards.

  I looked back. One guy went down, screaming, “I’m hit!”

  Another guy dropped like a sack of rotten tomatoes. That left seven. Too many.

  Buddy pointed at Hammer. “Kill him!” The men swung their rifles toward Hammer.

  He lunged behind the car just as the AK-47s exploded.

  I ran a zigzag pattern, sprinting through the scrub. Tripping over a rock, I struggled to my feet and got up running. I tore along the ground racing closer to the works. Stopping halfway there, I slid down behind a large yucca tree, gulping air.

  I heard Hammer call out, “I’ll be back, O’Brien!”

  Maybe he would. It was my only chance.

  I raised my gun, squeezed the trigger and drew their fire, then jerked back behind the yucca. Almost instantly, slugs from the AK-47s peppered the tree trunk and whizzed by on both sides. Peering out, I saw Hammer leap into the cop car. Wheels spinning, the car zoomed backward and disappeared beyond the hump in the road. Some of the guards were still shooting at the fleeing car. Others continued to shoot at me.

  I wouldn’t be safe here for long. Any more of this and the slugs would chop the tree in two, or they would rush me and I’d be one dead lawyer.

  I checked the Beretta’s clip: one round. I jammed the gun in my belt, crouched down, and looked out from behind the tree. The shooting had stopped, and I knew why.

  The kids at the borax plant had scattered in all directions. Buddy turned and pointed. Some of the guards took off to
chase them, scurrying like rats across the desert. I bolted, moving five yards closer.

  Buddy immediately turned back. He stood in the road with two of his men. They searched intently for me, gazing out at the scrub. I’d have to get past them to reach Rita.

  I crept toward the office, moving quietly from one thicket of sagebrush to another. Most of the guards would be busy for a while, I figured. I had to find Rita and get her out of this place. But first I had to sneak past Buddy and his goons.

  He continued to scan, his eyes sweeping from side to side. He signaled his men to fan out; one marched off to my left, the other to the right. They’d circle around and come up behind me. Then he must’ve thought he saw something. He shot three times at a dense cluster of cholla cacti ten feet away from me. Some cactus wrens fluttered and took flight.

  Buddy was alone now, but didn’t budge from his spot. I had to make my move. If I waited too long, I’d be so outnumbered that I’d never get Rita out of here. I had one bullet left. If I shot at Buddy and missed… well, I didn’t want to think about that. Besides, I’d need that round in case anyone was guarding Rita.

  On my belly, I slithered out from behind the bushes and inched closer. I scooted forward, moving at a deliberate pace. I thought of the old World War II movies, thought about how John Wayne would handle this. He’d throw a rock off somewhere, drawing the bad guy’s attention, and then he’d jump up, rush the guy, take his rifle, and gut him with the bayonet.

  I couldn’t do that. Buddy didn’t have a bayonet.

  C H A P T E R 40

  A dry breeze stirred, and the scent of coal tar pitch from the creosote bush I hid behind filled my nostrils as the sun continued to beat down on me. The unblinking reptilian orb of a fat chuckwalla, inches from my face, pinned me eyeball to eyeball like in a kid’s game of chicken. I wanted to smash the goddamn lizard with a rock.

  I lay sweating, waiting for Buddy to move from his spot and come look for me, to move away from the road long enough for me to circle around him. I was only ten yards from where he stood, and another ten yards behind him was the entrance to the borax works. I figured they had Rita in the small office, which was located in the middle of the facility next to a towering crane and surrounded on three sides by piles of slag. Used equipment and rusty junk were scattered on the grounds heaped among a number of old stone buildings.

  Shifting my eyes, I could see the two guards advancing through the scrub on either side. In a few moments they’d be behind me.

  I didn’t have a second to lose; I had to make my move now. The guards who’d been chasing the kids were starting to return, dragging them by the scruffs of their necks. Soon they, too, would be looking for me.

  Scrunched over, I moved out from behind the bush and scuttled closer. If Buddy turned his head in the slightest he’d see me. But I kept crawling through the undergrowth, purposeful and silent, like a cat after its prey. Five more yards and I’d be close enough to get the jump on him, take his gun and put it to his head. Then I’d force him to release Rita.

  A thousand to one shot, maybe ten thousand, but it was a shot.

  Suddenly, he turned. I leaped back behind a tall bush and dropped to the ground. Shots rang out; two slugs hit the dirt next to me.

  “Hey, O’Brien,” Buddy shouted. “Get out here. The next one’s gonna—”

  A police siren pierced the air. What the hell?

  Buddy lowered the gun to his side, shaded his eyes, and peered out at the road in front of him. He continued to stare.

  I took a quick look around. The guards had also stopped, and now glanced up the road. A fast-moving black and white cruiser, its red lights flashing, drifted over the hump trailing a thick cloud of dust. The car grew ominously larger as it sped closer to the works, the resounding wail of its siren reverberating in the valley. Buddy obviously knew who drove the vehicle. He stepped casually to the side of the road and waited. The police car zoomed right on past me and slammed to a stop next to him.

  Burt Krause, chief of Barstow’s finest, leaned out of the driver’s side window and spoke to Buddy. I couldn’t hear what they talked about, but Buddy looked pissed. Sitting stoically in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, was Ben Moran.

  A few seconds passed. The cop car pulled away and drove up to the front of the office. The men climbed out and rushed inside.

