Craig Johnson

by Walt Longmire 06 - Junkyard Dogs (v5)

  stand for what I think it does?” He nodded. “Aryan Brotherhood, the white supremacist gang.” “What about the spiderwebs with the FP

  ?” “Those are his initials, and the webs represent doing time. The tombstones on his chest stand for the years he was inside.” I pointed at another one with a star and more tombstones. “That one?” “Huntsville, Texas, the numbers mean from ’78 to ’83.” “SWP

  ?” “Supreme white power.” “SB

  ?” The Basquo shook his head. “I don’t know, but we can cross-check the online systems.” He indicated another batch of symbols. “The stone wall with railroad tracks here means San Quentin. Again, the numbers mean he was in from ’85 to ’97.” Vic chimed in. “Thank you, Johnny Cash.” I studied the dead man. “That’s a long stretch.” The Basquo continued. “That’s where and when the Aryan Brotherhood began, so I guess we have a founding member here.” He shrugged. “They don’t take to wannabes. If you bullshit your tats, they skin them off you with a razor-blade and a pair of pliers.” Vic seemed only mildly impressed. “Wow, the George Washington of Nazi fuckheads.” She fingered the dead man’s arm, where a pistol pointed out. “That means he’s a shooter?” “Yeah. It’s odd that his tats end at his wrists and neck. This guy wears long-sleeved shirts, and you’d never see any of it.” I was getting an education. “That’s not the norm?” “No. They usually have stuff all over their hands, and sometimes on their faces.” He took a deep breath and touched Felix Polk for the first time, then looked up at Isaac. “May I?” “By all means.” Isaac stepped forward and assisted him in turning the body. The tattoos continued over both of the man’s shoulders and ended with a woman’s face. She was crying, and there were three teardrops. “Someone was waiting for him on the outside, and I’d say the drops are the number of kills.” “Three?” “Yeah, one for the stretch in Quentin and another in Huntsville.” “The third?” He shook his head. “Who knows? One where he didn’t get caught, maybe.” Sancho and the Doc turned the corpse back over as I came around the other side to face Saizarbitoria. “This is the kind of guy who would kill someone if a multimillion-dollar weed operation went bad?” The Basquo’s voice echoed off the stainless steel. “In a heartbeat, and I’m willing to bet that not only was Polk providing the knowledge for the venture, but he was also in charge of the buyers. Blood in, blood out. These guys are heavy into drug trafficking, extortion, and pressure rackets. I bet he was producing for the entire AB. Usually you have to do a hit just to get in and then members are actively expected to score for the others in custody.” I sighed. “Isn’t he a little old for this stuff ?” Santiago looked at him. “Not really. . . . ” I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my coat. “I’ve only got one question then.” The Basquo shrugged. “The partial thumbprint gave us nothing from the national records; Vic’s verbal request on a name search must’ve popped up in Travis County but nowhere else.” “That wasn’t my question.” They were all looking at me as I continued to study one of the few portions of Felix Polk that held no information—his face. “How did Ozzie Dobbs meet somebody like this? And more importantly, how did he think he’d survive being in business with him?” Nobody answered. Especially not Polk. The auxiliary baseboard heaters had kicked on in the jail to combat the extra-cold temperatures as Gina and I stood in the hallway. She said she’d gone over and talked to Mrs. Dobbs. “You’ve been busy.” She put the cigarette I’d forbidden her to smoke back in the pack and stuffed it into the