“Goddamn it! You had the boy and lost him?” The second voice. Even more furious.
Uh-oh. Murray remembered he hadn’t told either Pearl or Janochek about the hole right behind the truck.
“We can’t agree to anything unless we trust you.” Janochek.
“Trust this,” the first voice went on, ignoring the other’s challenge. “I do what’s best for me and my daughter. You live, the investigation dies. You die, we have trouble. Kids go missing after they found the hill graves? Cops will put on a full-court press. Long run, best you drive away.”
“Sheriff knows there were more bodies.” This from Pearl. “They’re looking for the Dumpster.”
Murray wished he hadn’t told her about that. Couldn’t decide if she was hurting or helping.
“Goddamn it!”
Murray couldn’t tell which one said that, but another struggle was on.
Janochek raced to the pickup and jumped in. Yelled “We’re going!”
Pearl ran to the passenger side while Janochek turned the key. The GMC made a loud, rasping sound. Didn’t start.
“The fan jammed?” Janochek opened the door and leaned out to look for grille damage.
Murray’s screaming alarm was drowned out by the first voice, but he couldn’t understand what it said. “Go ahead”? “The ramp’s down”? He had no idea because he was still screaming at Janochek. “THERE’S A PIT!”
Murray was knocked to his knees by an explosion that reverberated through the truck like an earthquake. He saw Janochek stagger out of the pickup holding his ears, saw Pearl’s arm above the cab’s back window, her rear halfway out the passenger door. Still near the tailgate, Murray felt his head drumming again. Might have banged it on the truck when he toppled.
Nothing else inside the cargo area had changed. No smoke. The camera, the speaker … did the noise come from the mic wherever the men were talking? Murray wondered if that bang meant the end of negotiations.
He listened hard. Footsteps … leaving, coming back … A car door opening, shutting, a loud scraping like someone could be moving the sound equipment.
Several minutes later, the second voice came on. “I’m raising the door. Bust out of here before I change my mind.”
Then nothing.
CABIN IN THE WOODS
The thin paved roads were decent in some spots and gravel in some spots with unpredictably deep potholes. Gates had nearly broken an axle on a downed tree that he couldn’t avoid. It was late morning when they reached ruts the GPS suggested led to Mrs. Trask’s property. They passed signs announcing Latour State Forest to the left of the road. Trask’s path took off to the right. It had been traveled recently. Quite a bit. An eighth of a mile in, big tire tracks went through a dense stand of timber. Gates would have liked to follow, but they were already late. Hours since Janochek and the kids had been taken.
Just before the patrol car crested a short rise Gates stopped the cruiser and the officers slid pistols from holsters and went forward on foot, following tread patterns. In less than a quarter mile they could see a dilapidated wooden building, green metal roof. No obvious vehicles. Gates’s hope faltered, and he heard Faraday muttering. Both began jogging.
Trees had been cleared in front of the cabin to allow parking for three or four vehicles. An unattached shop stood to the right side, and Faraday crept toward that. Gates went straight to the front door. Listened. Heard nothing and turned the knob. Door was locked from the inside. When he saw Faraday exit the shop, he made a big loop behind trees around to the rear. The back wall had two windows, curtained, and a door in the center above a three-foot-square cement pad, good place to knock snow or mud off shoes before entering.
He wasn’t surprised the door was unlocked. Way out here, did you want a stranger to break in or walk in? Latter left you with fewer repairs. Gates stayed against the back wall and shoved the door hard. It swung freely and cracked against a cabinet, and rebounded shut. He couldn’t tell if there was someone inside. He’d wait for Faraday.
She appeared around the other corner in less than a minute, shook her head. Glided up to join him on the other side of the doorframe. Gates was surprised at her grace and agility. Thick-muscled and stocky as she was, he hadn’t expected that. Imagined she played sports in high school or college but couldn’t imagine which one—discus? She raised her pistol and snapped him back to the present. He knew in that moment why he was losing focus. He’d given up hope. Believed the place was empty.
