Wildcase - [Rail Black 02]

by Neil Russell

  Then, suddenly, the ship turned toward her.

  * * * *

  Cheyenne awakened in the ship’s infirmary. A female naval officer was taking her pulse. A nurse sat at the foot of the bed, feeding the baby from a bottle capped with a latex finger cut from a glove. The child was happily sucking away.

  “Nice to have you back with us.” The officer smiled.

  Cheyenne shivered and looked anxiously at the IV in her arm.

  “Nothing to worry about. Just glucose. What’s your name?“

  “Cheyenne Rollins. I never been so cold.”

  “An American. I’m Commander Gibson, Royal Australian Navy. Aside from some minor hypothermia, both you and the child seem fine. How in the world did you end up in the water?“

  Cheyenne had seen a lot of bad things happen because people couldn’t keep their mouths shut. This didn’t seem like a time to start blurting things about tigers and soldiers and gunfire at sea. “I don’t know. I was asleep, and the next thing I knew we were in the water. I guess I was lucky to find that bumper.”

  The officer looked at her skeptically. “What was the name of your boat?“

  Cheyenne took her time, seemingly trying to recall. “I don’t remember. It was a yacht. A big one. I just met the owners, Terry and Marcy Something-or-Other, and they invited me to bring my baby and go for a cruise.”

  Even Cheyenne didn’t think that was much of a story, but it was the best she could come up with in her present condition.

  The officer smiled. “If I don’t ask any more questions, I won’t have to listen to any more raw prawn answers.”

  “Raw prawn?“

  “It rhymes with bullshit.”

  Cheyenne’s eyes apologized, but she held her tongue.

  “We picked you up in a military restricted zone where deadly force is authorized. You’re very lucky to be alive.” She let that hang there for a moment, then continued, “Normally, we’d off-load you onto a refugee transport headed for Christmas Island—a most unpleasant place. But since you’re an American, I’ll speak to the captain about getting you to Perth.” She started out, then turned. “You’ve got no papers, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want anybody checking for your mystery yacht, so here’s some advice. Pick a name for the baby, a birth date, and a good explanation for a father. Then stick to your story. Nobody can twist what you don’t tell them.”

  Cheyenne smiled. “No raw prawns. I’m pretty good about sticking to things.”

  “I’ll bet you are.”

  * * * *

  After China, Perth was like dying and going to heaven. Clean sheets, good food, smiling people and English. They put her in a suite in the Richardson, with a view of the botanical gardens and around-the-clock nanny service. The American consulate was closed for some local holiday, so she would have a full three days to herself. She intended to spend them with sleep, hot baths and plenty of room service.

  On Saturday, the phone rang, and a man, introducing himself as Mr. Smithson, asked if she could come down to the bar for a beer. “Thanks, so much, but I don’t think so,” she answered.

  Before she could hang up, he said, “I represent the Brandos’ interests in Perth.”

  Foster Smithson was a tall, lean gentleman in his early sixties who moved like a man half his age. His suit said London, and his platinum Patek Philippe said $200,000. His accent was all Aussie.

  When they were seated at a booth well away from anyone else, and their beers were in front of them, Smithson clicked his glass against Cheyenne’s and sipped. Cheyenne waited. “I want to thank you for seeing me, Miss Rollins. My associates and I have arranged your passage home. You’ll be on Qantas 667 this evening.”

  “But the consulate ... I don’t have a passport or paperwork for my baby.”

  Smithson withdrew a thick envelope from his inside pocket and pushed it across the table. “Here’s everything you need,” he said.

  Cheyenne opened it and found three first-class tickets on top. “It’s a long flight,” Smithson said. “You’ll want the child to have its own space. One of our people will be accompanying you—in the event there are any problems with the authorities. She’s an American with excellent connections. She’s also a trained nurse, so you’ll have help if you need it.”

  Cheyenne also found five thousand dollars in hundreds and a passport with the faces of herself and the child facing the camera. “Is this passport real? “

  “It is.”

  “But how? “

  The man ignored her question. “We will, of course, take care of your hotel bill. A car will call for you at seven.”

  “But. ..”

  “You must not be here tomorrow. Some men from the Australian government are flying in to see you. And we cannot let that happen.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Then you will be put in detention until your memory improves. And you will never see the child again. So what’s your pleasure, Ms. Rollins? A first-class seat home or a long stay in a dirty cell?“

  Cheyenne got the message. “I’ll be ready.”

  Smithson nodded. “I appreciate your cooperation. I just need one question answered before I leave you to your packing. Was Zhang killed?“

  She stalled. “Was who what?“

  “You know exactly who he was. Was he killed in the battle?”

  Cheyenne shook her head. “We met another ship shortly after we left China.”

  “The ship that took the tiger.”

  “Yes, the man you’re asking about, Zhang, was very possessive of the animal. I think he went with it.”

  Smithson smiled. “That’s good to hear. Very good to hear.”