pocket of the pink parka. “Yeah, well . . . I just wanted to get it off my chest.” “All of a sudden?” She shrugged. “Ozzie’s dead, and I’m scared.” “Of what?” Her brown eyes grew large in sarcasm. “Of being dead, too.” “Why would anyone want to kill you?” “Because I’m carrying Ozzie’s child?” I sighed. “I don’t think there’s very much of a chance of anyone coming after you for that.” “Why?” “We’re pretty sure that the individual who killed Ozzie did it because he was involved with Duane’s marijuana operation.” The next part was only slightly misinformative. “And we’ve taken a man into custody.” “Who is it?” “Fellow by the name of Felix Polk. Ever heard of him?” The response was predictable. “No.” “You never heard Duane or Ozzie mention that name?” “No.” “If I get you a picture of him, can you tell me if you’ve ever seen him?” She sighed in exasperation, kind of like Cady did, but without quite the intelligence. “Why don’t you just introduce him to me?” I paused, wondering if I really wanted to add to the death count in Gina’s head. “He’s indisposed.” “What’s that mean, he’s in the bathroom?” I figured the hell with it. “He’s dead.” “Oh.” From her response, he might as well have been in the bathroom. Other people’s deaths didn’t seem to make much of an impression on Gina. I needed to talk to Duane, but so did she. The problem is, she wanted me to be a part of her conversation, and I wasn’t too keen on the idea. On the flip side, I wanted her to be a party to my conversation, and she didn’t seem interested in that. We were at an impasse, and the only answer was a very emotionally messy round robin. “I am going to speak to Duane before you go in to talk to him.” “Why do you get to go first?” “Because what you’re going to say to him is going to be like an atomic bomb, and I’d just as soon get some answers before it goes off.” She folded her arms. “You think it’s that big of a deal?” I stared at her; I couldn’t help myself. “That you’re having another man’s baby? Yep, I think that’s going to put my questions on the back burner.” She shrugged again; the shrug really was Gina’s art form. “Duane, we know you had a partner in your little 4-H project and, since things have gotten more serious, I’m going to need you to tell me who that was.” He glanced at his young wife seated on a folding chair to my right and then back to me. “I didn’t have a partner.” I sighed. “Do you remember that talk we had about this conversation?” “Huh?” I nodded in an attempt to get him to remember. “The one about coming back here and having another conversation where you weren’t quite so guilty?” He was nodding along with me now. “That would be this conversation.” He stopped nodding. “Oh.” He paused and looked at his wife again, and it was almost as if he had to try to remember. “Ozzie, Mr. Dobbs, had the money.” I pushed my hat back and scratched my head. “I figured that one out, but I also need to know who had the know-how.” “Ozzie did. He had these equipment books and all this other stuff that told you how to do it.” “What kind of stuff ?” “Notebooks.” I rested my elbows on my knees and leaned in. “I don’t suppose you know where those notebooks are?” “Nunh-uh.” I threw a glance toward Gina; the response was predictable—she shrugged. I clasped my hands together and tried not to think about Sancho’s remark that the two in front of me weren’t likely to be clever enough, collectively, to overturn cows. “Did Ozzie ever mention a guy named Felix Polk?” “Nunh-uh.” He really seemed pretty much incapable of lying. “So you’ve never heard that name before?” “Nunh-uh.” Unfortunately, I believed him. I cleared my throat. “Duane, I think Gina has something she wants to tell you.”