Faraday held the gun with both hands above her head, ready to drop and shoot. Gave the door another hard kick, breaking it at doorknob level, and rushed in, Gates right on her heels. They swung weapons in every direction but saw no targets. Back porch, cot, cupboards, hooks holding old sweaters and coats. He kicked the kitchen door open. Again nothing. Dishes in the drainer. Everything else put away. The fridge running. No fresh food. Box of butter, couple of six packs of beer, pickles. Condiments. Maybe the family came up here from time to time. Gates imagined the brothers bringing lunch, going fishing, leaving before dark.
Faraday came back from the living room. “Bedrooms empty. Sleeping bags on mattresses. Bathroom: shampoo, toothbrushes. No one’s here. No hostages.”
Faraday wanted to walk the grounds. Thirty acres. Room to hide things.
Gates was restless. Kept thinking about the tire tracks leading to the left, toward the state forest. Heavy equipment. Yelled at Faraday and ran for the car.
MIGHTY CASEY
Murray got to his feet, jumped down from the bed, and stepped over a stunned Janochek. Reached inside the pickup cab for the ax. Murray could picture it. Any moment the rear door would roll up and the shooting would start. These guys wouldn’t wreck the big truck. They’d kill the three of them, stuff them in the pickup cab, and push them into the pit. Murray at least wanted to get in one swing.
Janochek, clearing, must have imagined a like scenario. He was pulling Pearl around between the passenger side and the cargo wall. Helped her to the floor behind a front wheel. Pushed her flat and squeezed down in front of her.
Murray guessed the odds were the killer would be right-handed. He wedged himself in the back corner of the box where he could swing or throw the ax into the door opening before the man could bring his gun around. He put his bad hand above the other on the handle, made sure he had a strong grip in spite of the thumb.
All they could hear was their own breathing. Okay, maybe the noise had been the microphone being slammed down. That would be really loud, make a sharp bang. So there could be at least two men out there. Good thing the camera had been covered. At least he and Janochek were free to move, had the element of surprise. Murray realized he still had the knife in his jeans pocket. He should give that to Pearl. When he ran to the side of the truck he was stunned to see Janochek holding a pistol, aiming at the door. “What … you—”
Janochek cut him off. “My dad’s. I got it out last night, grabbed it when we left.” He rolled his eyes toward the hood. “Maybe you ought to hide up front,” he said. “Behind the engine, kneel by the bumper.”
Pearl had risen to see what the two of them were talking about.
Janochek reached behind him to push her down again.
“Toss me my knife,” she said, “just in case.”
Murray handed it to Janochek who passed it on.
“Go on,” Janochek told him, “before they get here.”
Murray couldn’t decide. If he went up in front of the pickup, yeah, the engine block would probably stop bullets, but he’d be useless. Couldn’t swing the ax. His consideration was interrupted by the sound of an outside car starting, revving a couple of times, getting farther away, and then coming back. Stopping. A few seconds passed and then another rev and a whine and a crash, metal rolling and bending, slamming the ground and finally stopping.
The pit?
“What the hell?” Janochek, peering over the bed, looking at the rear door. Had it moved during all that racket?
Murray figured th
e three of them would be next. “I think they’re coming.”
“Why now?” Janochek asked, but Murray didn’t know and didn’t answer. Just got in the right position to use his ax. He had the image in his mind. Some guy would begin opening the rear door, maybe the guy who’d driven the truck, but maybe not. Things had gotten so confusing. Never leave a witness. Anyway, Murray was hoping for the first voice. Let him open it. Murray hated that guy.
He heard the rear lock snick, scrape, stop. Saw the door jostle. Watched as it began to inch up. Slow, it didn’t make much noise. Murray wondered if Janochek could hear it, but he couldn’t yell and give himself away.
When the door was opened about a foot, Murray had a better idea. The guy doing it, didn’t he have to stand right there to raise it? What if Murray waited till the door was a little higher so he could see the guy’s body before the guy saw him. Swung the ax as hard as he could right into the center of the man’s stomach.
