Still River

by Harry Hunsicker

  We were on a half street, only five homes long. The road ended in a tangled mass of trees and bamboo. The houses appeared to be vacant. We sat silent for a few seconds until we heard the squealing tires.

  I opened the door and said, “Out of the car.” I grabbed my cell phone and we ran to the second house from the end, on the left. It was the most overgrown. Ten years’ worth of unkempt hedges hid the front of the house. We melted into the vegetation and rotted wood at one end of the porch, trying to be still. We waited. It didn’t take long.

  I’d barely pushed the safety off my Browning when the Seville eased around the corner. It stopped at the end of the street and a lone figure hopped out. He slipped behind a tree and pointed a rifle at the truck. Another figure exited from the other side of the car and took up a position on the opposite side of the street, rifle in hand. They signaled each other and opened fire on the truck. I recognized the distinctive chatter of the AK-47. The shooters were well trained, and concentrated on the cab of the truck, a careful and controlled barrage of bullets that destroyed where we’d been sitting moments before.

  The shots ceased and they approached the remains of the truck. The man on the left was the first to reach it. He whistled and waved his hand when he saw the empty cab. Two more figures got out of the car and the four of them spread out. They were preparing to search the surrounding houses.

  “Ready or not, here they come.” I gripped the pistol tighter.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As old gunny sergeant I used to know said that one of the stupidest things you could do was to bring a knife to a gunfight. Our situation wasn’t quite that bad, but close. I had a Browning Hi-Power with one extra thirteen-round magazine. Nolan had a six-shot revolver. The four stalking us, getting closer by the second, each carried an AK-47 with a long, curved banana clip. Twenty or thirty rounds per weapon. They’d outlawed those high-capacity magazines years ago, but these guys obviously hadn’t heard about that.

  The other problem we had was that I can’t shoot a pistol worth a damn. The army even sent me to study with a special group of folks, sort of a graduate course in all the latest techniques of murder and mayhem.

  They called themselves the Rangers and were exceptionally good at what they did. They taught me to kill with all sorts of things: grenades, rifles, shotguns, even the odd household instruments lying around, like a butter knife or piano wire. And of course: handguns.

  I flunked pistol killing.

  Our best bet was to sneak away, if that turned out to be an option, which I doubted. I assumed the two on our side were mimicking what their counterparts were doing across the street: slowly making their way down the block, one checking out the abandoned houses, the other standing guard on the sidewalk.

  They were progressing at the same speed because when the two opposite us reached the house directly across, I heard a rustling in the bushes of our hiding place. Nolan looked at me, eyebrows raised. I held the Browning in my right hand and waited, blinking the sweat out of my eyes. More rustling and the wooden porch creaked.

  He looked like he was barely out of high school, a skinny kid wearing low-slung jeans and a dirty Lakers jersey. He knew how to carry a rifle, though, shoulder mounted with both eyes open. He stepped on the rickety porch from the opposite end as us, cautiously pushing his way through the tangle of wisteria and holly. If we were lucky he wouldn’t see us, crouched behind a wreck of a Barcalounger. It would help if he were blind too.

  An instant after he saw us he fired two rounds our way. He was scared or a bad shot or both, because they went high, into the corner of the house. I aimed for his chest and fired twice. The bullets hit the thin wooden column supporting the porch, about two feet to his right. Stupid pistol.

  A shower of wood rained on him and he put one hand to his eyes and fired another round that went into the floor. Nolan and I bolted, scrambling off the porch. We’d just landed in the dirt of the side yard when the shrubbery and the front of the house disintegrated in a shower of bullets.

  We whipped around the side of the house, where I tapped out three quick shots toward the source of the fire. He or they returned the favor but we were already gone, racing through the backyard and breaking through the foliage to hop the fence and land in a gravel alley, overgrown and empty. We headed left, toward the street from where we’d turned. After passing two houses, I pulled Nolan into the backyard of the third. We hid in the brush line, Nolan looking toward the street while I kept watch the other way.

  I heard tree limbs crackle and break as our pursuer brushed through the vegetation and entered the alley. I couldn’t see him, and after the initial noise, couldn’t hear him either.

  I strained to sense something, a sight, a sound, anything. I held my pistol at ready and counted Mississippis. At ten, a rat zipped across the alley, a few feet in front of us. An old tomcat bounded after it, stopping for a moment in the middle before continuing the pursuit. He was dirty orange, fat with one crooked ear, and I almost shot at him.

  Something rustled a tree limb, startling both me and the cat. The tom darted away from the noise as the trunk of a tree about ten yards past us exploded in a cloud of wood chips. A bullet plowed into the fence line on the opposite side. Then another one on our side, a few feet closer to us from the tree. The shooter was working his way down the alley, firing in a pattern of sorts to see what he could stir up.

  “Let’s go.” I grabbed at Nolan and then felt someone mash a lit cigar on the inside of my thigh, midway between my crotch and knee. I was vaguely aware of the sound of a gunshot associated with the pain. I steered Nolan into the yard of the deserted house and squeezed the trigger three times as fast as I could, aiming in the direction of the sound. Another shot zinged against the front half of a rusted El Camino sitting in the yard. Without aiming, I fired again toward the sound of the shot and was rewarded with a yelp.