  * * * *

  33

  Fresh Starts and Last Stops

  The faint taste of metal hung in the back of my throat as the afternoon sun beat down on the roof of the Ram. A-bomb thirst. That’s what the old-timers called it. The residue of hundreds of nuclear tests moving randomly with the perpetual dust of the high desert. It still gave local milk a Geiger counter reading decades after the last blast.

  I wished now I’d stopped at the Circle K fifteen miles back. A Coke and a pack of Twinkies would have cut the grit I’d been swallowing and made at least a small dent in my empty insides. But my sleeping passenger, Daniel Jenkins, M.D.—or Dr. Dan as he preferred—said that the turnaround time between Las Vegas General and the patch of Nevada sand known as Suicide was seven hours no matter how you sliced it, so the Coke and Twinkies would have to wait.

  I always marvel at this broad expanse of nothingness and unforgiving heat. Of the sun-hardened souls who scrape out an existence in temperatures nobody in my native London could imagine. Where pasts are no longer than the storyteller wants them to be, and a man can slip in and out of existence without a mailbox or even a last name.

  To some, the desert is the last place in America where fresh starts are still possible—a ripcord for the day the final backup fails, and there’s nothing between you and the ground but a scream. It’s not what I’m looking for, but it’s nice to know that the day they show up to put a chip in our crotches to tax hard-ons, there’s an option.

  Before he dozed off, Dr. Dan told me he’d come west from Boston because he’d killed a man. Helped him die as I saw it. Watched his fists unclench for the first time in months and listened to his breathing slow and his heartbeat disappear into the stethoscope. Saw the man’s eyes flutter one last time and the corners of his mouth turn up in a small smile of silent thanks. He’d touched his forehead gently, imagining the cancer realizing that now it too was dying, then he’d thanked the man one last time for the summers of baseball, catching fireflies, fishing trips, midnight talks, his deep infectious laugh ... and the safety of his arms.

  Afterward, Dr. Dan said he’d taken a walk along the river where he and his father had walked together so many times and tried to remember the story about how the river wasn’t really a river but a magic place where the best dreams lived. But as he walked, the detai
ls seemed to drift further out of reach, and pretty soon, he couldn’t remember the parts he liked. And when he looked at the water, he knew that it was just a river now, and that’s all it would ever be.

  Dr. Dan said he hadn’t minded starting over. Being last in seniority behind young doctors who hadn’t seen half of what he had. And he didn’t mind what was called Mars Patrol, the trips into the arid, barren wasteland to check on patients who’d been released and couldn’t or wouldn’t come back for follow-up. It was a chance to be the kind of doctor he’d always hoped he’d be, and during the long, empty miles of driving, it was also a chance to think—or not.

  What disturbed me most about what I’d uncovered so far about Chuck’s and Lucille’s murders was the sickness that hung over everything. I’ve seen many things I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but this was different. I regretted I was looking for more.

  My traveling companions were back in Vegas at the MGM. Jody would hit the deli, then turn in early. Fat Cat would work his phone, and Coggan would wander the Strip cataloging every detail in his computer brain. Eddie, I didn’t want to think about, but in the past, a bail bondsman had been needed.

  Since landing, I’d called Birdy a couple of times and come up empty. I tried Nick, but his secretary said he was “not reachable” until midnight. That probably meant a whale was losing the price of a McCartney divorce and needed to have his ego stroked—or he was winning and wanted somebody to celebrate with. I’d been in both positions and preferred to be alone either way. Someday I’d have to check with an analyst about what that means.

  While I was on the phone with Nick’s secretary, I got the Cermaks’ private number but didn’t call. If this was what I suspected—Hassie and the erection that wouldn’t die— putting the Inca help in the middle was bad form. Hassie was a great friend who’d give you the golf shirt off his back, but he was compulsive about bedding other people’s women. Wives, girlfriends, fiancées, hell, if he met a lesbian couple, he’d make a pass at one. He was the embodiment of the phrase, “Mine’s better than yours, but I better fuck yours just to be sure.”

  I didn’t have a claim on Birdy. She was a free agent. But like most men, I expect a modicum of manners from my friends. Barring that, discretion. This was blatant enough to replace the welcome to las vegas sign.

  I called Mallory and gave him the Cermaks’ number. One of the many lessons I learned from my father is that when you want information, bishops should talk to bishops. It didn’t take Mallory long to get back to me. “According to Bronis, your bird has been with someone named Hassie since you left town. Isn’t that your friend with the golf course?”

  He knew it was, he just wanted to get in the “your friend” part. “That’s what I thought. Thanks, Oprah, you can go back to your couch.”

  “Not today, there’s a houseful of electricians here to ...”

  “I’d prefer not to know.”

  A crossroads with a rusty arrow pointing left jolted me back to matters at hand.

  SUICIDE—12 MILES

  Underneath, somebody had stapled a torn piece of cardboard with a third-grade scrawl.