  15 “What do you mean it’s not the gun that killed him?” “It’s not a match. I’m sending it off to DCI, but I did the prelims on the lead after McDermott dug it out of him and the markings are nowhere near the same as the one I tested—besides, Polk’s gun was a 9- millimeter and the one that killed Ozzie was a .32.” I raised my hat and sat up, tossing the blanket that Ruby had used to cover me with a quick flip. My familiar and recurring headache blistered across my brain. “What’d you test it in?” “A gallon of Jell-O and a box of sand.” I sat up, slumped against my desk, and draped a hand down to pet Dog. “Aren’t we enterprising.” “Hey, don’t be pissy with me for doing my job.” I held my temples for a moment. “I thought it was DCI’s job.” “I was bored. I don’t have a house and nobody bought me anything for Valentine’s Day.” We both sat there for a moment, looking at Santiago Saizarbitoria’s duty belt, semiautomatic, and badge lying on my desk. I hadn’t noticed it when I’d come into my office. “What’s Saizarbitoria’s badge doing here?” “I gu
ess he dropped it off when he turned in my unit. Ruby says he left it at her desk, and she didn’t know what you wanted to do with it.” I sat there staring at the six-pointed star with the circle around it, the mountains with the tiny star over them, the open book, and the words that you could barely make out, Vero est Justicia

  . Truth is justice. Indeed. I stood and folded my blanket, laying it on the chair with the pillow. I picked up my hat and quickly walked around my desk, as though the Basquo’s equipment might’ve been haunted. I glanced back at the badge. “Kind of has a note of finality about it, doesn’t it?” Vic looked up at me. “I’m sorry.” She stood and held my hand as she pulled me into the hallway. “C’mon, I’ll buy you lunch.” When we got into the reception area, Ruby peered at me from over her computer. “This means Felix Polk didn’t kill Ozzie Dobbs?” I yawned and then made a face, attempting to draw the pain from my head. “No, it means that Felix Polk didn’t kill Ozzie Dobbs with the same gun with which he attempted to kill me. We haven’t done a complete search of the neo-Nazi’s cabin, but I’m sure we’ll find other firearms there.” Vic stood beside me, petting Dog, who had followed. “And what if we don’t find the .32 that killed Ozzie?” “Then Polk disposed of it.” My voice carried a little edge. She studied me. “Or?” “Or somebody else did it.” She didn’t smile, but her eyes softened. “You’re grumpy. Get up on the wrong side of your chair?” All three of them were looking at me now. “What it means is that a deputy of mine with PTS just killed a kidnapper for pointing a gun at me and that there might be another murderer running around out there somewhere.” “Then what would they, whoever they are, gain by killing Geo and then Dobbs?” I let out a deep sigh, and even I thought I sounded like a tire going flat. “Somebody’s circling the wagons.” Vic pushed me toward the stairs. “I’m hungry, so I’m betting you’re starved.” “I am, so we’ll grab something at the Dash Inn on the way.” I snagged my coat from the hooks on the wall beside Ruby’s desk and glanced back at my dispatcher. “Where’s the Bear?” She looked up at us as Dog joined the group. “He hijacked a plumber here in town and was last seen headed for the Reservation.” My shoulders slumped. “If he calls in, tell him I need him.” “Are we going somewhere?” “We’re going to head out to the Stewart place and look for those notebooks that Duane was talking about or anything else that might lead to a connection between Ozzie Dobbs and Felix Polk.” Ruby looked past us and through the whiteout windows in the doors behind us. “If Henry is unavailable, who do you want me to call while you two are traipsing around the junkyard?” “Get the Basquo back in here. Tell him it’s an emergency.” “You know that’s against the law.” “Whose?” Ruby looked down and spoke the words neither Vic nor I would. “He quit, Walt. He’s gone.” We’d only passed three other cars—well, trucks, actually—since leaving the office. Durant was like a frozen ghost town. The snow was another eight inches deep since I’d come off the mountain this morning, and the tires of my truck were completely silent as we slowly wheeled our way off Main Street and took a right onto Route 16. Vic scrunched down in my passenger seat. “I guess we’re getting all the snow for the winter at one time.” “Hmm.” She watched the side of my face and then spoke in a deeper voice. “How’s the house hunting going lately, Vic?” The next voice was hers. “On hold.” She once again spoke in a voice I was sure was supposed to be mine. “Well, we’ve been a little busy lately.” She