Would the guy still shoot and kill Murray? Would his partner? Okay. Would Murray die to save Pearl and Janochek? He’d never thought about that but it sounded fair.
Could he swing the damn ax? Would he? He didn’t know. But the door was getting higher. It wasn’t really a choice. Get the blade right! Make sure it was going straight! Fast. Hard. FAST! and he swung with everything he had and the ax hit something and the handle hit the bottom of the door and broke in half leaving him holding a piece of wood when the rest disappeared. Did he connect? The breaking made too much noise. He was afraid to look and bolted for the pickup, dived behind the front bumper.
In a moment he realized he couldn’t hear anything over the thudding of his heart and he was crying, damn it, and that made him even deafer. Nothing seemed to be moving. The box was still as rock. And Murray clamped his wrist over his mouth and slowly quieted. He felt a touch on his ankle. Pearl. Reaching as far back as she could. Holding him. And in spite of everything that made the crying worse … if he could hold her just one more time before … She didn’t let go and in a minute or so the tears ceased.
Everyone waited. No one spoke. Murray couldn’t tell if the enormously loud noise a few minutes ago had actually damaged his ears, but he didn’t want to say anything in case the men were still listening.
Pearl jiggled his foot and he thought he knew why. He was starting to hear something, too. A fan? A hum … an engine … his stomach rolled.
NO PICNIC IN THE PARK
A heavy patrol car bounces side to side when you gun it over a bumpy dirt track. It spins out on carpets of pine needles. Joining the path of the deep tire tracks, a wide sweeping turn nearly cost Gates a fender.
Faraday put her hand on his arm. “You bust in there, we might have another Waco.”
Right. Gates took his foot off the accelerator. Branch Davidians, law enforcement’s long-lasting black eye. No matter that the crazy guru had set fire to his own people, federal officers’ haste and indecisive planning helped exacerbate what was already a tragedy.
“Roll your window,” Gates said, doing his own. “Hear what we can.”
Faraday boosted herself partway out for a few seconds before slapping branches forced her back inside. “Quiet as far as I can tell.”
Gates crossed a cattle guard. Sign beside it: ENTERING LATOUR STATE FOREST. They continued, gradually edging south, came to a small creek.
“Atkins,” Faraday reported, GPS in hand.
Since the bottom was rocky and the creek not too swollen, they drove through slowly enough to keep water from splashing the engine block. Saw the tire gouges on the far bank.
“Been some weight here,” Faraday noted.
Gates made himself lay off the accelerator.
Not far, perhaps less than a half mile, the trees began to thin toward what looked like a small meadow at the foot of an abrupt hill. Gates stopped the car, searched the console for his binoculars. Faraday found them crammed in her side’s storage bin. They left the doors open and walked to the perimeter of the clearing. Two hundred yards away, a gray van sat parallel to a large box truck. The van’s driver’s side and back doors were standing open.
The department-issue 10x50s helped him see all the way to the van’s dash. The carry area had a standing card table, a folding chair beside. Jumbled paraphernalia on the floor: coils of rope, tool boxes. No people, unless they were huddled on the floor in front of the seats.
At the large cargo truck, it looked like both doors were closed. No people visible. The vehicle’s cab was facing them so they couldn’t see the rear. Behind the truck a new excavation, the side of the hill scraped maybe forty feet in, showing a dirt wall at least fifteen feet high with leaning, partially uprooted trees at the top.
When Gates refocused the nocs, he could see big tire tracks leading past the clearing into the woods on the far side. A slash of yellow, the color of road-building equipment, the rest of the shape hidden by foliage. Felt a tap on his shoulder.
Faraday pointed to his right. Maybe fifty yards farther around the perimeter a large white SUV. When they approached they found it unoccupied, the hood barely warm. Been here an hour? From this angle they could see more of the van, but still not the back of the big truck.
Gates was out of patience, afraid he was already too late.
“You walk in,” he told Faraday. “Use the van for cover.” That earned him a scowl. He knew if there was time she would have scolded, hated it when he told her things she already knew. “My bad,” he whispered after her but she was already moving low across the meadow.
