Back from the Brink

by Emery Hayes

  She had to get Jordan to the trailhead at seven AM, which meant they would be up by five thirty. She had to bring him back to the house for his hiking equipment, most of which, a quick peek into his bedroom revealed, looked to be packed. She had taken her messenger’s bag, stuffed with a day’s paperwork, from the Yukon. It was waiting for her by the front door. She would grab that on her way out but with little intention of getting to it that night.

  She brooded over her decision to release Lars for the autopsy. It meant she would go to Franks’s house with Ty as her backup, and that made her slightly uncomfortable. She knew it was a matter of association, so quickly on the heels of Green’s betrayal, and Ty’s unannounced arrival amid gunfire. She had checked—Ty had called the station looking for her. Still, the discomfort had settled on her like razor burn. It would take time to heal.

  Lars had been reluctant to leave. He’d wanted contact with Luke Franks, to bear witness as the man was interviewed a second time and the murder of his brother was confirmed. But an officer was needed during the autopsy on the ice man, at least for the initial stages as clothing and other paraphernalia were collected into evidence. Arthur would also attend, as lead CSI. But Lars would be her pipeline to instant information she would otherwise have to gain from a report dense with medical terminology and slow to get to her desk. Information as seen through the eyes of a homicide detective, which could lead to the direction and apprehension of the killer they were seeking.

  She called Mrs. Neal, needing the lift of her son’s voice, which was like bottled sunshine to her.

  “Jordan’s already sleeping,” Mrs. Neal said. “He has that big hike tomorrow he’s very excited about and turned in just as soon as he finished a snack.”

  Mrs. Neal was big on food and board games.

  “He borrowed a pair of the doctor’s pajama pants, which fit about as well as a tent on a tadpole, but while he was eating I did a little hemming.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Neal.”

  “You know I love to do it,” she said. “Now, how are things at the house?”

  Nicole stood at the kitchen sink, looking out the window. She and Ty had driven her Yukon back to the house, leading Lars, the patrol cars, and a forensics team that had responded to the call. It had been processed, the back tire removed and bagged as evidence, and was, at that moment, hooked up to a tow bar and shuttling down the driveway. Losing the window meant she’d have to borrow an older vehicle from their very small motor pool. Specialty glass meant at least a week’s wait while it was ordered and shipped and a mobile glass company came out to replace it. But there had been no other damage, to vehicle, house, or surrounding buildings.

  “Better than expected,” Nicole said.

  “You were shot at,” Mrs. Neal said. “I suppose it can only get better from there.”

  “I’m alive,” Nicole agreed. And undeterred.

  “And unharmed?”

  “Not so much as a hair on my head out of place,” Nicole assured her.

  “Well, then, if you or the doctor returns by midnight, I’m planning on going home. I figure you won’t need me tomorrow, so I’m going into Pleasant Falls and want an early start. I have some shopping to do before I leave next week.”

  Mrs. Neal was traveling to Florida for two weeks with her daughter and three grandchildren. Nicole glanced at the clock on the stove. That gave her two hours tops. And MacAulay would be in autopsy at least that long.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Neal,” Nicole said. Jordan insisted he was old enough to stay by himself, but Nicole wasn’t ready for that. “I don’t know that either one of us will make it back by midnight.”

  “Not a worry,” the older woman said. “Do you think I could take the small bedroom off the kitchen?”

  “I’m sure that would be fine.”

  She disconnected the call and pressed speed dial for Lars.

  “Has the party started?” Nicole asked when he picked up.

  “He’s up to his elbows in leads,” Lars confirmed.

  “Yeah?”

  “We have something,” Lars said. “Fentanyl is my guess. Mac was able to peel away the guy’s T-shirt and jeans, skin still intact.” That had been MacAulay’s biggest concern—preserving the vic’s body as best he could. “Get this, the ice man was wearing a watertight bag strapped to his torso. It was stuffed with about seven pounds of the drug and ten thousand dollars in cash.”

  “So the AG was telling the truth,” Nicole said. And she wondered about her own words. Did she doubt the agent’s facts or his veracity? He had tried to withhold information, but that didn’t make him a liar or a suspect.

  “There’s more. A few defensive wounds, hands in particular, and MacAulay was able to get some scrapings from under the fingernails. There’s blood evidence on the vic’s shirt, so that was packed and is ready for the lab in Billings, but preliminary shows a blood type not matching the vic. Got that straight from Sleeping Bear before he packed it himself and sent it with a night courier.” She heard the score in Lars’s voice. When the man grinned, he looked more grizzly than cop. “He thought, this being a high-profile case, the extra cost was a necessity.”

  Trace evidence and blood. That was better than ID through a formal lineup. Better, even, than a high-resolution video capture.

  “That’s good work,” Nicole said. It would be days before they got something more definitive.

  “It’s a damn lucky break, but there’s more. Inside the bag was a scrap of paper with a list of phone numbers. No names. One number is Canadian; the other two are cell phones I traced back to carriers here in the U.S. Neither number is working, but we’re within the six-month stasis before reregistering the numbers for use. I’ve put a request through for most recent owner, which we’ll get as soon as the judge signs the warrant.”