concluded the conversation with herself in her regular voice, but I’m sure it was directed at me. “Yeah? Well, you’re an asshole.” She looked out the window, and now I drove in absolute silence, almost wishing for some tire noise. We ordered three super- dashburgers—one for Vic, one for me, and one for Dog—with fries and two coffees. We sat there waiting at the drive-through window for our food, and I watched as another eighteen-wheeler slowly made its way off I-25 and parked alongside the road. WYDOT had informed us that they were closing the highway, and the trucks were piling up. “So, how’d the Basquo take it when he found out the truth concerning the case of the missing thumb?” I looked at her. “I’m sorry, is this a real conversation or another dramatic interpretation?” She stared at me for a long while, and I caved, incapable of withstanding the kind of silence she could put out. “He did the right thing.” She turned her head, and I watched her breath cloud the glass. “There are going to be questions.” “Yep.” “Especially since Polk’s gun wasn’t the one that broke Ozzie’s heart.” I looked at her. “Sorry.” My eyes returned to the road. “We’ll find that gun.” “It doesn’t look good with him quitting right afterward.” Her voice was softer. “I’m just trying to look at it from the state attorney general Joe Meyer’s point of view.” “I know.” She took her time before speaking again. “You should seriously consider whether you might’ve happened to have seen the reflection in the window of Felix Polk holding that gun to the back of your head.” I didn’t say anything. The food came along with a few biscuits for Dog. “Thanks, Larry, you guys calling it a day? They’ve closed the highway.” He smiled and shouted as I handed Vic the bag of food and stuffed the biscuits in my pocket to give to Dog later. “Yeah, we’re going home while we can still make it!” I smiled back as he handed me our drinks and quickly slid his window closed. I hit the button to roll up mine, a spray of wayward flakes swirling in the open window as I watched Vic lodge her coffee into the passenger cup holder and mine into the center one. “A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou.” My dissertation was interrupted by Ruby. Static. “Unit one this is base, come in.” Vic looked at the radio and unwrapped her dashburger. “Your truck—your radio.” I sighed and pulled the mic from the holder. Ruby was still trying to win us over to a more businesslike attitude toward radio communication, and everybody had pretty much caved, except for me. “What?” Static. “I just got a weather report.” I keyed the mic. “How much are we supposed to get?” There was a bit of jostling before the next communiqué, and it became obvious where Ruby had found reinforcements. Static. “Ass deep to a nine-foot Indian.” I keyed the mic again. “Hello, Lucian.” Static. “What the hell are you doing out there?” “Checking on the remainder of the Stewart clan.” Static. “They say we’re gonna get eighteen inches by tomorrow morning.” “I won’t tarry.” Static. “See that you don’t; I brought my chessboard with me.” By the time we got to the dump/junkyard, Vic had fed Dog his burger and half of hers. I’d eaten mine in four bites and was just now finishing off my fries as we arrived at the Stewart driveway. Mike Thomas was leaving as we got there, so we slowed and stopped. He pulled the ’78 orange Ford alongside my truck and rolled his window down. “What are you doing out in this weather, Mike? Neighborhood watch?” He shrugged under his insulated coat and frowned, throwing a thumb back to the tarp-covered heap in the bed of his truck. “Was gonna drop a load off at the dump, but Gina said they were closed today and waved me off.” I looked up to emphasize the point. “Well, it is kind of inclement.” “I’m off to the Caribbean tomorrow, if it ever stops, and wanted to clear out my shop.” He leveled an eye on me. “In sixteen years, I’ve never seen a workday when Geo Stewart closed. I guess it’s all different now that he’s gone.” “You heard?” “Yep, and when I pulled up to the house to see what was going on, Gina was piling stuff into that piece-of-shit Toronado again like she was pretty intent on going somewhere else.” I glanced at Vic, then back to the sculptor. “You sure she wasn’t unloading? We caught her on 16 the last time you called and turned her back.” He thought about it. “Hell, she might’ve been unloading for all I know.” “Well, we’ll go in and check on her.” He shook his head and began rolling up his window. “Good luck.” The Toronado was parked in the driveway close to the house, but the snow on it had been swiped off recently. I stopped behind it and threw the truck into park. “Let’s go.” Dog started his leap over the center console and into the front. “Not you. If those two beasts of theirs are in there, I don’t need you starting anything.” He looked disappointed, but I left the windows down a little and shut the door after me. Vic was at