Gates ran back to the cruiser, cranked the ignition, flipped the lights and siren and barreled in. Maybe the hoopla would freeze everybody and they wouldn’t make anything worse. He was planning to race past the cargo truck and one-eighty spin to a stop, facing the back. Figured that’s where everybody was. Be alive!
Realized too late his plan was a bad miscalculation.
The shaved area wasn’t flat. It was a pit. No way he was going to stop in time. He bailed and shoulder-rolled, praying the car would miss him. Tumbled, kept his arms in, head covered, legs tucked. If the bad guys were watching they’d shoot him the minute they stopped laughing. Even badly shaken, dazed, he heard the cruiser hit the excavation’s bottom like a train collision.
He wobbled to his feet, reached for his pistol. Gone. Probably in the grass near one of his cartwheels. Gates balanced his weight and glanced up, ready to juke either direction depending on how the bastards were holding their weapons. Saw no gunmen, but the truck’s rear door stood partially open. Barely visible inside, the tailgate and bumper of a pickup. He dropped to the ground, rolled right a few feet to make a poorer target, and risked another glance. There was something on the ground in front of the truck door.
Faraday jogged to join him, helped him to his feet. Said, “Clear,” and then pointed to the bundle at the back of the truck. “What’s that?”
Gates shrugged.
She handed him his nine-millimeter. “You were probably looking for this.” She was already moving a step at a time toward the truck, two-handed grip on her pistol leading the way.
Gates jogged to the right making a broader target spread before joining her advance. Closer, he could see the lump on the ground was a man in fetal position. Matched the SUV. Chuck Barker.
I’M A LUMBERJACK AND NOT OKAY
“Drop your weapons! We’re coming in!”
Murray knew that voice. He thought he saw two shadows enter the back at either side. The sound of crawling. Janochek saying, “It’s just us.” He heard Janochek grunt as he got to his feet. A person Gates’s size stood, then another, smaller. “Come on out,” the woman said, lowering her pistol. Everyone started leaving the truck. Was Pearl okay?
A week after school had started last August, Murray’s history class was studying twenty-first-century cultural mores and using a pick-a-question-from-a-basket game to increase class participation. If he could have avoided picking one, he would have, but that wasn’t an option. His turn. The question was “Where
were you when you had your first kiss?” Murray did everything he could think of to quell the blush that began at his feet and feathered its way toward his face. The answer Murray hoped no one else could see was “nowhere.” Somewhere on the walls of his blank mind he found the words “at the movies,” and the game moved on to the next person.
Now, finally, he had a real answer to that question. Under a pickup bumper on the floor of a cargo truck. And he would never have guessed Pearl could deliver such a thriller. Pearl. When it was over she crawled away to join her dad, and Murray was weak. Had to drag himself up using the pickup grille. He was … there were no words for it. But blissed out beyond the boundaries of the known universe might be a start. He knew one more thing for certain. He’d never get that from Sandray.
His shivery pleasure lasted until Deputy Gates called him by name.
* * *
Murray knew what he’d done. He’d fulfilled the pinnacle of his mother’s dreams, didn’t need a high school graduation to succeed. He’d gone straight to the top. Become an ax murderer. Killed a man he did not see and did not know. The man’s name? Not a clue. Whether the man had done anything wrong, Murray had no idea. Murray had killed him for opening a truck door. That wouldn’t sit well with the jury.
Gates was waiting just outside at the back of the truck. “Don’t touch the door,” he said as Murray came close. “Slide under and touch as little as possible.”
Murray complied, hoping they’d talk for a while before he had to put on any handcuffs again. He hated those things. Imagining a pair made his thumb ache. He inched out and shot a quick look into the pit. The Dumpster had been joined by two wrecked patrol cars. Two? Police cars? That didn’t make sense. For a second Murray pictured Janochek’s pickup burning rubber, racing backward out of the cargo box, and flying tailgate-first into the hole. Probably would have dived right into one of the cars and if the three of them weren’t already dead, the crash would have broken their necks.
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