  Buddy shouted and waved his arm, signaling for the two guards to return. They conferred with him for a few seconds before he stormed off in the direction of the office.

  The guards glanced out at the scrub once more, then trailed in Buddy’s wake and took up a position in front of the door holding their rifles across their chests. No one seemed to be looking for me now. Why’d they stop?

  I had no idea what was going on in the little building, but I grabbed at the chance to move. I jumped up, veered right, and made a beeline for one of the slag piles close to the rear of the office. I covered the distance in three seconds flat and hid behind the small mound.

  Two more guards appeared, patrolling the area between me and the clapboard building. Turning, I glanced at the area behind me. I looked out beyond a five-foot-high stack of old wooden beams and a huge pile of rusting metal way out to a landing strip. I relaxed for a few beats. No one was watching. I turned back and peered around the slag pile. The guards moved cautiously, their weapons extended in front of them. When they came to the far edge of the office, they turned toward the front and disappeared around the corner. They’d be back soon.

  I dashed to the rear of the building and flattened my body against the wall. Without looking down I fingered the automatic in my belt, a reassuring gesture, though not too reassuring with only one cartridge in the clip. I pulled the gun out. My hand trembled in fear—or maybe anger—as I chambered the round and tucked it back in my belt. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, I slid along the wall toward a dirty window in the center of the building next to a closed door.

  Ducking down, I crossed under the window and put my hand on the rusty knob. I twisted it, and the door opened a crack. With every instinct in my body telling me to retreat, I ventured into the building. I stood in a dim utility room where I saw a door cut into the opposite wall. It was slightly ajar; a sliver of light spilled through and fanned out as it fell across the floor.

  I tiptoed to the door and peered through the opening. My knees buckled. Rita sat there, tied to a chair at the far end of the vintage office. A strip of duct tape covered her mouth. It took all my willpower to stop from barging in and shooting Moran where he stood, but I only had one bullet and Krause wore two big revolvers on his hip. He’d shoot us both if I tried anything.

  Krause and Buddy were talking at once. Moran, holding a large shoulder pouch, stood ramrod straight next to an old cabinet safe.

  “Shut up, goddammit,” he bellowed. “It’s all over. O’Brien’s pal, that P.I. bastard Silverman, talked to Bickerton. Must’ve scared him good. The snake oil preacher told him everything.”

  I froze at the mention of Sol’s name. What did he have to do with this?

  “What could Bickerton tell him?” Buddy asked. “He don’t know shit about what we do out here.”

  Krause jumped in. “That tax-exempt asshole told Silverman that Ben here gives him kickbacks to send his recruits, the druggies, to the rehab center at Rattlesnake Lake.”

  “So what?” Buddy said. “Everybody gives kickbacks, even the legit drug centers.”

  “Go ahead, might as well tell him the rest, Burt,” Moran said.

  “That Jew bastard figured out Moran doesn’t have a state license to operate a rehabilitation center. Rattlesnake Lake’s cover has always been that it’s a gun club, right?”

  Sol had told me he was working on something. But why was he worried about Moran’s damn licenses? God Almighty, they’re turning kids into slaves!

  “That goddamned Silverman,” Moran said, “had his buddies, brass from the San Berdoo County Sheriff’s Department, raid the base. That son-of-a-bitch used
that license bullshit as an excuse. He’s there now with the cops. They’re talking to the kids, for chrissakes. I was in the café when Burt got the call. He came in and got me and we rushed out here.”

  “The FBI will be out there soon,” Krause added.

  Oh, Sol! You lunatic. You wonderful crazy human being. Who’d think of taking down a group of hardened mad-dog killers with a simple license code violation? If you were here, I think I’d kiss you. I winced. Well, I’d say something nice.

  “What about O’Brien?” Buddy asked. “He’s out there in the bushes.”

  “Forget O’Brien. You idiot, it’s over. As soon as that damn plane gets here, I’m gone.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re just gonna leave?” Buddy said.

  “I knew it’d come to this one day. I’ve got my goods and I’m gonna haul ass. The plane will be here any minute.”

  My mind swirled. Sol knew I was heading for the borax works; Joyce must have told him. He’d bring the cops here for sure. I just had to wait it out. Hang on without getting caught until they arrived. It wasn’t my job to capture Moran, so why take any risks now? I’d just have to play it cool. Moran would get away, but so what? Rita would be safe. And that’s what mattered. I shook my hands at my sides and did a couple of neck rolls, trying to loosen up.

  I heard the drone of a small plane. It would touch down on the little runway at any moment. Then Moran would take off. Buddy and Krause would leave as well. They’d have to if they wanted to save their necks. I waited and listened.

  “You’ve got what, ten, twelve million in uncut diamonds stashed in that pouch, Moran?” Buddy asked.

  “Suppose you tell me what’s on your mind,” Moran said.

  “Suppose I tell you I want my share!”

  “Take it easy, Buddy,” Burt Krause said. “Ben’s taken good care of us—”

  A gunshot exploded. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  I spun around and peered in. My eyes swept the room. Rita, wide-eyed, squirmed in her chair, scared out of her wits but okay. Buddy was sprawled on the floor, blood oozing from a third eye in the center of his forehead. Moran stood in front of the open safe still holding the black pouch in one hand; in the other he held a smoking gun.