the front of the truck when I got there. She glanced up at me. “I’m assuming you didn’t mean me?” We trudged through the snow to the driver’s-side door of the Toronado. “Does that look like more crap than was in there before?” My deputy peered through the frosted window. “Arf.” I studied the prints leading up to the house and onto the porch; three trips at least. It appeared that Gina was still intent on leaving, even with the weather and the warning. The conversation with Duane hadn’t been as bad as I’d assumed it would be, considering the nature of the subject matter. When she told him she was pregnant and that the father was not him, he seemed surprised but not particularly upset. In the amount of time I’d been contemplating the Stewart social order, another quarter of an inch of snow had accumulated on the two of us. Without another word, we picked our way among the fresh prints to the house and met Gina coming out with a laundry basket full of clothes. “Howdy.” She started with a short scream and almost dropped the basket. “Jesus Christ!” “Sorry.” Vic and I stepped onto the porch in an attempt to not accumulate even more snow. “What are you doing, Gina?” She dropped the light blue plastic laundry basket after the question and took the smoldering cigarette from the corner of her mouth. “Leavin’.” “We told you to stick around.” “Yeah, well . . .” She glanced back into the open doorway of the house. “Grampus is dead, Duane’s in jail, and I’m getting the fuck out of here. I don’t give a shit what you told me to do.” Butch and Sundance appeared in the doorway, protective of Gina and obviously concerned that we were abusing their mistress. Butch, the one that had bitten me in the ass, was the nearest and was growling. “In case you haven’t noticed, the weather is pretty brutal, and the HPs have closed all the highways.” She took a strong puff on the cigarette, pregnancy be damned. “Fuckit. I’m still leavin’, and you can’t stop me.” I let that pass. “Something happen?” “Morris came over, and I told him about the baby, and he went all ape shit.” “Geo’s brother Morris?” “Yeah, he’s upstairs going through some of Grampus’ stuff.” “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him speak three words . . .” I could feel my headache coming back and wondered if they really had anything to do with my eye. “Would you like me to speak to him?” “No. Fuckit, I’m leavin’.” “You’re not going to get very far.” “I don’t care.” She started to bend over and pick up the basket. “I’m leavin’.” “I’m sorry, but you’re not.” The dogs caught my tone, even if she hadn’t, and were now both growling. Vic unsnapped the safety strap on her Glock. “Call ’em off, or I’ll throw a warning shot through both their fucking heads.” When you go to a dogfight, it’s always good to bring the meanest bitch. Gina casually glanced back and then screamed at them. “Shut up!” The dogs went immediately silent. “Gina, if you leave here now you’re not going to go anywhere except a ditch and then we’re going to have to pull you out. Just stay put and let me talk to Morris, and then, if we have to, we’ll give you an escort to a motel. Okay?” She looked even more sullen than usual, turned with her load, and went back into the House of Usher, followed by the two Hounds of the Baskervilles. There were more things piled by the doorway than I would’ve guessed would fit in the Classic, but who was I to judge. “Where is Morris?” “Upstairs in Grampus’ room. He said he was gonna get Grampus’ gun and shoot me.” Vic and I looked at each other. “Really?” She studied me as if I were a variety of moron she’d never met before. “Yeah, really.” “You stay here with Vic, and I’ll go upstairs.” “Fine by me. I’m gonna get a pop in the kitchen.” “You guys wait for me in there.” Vic nodded, and I took a step up the stairway. “Morris! It’s Walt Longmire, are you up there?” Nothing. It was odd, and I found it hard to believe that Morris Stewart would’ve responded in the manner she’d described. “Morris! Sheriff ’s Department coming up the stairs!” Nothing. It was my first time in the inner sanctum of the house, and from the look of things on the landing, the upstairs wasn’t any better than the downstairs. Junk cluttered the steps and continued down the hallway. There was a path down the middle, but car parts, stacks of papers, magazines, and cans of paint were stacked on either side. The place