  KEEP GOIN

  YOU DONT GOT NOTHIN WE WANT

  I turned off the two lanes of blacktop, hit the unpaved road and got on the accelerator again. Double cyclones of dust billowed out behind my fishtailing pickup, and the jostling woke Dr. Dan. He got his bearings and told me there was a washout ahead, so I backed off to a more stately speed.

  “LA’s a little short of docs with this kind of commitment,” I said. “You decide you want to smell salt air again, I know some people who’d be happy to meet you.”

  “Thought about it a couple of times, but always ended up agreeing with my old man. Legs are about promise; tits are about the obvious. California mostly sits around playing with its nipples.”

  “Living in Vegas, I can see how that might offend you.”

  “The difference is the change girl at Caesars isn’t dreaming about anything except finishing her shift and getting off her feet.”

  Point made. I negotiated the Ram though the washout.

  Dr. Dan had exaggerated. Suicide was barely even a spot, let alone a wide one. A tattered Getty filling station broke the monotony of the brown desert, though just barely. A faded sign dangled by one corner from the listing portico and announced the place as Sal’s. However, the sand had drifted high enough to touch the single pump’s handle, so Sal was obviously long gone. It looked like I was going to have to keep dreaming about that Coke.

  Spread out behind the station was a randomly distributed muster of three dozen, weather-beaten double-wides, and off to the left, an ancient Greyhound sat on cinder blocks, its wheels stacked against a barbed-wire fence around a ragged garden. The bus’s paisley curtains were pulled tight, and a pair of chickens out front pecked lethargically at what looked like nothing.

  Dr. Dan directed me past the trailers until we came to a steel prefab in Cape Cod style, complete with white picket fence and a rooster weather vane on a faux-brick chimney. Out of place was an understatement. A yellow Mercedes with a wheelchair rack sat under a carport. It might not have been the one from the cathedral, but I wouldn’t have bet on it. Unlike the rest of the lots, this yard was neatly raked and dotted with bricked cactus beds and an awning-covered sitting area. “Somebody put some hours in,” I said.

  “Neighbors,” the doctor said. “Funny thing about desert folk. They’ll work harder on somebody else’s place than their own.”

  “Probably says something about the guy who lives here too,” I said as I turned off the Ram and started to get out.

  Dr. Dan stopped me. “Wait here. Sometimes he needs to get himself organized.” He grabbed a plastic Walgreens bag off the floor. “I replace his medicine when I come out, but the seals won’t be broken on the last batch. Man won’t even take an aspirin, but at least I feel like I’m doing something.” He opened his door.

  I hadn’t seen the two guys come up behind us, but there was no mistaking the sound of a shell being racked into a shotgun. “Step out nice and slow so we can see all of you ... and that includes your hands.” The voice was flat, devoid of emotion. It belonged to someone who wasn’t going to make a stupid miscalculation, which was comforting. I just hoped we agreed on what was stupid.

  I glanced in my door mirror and saw a red-bearded man a few feet off the Ram’s taillight steadying a “Just in Case” in the vicinity of the back of my head. “Just in Case” is what Mossberg calls their no-stock, pistol-grip 12-gauge. The ATF prefers the term illegal. Fortunately, the Founding Fathers anticipated the need for an occasional dose of buckshot to somebody’s vitals and footnoted them into the Second Amendment.

  The only thing I could see of the second guy was his right hand. It was holding a Ruger .357 long-barrel, and there wasn’t a piece of steel between us that would even slow the slug down. I got out as easily as my large frame would allow. When I turned, I took a good look at both men. They were either twins or had been living together too long. Regardless, it had been a while between baths. I saw them appraise my size, but there wasn’t an ounce of shake in either weapon.

  “You miss the sign at the turnoff?” asked the one with the Ruger, staring at me.

  “Goddamn it, Shorty!” Dr. Dan yelled. “How many times we gotta go through this drill?”

  “Easy does it, Doc,” answered the guy with the shotgun. “We don’t know your friend here.”

  Dr. Dan was having none of it. “And it’s no fuckin’ business of yours who he is. He’s with me, and that’s all you need to know.”

  Shorty looked at his partner. “Whadya think, Buzz? Need some target practice?”

  “Only if I can shoot the doc too. I get goddamn tired a his smartass sometimes.”

  Dr. Dan gave them a wave of dismissal and got a better grip on the Walgreens bag. “You clowns ever get tired of rubbing your brains together looking for a spark, call me. I know some researchers who’d crawl out here on their hands a knees for a swab of
your DNA.”

  He turned his back on Buzz and Shorty and headed for the trailer. I watched him negotiate the sideways V of the white-railed wheelchair ramp, then knock and go inside the house before anyone answered.

  The twins and I stared at each other for a while, then they ambled up the road toward the wheelless Greyhound. “It really is a very nice sign,” I said. Buzz looked over his shoulder, started to say something, then didn’t.

  Ten minutes later, Dr. Dan appeared in the doorway and gestured me inside. As I went by, he said, “Sorry about the welcoming committee. Half of it’s neighborly concern, the other half’s whatever they’re doing in that bus.”