  The vic was a treasure chest of evidence to them and a land mine to whoever had killed him.

  “And we’ve only just started,” Lars promised. “MacAulay found two electronic pieces sewn into the vic’s shirt. We’re not sure what they are yet, but Sleeping Bear will take those back to his lab and work some magic. They could be trackers, but two is overkill. And one seems to have a receiver.”

  “A recording device?” she asked.

  “We hope.”

  “Are they working?”

  “That’s for Sleeping Bear to figure out.”

  She wondered if this was the evidence Gates had referred to, the bag from which Faris Amari had fed bread crumbs to the AG. But why hadn’t Green and company searched the vic before dumping him?

  “We’re leaving for Franks’ place,” Nicole said. “Update me when you can.”

  “You do the same.”

  They drove over in Ty’s Mustang. He was a little heavy on the gas pedal and took the curves in the road fast enough that Nicole felt the pull of the seat belt. He had taken his Kevlar vest out of the trunk and shrugged into it. Nicole had been wearing hers since six that morning. Sixteen hours later, the heaviness and bulk of the vest were beginning to chafe.

  “We’re going in drawn,” Nicole said. “If Monte wanted to be found, he’d have called us.”

  “Right,” Ty said. “Could be he is wrapped up in this at some level.”

  Agreed. Love sometimes pulled a person into a swill of other, less honorable emotions.

  And Luke Franks, with one brother murdered and the other missing, could be as deep into the misconduct as Green.

  Franks’s house was small, square, and sat on an acre of prime property. He and his wife had lake access, and the natural geography included close-knit tree lines and a rolling field that would soon look like a drop cloth sprinkled with the bright colors of spring as the sun drew out the wildflowers. The windows were dark. As Nicole and Ty drew closer, security lights snapped on. They parked in front of the garage, under a basketball backboard and net that had weathered over the years.

  They were at a definite disadvantage.

  Nicole didn’t like rolling onto the scene of p
ossible conflict without everything her Yukon had to offer. Her Colt Commando, backup ammo, a first-aid kit.

  She turned to Ty. “If he’s here, I’m doing the talking. Most of it, anyway. Jump in if you think I’m missing something.”

  “Got it,” he said.

  They climbed from the Mustang and stood under the halo of the security lights. Ducks in a crap shoot. The house windows remained impassively opaque, mirrors of a night sky blotted with clouds.

  Was Monte hiding behind them?

  “Don’t hesitate to use your weapon,” she said. “Are we clear on that?”

  He nodded. “Clear.”

  She moved toward the front door, then thought better of it when she realized that climbing those steps and standing on the small, squared porch would put them on a pedestal and make them an easy shot from anyone hiding in the trees. She turned and tucked herself against the siding, motioning Ty to do the same. This had been a night of uncomfortable confrontations, first with Green lying in wait for her in the department parking lot and then with the shooting in her own driveway. It warranted a cautious response to the current situation. She followed the house around back, where she tapped on the glass insert of the back door. A small light was on in what she assumed was the kitchen. Perhaps over the sink, just as Ty had reported. And something about that snagged on the sharp teeth of her mind. Hadn’t Ty said he’d driven by the house? He hadn’t gotten out of the car. Yet the kitchen was located in the back of the house, the light not visible from the road. Nicole felt the fine hairs on her neck stir. Was she remembering correctly?

  She knocked again, this time on the wood, louder and more insistent. She listened, but there wasn’t so much as the creaking of the house as it settled in for the night. She let her eyes wander the backyard, which was groomed and spread evenly some thirty or forty yards to the tree line. An owl hooted and the cicadas were singing, but neither did anything to ease the tightness in her chest.

  She flattened her shoulders to the house and gazed over at Ty. He stood three feet distant, his gun grasped in both hands and pointed directly at Nicole. He had his finger on the trigger, but his hand shook.

  “They pay better,” he said.

  Who? she thought, as acid bloomed at the back of her tongue and thought became action. Nicole pushed away from the house as the first shot exploded from the end of Ty’s gun. The bullet passed so close, she felt the heat of it and the stirring of the air.

  She turned, zigzagged, dipped and shuttled across the patio. She was too far from the tree line to make that a possibility, so she used the furniture as cover, the adobe stove as something solid to crouch behind as she thought of next moves. She was speaking into her shoulder mike when the next bullet discharged. Officer needs assistance … Shots fired … It hit the clay stove, and fragments flew into the air and showered down on her head and shoulders.

  She had to move, but there was nowhere to go.

  Better to run than to wait for it.

  She sprinted. Shots fired. Multiple. From the house, where Ty had remained, standing tall, feet planted apart, gun extended. As she watched, a tongue of fire burst from the muzzle and lapped at the air. Bullets from behind her too. A rustling in the trees. And then a figure emerged, dark head to toe, masked. A semiautomatic held waist-high. He was running toward her, followed by a second and then a third figure.

  Ambush.

  She didn’t wait to fire. With no backup, she was facing the end, and she would not go down without a fight. She ran toward the edge of the patio, jumped over a planter, crouched and got off a round.