was an arsonist’s dream. I thought about how they cleaned the chimney with a mop full of kerosene and shuddered. “Morris, are you up here?” There were six doorways in the hall; five of them had the doors closed with the sixth, the one at the end, slightly ajar. I picked my way through the debris and placed a hand on my sidearm. “Morris!” I opened the nearest door—it was obviously Duane and Gina’s. There were car posters on the walls and a huge canopy bed that looked like it might’ve been bought at a discount furniture place, the kind you see in tents alongside the road. The only light in the room was a digital clock that was an hour off. I stared at it for a few moments, thinking that there was something about it that was important. Something about that clock and the time. I decided I’d start at the other end of the hallway with the door that was slightly open and work my way back. The floor creaked under my boots, and I started feeling like Gina, trapped in the Addams Family mansion. “Morris?” I nudged the door open—the gauzelike curtain on the other side of the room was flowing like the oversized sleeve of a ghost, to complete the analogy, and snow was piling up on the floor underneath the window. I moved to close it and go on to the next room when I saw something lying in a single bed to the left. It was a tiny fold-out cot, really, but piled with sheets, blankets, and even a moldy buffalo hide. On closer inspection, the thing had horsehair tails hanging from the edges and intricate beading indicative of the late eighteenth century—probably worth a fortune but for the holes and the hair that was falling off of it. Something moved under the pile of coverings, and I took the couple of steps to the bedside. “Morris?” Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving anymore, so I reached forward and peeled the blankets back. It was Morris, and there was a great deal of blood saturated in the dirty sheets. The blood had come from a bullet wound in his chest, almost identical to the wound that Ozzie Dobbs had sustained. Then his eyes flew open. “Jesus!” His mouth began moving, but no words came out. “Morris, stay still. I’ll get you some help.” I pulled my radio from my belt and hit the button. “Vic? Are you there?” Nothing. “Vic?” I released the button and yelled down the hallway in a voice I was sure could be heard in the kitchen. “Vic!” I placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I’m going to go get help. I’ll be right back. Hold on, Morris.” I punched the button and yelled into the radio. “Base, this is unit one—come in!” As I rushed down the hall and toward the stairs, Ruby’s voice came through the speaker. “Unit one, this is base. Over?” As I passed Duane and Gina’s room, it dawned on me why it was important that the clock was an hour off—that Duane had said Gina had left for work by the time he’d gotten up from his nap, but in reality she’d reset the clock and gone out to kill Geo. I jammed the radio to my mouth. “Ruby, get me backup over at the Stewart place!” Static. “Who?” “Anybody. Everybody. Get me EMTs too. Morris Stewart has been shot and is bleeding to death. Hurry.” I reached the landing and turned to find the front door once again hanging open, but I cut left toward the kitchen. I stalled at the swinging door I’d first seen Betty Dobbs walk through and could see Vic lying on the floor, blood on her head. I ran to her. I could feel the pressure of my own body exploding from the inside. I gently pushed my arm under her shoulder and pulled her toward me and up from the floor. I froze as her head lolled to one side, and I could feel the air leap from my mouth. “No way, not like this. Not here.” She gasped a short breath, and it was then that I could see she was still breathing. Her next words were quintessential. “Fuck me.” I held her head and spotted a frying pan big enough and old enough to have fed the whole Seventh Cavalry. It was lying on the floor by the refrigerator along with a large amount of spilled fried potatoes. There was a spot on it that was bloodied and held a tuft of brunette hair. I held her face up to mine. She stirred again, and a hand came up, glancing off my arm and then dropping again. “What the fuck . . . ?” Her other hand came up and latched on to my sleeve. “Are you all ri
ght?” “My head . . . That bitch.” Her eyes opened, and I could see where a blood vessel had burst in her left one. “What the hell did she hit me with?” “Looks like a frying pan. I guess you should be happy she didn’t have her gun.” I propped her up a bit. “Are you okay?” “No, my head . . . Yeah, I’m good.” She started to sit up, but her equilibrium was off and she wavered in my arms. “Shit.” I pulled her toward the kitchen cabinets and leaned her against them. “I’ve got backup coming with medical. Morris Stewart’s upstairs where she shot him in the chest—just like Ozzie Dobbs. Do you believe he’s still alive?” She stretched her jaw, and I could hear the popping noise. “When we’re all dead, the only thing that’ll still be alive will be cockroaches and a Stewart.” She was all right. “Any idea where Gina and the dogs went?” She tried to shake her head. “No idea. Did you check the car?” “No, but we’ve got her blocked in, and I’ve got the keys.” She sighed, and I could tell it hurt. “I’ll check . . .” Her hand slipped, and she jarred back onto her butt. “Stay. When the troops show up, tell ’em Morris is upstairs in the last bedroom to the left.” I stood. She looked at me. “Where are you going?” I pulled the .45 from my holster. “Hunting.” I could see from her prints in the fresh snow where she’d tried the car, but then that she had turned and gone back in, the dog tracks following hers. There was melted snow from her shoes and the dogs’ paws that led down the stairs to the basement. I turned the knob, but it was locked again. I reared back and planted a size thirteen into the wood by the knob plate and caught myself in the doorway as the wood exploded onto the stairs. I listened, but there was no noise from below, just the cold air from what I now knew was the cellar tunnel. I flipped on the light switch and continued down the steps. She could’ve gotten her gun but wouldn’t have taken the risk of finishing off Vic since she knew I’d be coming down the steps pretty quickly. She was used to taking her victims unaware and at close range; she might get lucky with the .32 if I came at her, or she might not. Then there were the dogs. As I turned the corner at the landing, my radio crackled. “Walt, it’s Ruby.” I pulled the radio up as I aimed the Colt at large into the darkened basement. “ . . . Kinda busy here.” Static. “Walt, Santiago is here and says he’s got more information on Felix Polk.” “Put him on.” Static. “Boss, the name Polk didn’t come up as an inmate in Huntsville so I did a search for a Felix P and found a Felix Poulson who did time for killing a garage owner in San Antonio.” It was silent for a moment. “Gotta be the same guy, Boss. His next hit was the stretch in San Quentin for kidnapping a woman in Utah and killing her—same name, Felix Poulson.” Where had I heard that name before? I keyed the mic again. “Is there any mention of next-of-kin contact?” Static. “Kayla.” I flipped the lights on and looked around with the radio over my mouth. “Have we got people coming?” Static. “Yes. Everybody’s on their way.” “Morris is in the bedroom upstairs, and Vic is on the floor in the kitchen.” Static. “What happened to Vic?” “Fortunately, she was assaulted with a frying pan.” Static. “Fortunately?” I keyed the mic again. “It was a hell of a sight better than the .32 Gina used on her great-uncle-in-law.” I clipped the radio to my belt and continued to check the basement. There was no one there—man, woman, or beast. I watched the air blow the blue plastic that covered the opening in the old house’s foundation back toward me along with the cold from the other end. The four-by-four attached to the bottom of the tarp was kicked sideways, and I was pretty sure it was where she and the dogs had gone. It was the only way out to the tow trucks that were the only other working vehicles. I moved to the opening and shifted the wood on the floor to the opposite side. It was dark in the tunnel, and I reached up to the right where I could feel the junction box and switch. I flipped it and absolutely nothing happened. “Damn.” I pulled my Maglite from my belt and directed it into the tunnel; the batteries were starting to fade, I’d been using it so much lately. Poulson. Where had I heard that name? The weak beam of the flashlight only penetrated the gloom of the tunnel for so far, and the only things I could see were a few cardboard boxes, a stack of mulch, and another of fertilizer. Saizarbitoria had done a pretty good job of cleaning out the place; it was such a shame that it had turned out to be his swan song. I started into the jagged opening and had gone about a dozen steps when I felt the air pressure in the confined space change. The cold was like a wall, and I could feel it increase as I stood there. I listened carefully but could only hear a scrambling noise. It was about then that I heard the breathing of something at the end of the tunnel, something running. I raised the flashlight again and could plainly see a single set of golden eyes moving fast and headed my way.