  Target hit. Not center mass but above the kneecap. She watched the leg kick back at an unnatural angle and then the man pitch forward. With any luck, the bullet had severed the femoral artery and the guy would bleed out in less than a minute.

  A barrage of bullets cut through the branches of the saskatoon bush over her head, and she pushed away from the planter. She heard a shot behind her and turned as Ty buckled and fell to the ground. Behind him, Monte lowered his gun, lowered himself into a crouch, and left the shadowed back door, scrambling toward the limited safety of the barbecue grill.

  “There are two more,” he called out. “At least. Stay low and try to circle around the house.”

  He was helping her. He’d left cover behind, had taken out Ty, her closest threat, and was just then rising to a stance and firing toward the two remaining men from the trees.

  And then another man emerged from the house, a handgun steepled between his hands. He was wearing a BP uniform.

  “Behind you,” she yelled to Monte.

  “He’s good, Nicole,” Monte said. “He’s with us.”

  Us? Who were us? And how many of us were there? How far out was help she could trust?

  She left her crouch at the edge of the patio and put distance between her and the BP agents. Both of them, agents in a polluted department. Distance and obstacles increased her chances of survival. She circled around a table and chairs.

  Monte had come out of hiding to help her, she reminded herself. He could have dug a deeper hole, or scurried out the front door and into the wind. Actions of the guilty. But he hadn’t. He seemed to sense her conflict, or notice her retreat.

  “I’m on your side, Nicole,” he said. He fired three shots in rapid succession as he tracked the run of their assailants across the expanse of green. No hits. “You’ll have to take my word for now,” he continued. He dove behind a potted sapling. Fired again. One of the men dropped to the ground. The third pulled up short, and Nicole wondered if he thought of cutting his losses, but then he raised his weapon, a Ruger, and took aim at Nicole. Before she could squeeze the trigger, a shot rang out from behind her. The assailant was hit, dropped his weapon, and sank to his knees. Nicole turned and watched the uniformed BP agent rise from his stance at the kitchen door.

  Luke Franks. It had to be. Both he and Monte had come to her aid.

  The acrid scent of gunfire was thick in the air, and it was smoky—enough that she felt her eyes burn. An unnatural silence descended with a heavy-handedness that seemed to press against her shoulders. Neither she nor Monte moved.

  “If there are others, they’ve turned back,” he said.

  “You were sure there would be,” Nicole returned.

  “I know of seven, suspect there has to be nine or more. Maybe not all showed up for the party.” He stood, but lowered his shooting hand so that his gun rested at his thigh. “Come inside. We’ll be safer there, and I have some explaining to do.”

  Nicole stood, canted so that she had sight of the tree line and of Monte. And behind him, Franks.

  She raised a hand and spoke into her radio. “ETA on response?” Less than ten minutes. She gave the order to approach with caution. She asked for EMTs. She reported at least four injured. She heard Lars’s voice over the waves. He was en route but no closer than patrol.

  Sweat gathered in the palm of her hand holding her Glock. She had it pointed toward the ground, as did Monte. The other agent was more cautious. His left hand was wrapped under his right, which cradled his Sig Sauer, pointed downward, and he peered over their heads, watching the perimeter.

  She regarded Monte with indecision.

  “Between a rock and a hard place,” Monte agreed.

  She nodded, a simple, economical act, as she continued to consider Kyle Monte, standing across the patio from her. Ten, maybe twelve feet between them.

  “If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it.”

  “So come inside,” he said again. “Out here, we’re an open invitation.”

  27

  Monte turned, crossed the patio, and slipped inside the back door, which he left ajar for Nicole. She thought about what could be waiting for her just inside. No worse than what was out here. It was true: Monte had had plenty of time to kill her or let their assailants take her out. And her people were on the way. She paused long enough to call the stats in to dispatch, reading Agent Luke Franks’s name off his pocket tag. He st
ood now at the far side of the door, still on point. Tension rolled off his shoulders in waves. There were others. Monte had said so, and Franks believed it.

  Ty had walked her into an ambush. A chill settled at the base of her skull. He would have watched her die tonight and more. He’d have killed her himself. She wondered if he’d sabotaged their original crime scene, had somehow hastened the BP skiff’s sinking. He had lain in wait for her at her home, a weak spot following the disruption there four months before, and the call he’d made to dispatch, seeking her location, had been made to assist him in her downfall.

  She made an effort to know her people. She had been happy with Ty’s performance on the job, his involvement in the community as a recent newcomer to Blue Mesa. He’d been easy company off the clock, at department barbecues and their monthly beef and brew. His betrayal had sideswiped her, put serious cracks in her confidence.

  The evidence Ty had collected was all suspect now. The whole investigation was a wash. Except the science. They still had plenty of that. And she had never been more grateful than at that moment for an ME who was conscientious and meticulous and a CSI as talented and persistent as Arthur Sleeping Bear.

  “Don’t brood over it,” Franks said. “Wasted time, and we have little of it.”

  She tore her eyes away from her fallen deputy and caught Luke Franks’s gaze.

  “You knew Monte was alive,” she said. “You knew it all along.”

  Franks nodded. “He was outnumbered, outgunned, and damn if he didn’t turn them on their tail.”