  “Head toward the street.” An obstacle course of crap lay in the yard, abandoned appliances and unidentifiable rusted things. Nolan led the way, threading through the maze. I could feel blood, warm and sticky, coating my leg, mixing with sweat. We reached the side of the house and paused.

  “What’s the plan now?” she said, wiping the perspiration off the palm of her gun hand and onto her jeans. “Wait for nightfall and try to make it back to camp?”

  “Like to be out of here before then.” I examined the wound in my thigh as best I could. It was only a graze but there was a streak of red running down the inside of my blue jeans. “We’ve got to get off this block.”

  She huffed trying to get her breath back. “No kidding. You went to private eye school to figure that out?”

  Sirens rang in the distance. Usually that sound didn’t make me happy, but this time I hoped they were headed toward us and if so, they got here in time. Nolan started to say something when I heard movement ahead. The stand of bamboo hiding us from the front shivered and crackled as someone pushed through. A finger of flame licked out of the cane poles and a bullet slammed into the rusted refrigerator Nolan was leaning against. If I were older, I thought, I’d be having a Vietnam flashback. Instead I fired twice at the dense brush, hopefully near the muzzle blast. Nolan squeezed off one round.

  One more shot erupted from the bamboo, then nothing. We ran around to the opposite side of the house, where the brush wasn’t as thick. A old pecan tree grew flush with the rotting wood of the home, seeming to sprout from the foundation. I crept up behind it, not eager to break into the open front yard.

  My caution was rewarded when I saw the sea of red lights swarming in the street. The heat had arrived. Clusters of uniforms stood around the empty Coupe deVille and my pickup, peering inside and talking on radios. Three officers bearing shotguns stood in front of the house where we were hiding. This was as dicey as escaping the guys chasing us. As a rule, police officers do not like to be startled. And there wasn’t much more startling than two grimy, sweaty, gun-toting private investigators popping out of the bushes at the scene of a twelve-alar
m firefight. I pulled out my cell phone and hit the speed dial for my lawyer’s voice mail. As fast and quiet as possible, I spit out the basic facts of the situation, including the location.

  I turned to Nolan, who was slouched beside me. “You still got your San Antonio PD badge?”

  She patted her pockets. “Dammit. No. In the truck.”

  “Holster your piece and raise your arms over your head.” She did just that and I followed suit. “No sudden movements and let me do the talking.” I started to ease through the vegetation.

  “Keep your palms facing out and fingers wide,” she said.

  I held my hands in the suggested manner and we broke free into the front yard. I whistled once, a sharp, piercing, come-hither tone.

  Hither they came and we found ourselves facedown in the dirt, spread-eagled and devoid of all our hardware and ID. Handcuffs clinked on our wrists as heavy footfalls shuffled in the muck around us. Radios squawked. Cops talked to one another. Finally they pulled us up and somebody noticed my bleeding leg. Fifteen minutes later I was sitting in an ambulance as a paramedic cut away my jeans. She was pretty, petite with red hair and a long, thin nose. I was about to start with my charm and say something about a nice girl in a place like this, when she dumped some alcohol on the wound. I swore instead.

  A skinny cop, fiftyish, with bloodshot eyes and a handlebar mustache, ambled over and leaned against the ambulance door, one hand scratching at something on his belly while the other rested on the butt of his revolver. He was sweating and wore his gun belt slung low, like a TV-western gunfighter, and looked like how I imagined Doc Holliday would appear, only without the tuberculosis. As the paramedic worked, he started in on me about shooting and killing and how unlucky the Dallas jail was for guys named Lee Oswald and I better damn well tell him what the hell was going on down here.

  I nodded politely and kept a blank face. After a couple of minutes the emergency tech taped a bandage over the wound and pronounced me fit.

  Doc Holliday leaned over so eye contact couldn’t be avoided. “Isn’t that great, Lee Harvey? You don’t have to go to the hospital. We can take a trip straight to Lew Sterret.”

  He was talking about the county jail. Originally designed to hold only a few hundred inmates it usually housed enough lawbreakers to populate a midsize city and seemed to be perpetually under some federal judge’s scrutiny. Not a good place. I started to say something but was interrupted.

  “Perhaps you could tell me what my client is charged with?” The newscaster-smooth voice came from behind the officer. Doc Holliday turned around and there stood Bertrand Delarosso, my attorney. He had a movie star face framed by thick waves of brown hair. Even in the steamy heat in a two-thousand-dollar suit, he didn’t appear out of place. He was in his element, manipulating the criminal justice system.

  He slid the jacket off and draped it over one arm, making a great show out of looking at his watch, a digital Timex. Bertrand didn’t like to be pretentious.

  Doc Holliday made a face like he’d bitten into a pile of weasel shit. He ignored Bertrand and spoke to me. “Is this man your lawyer?”

  I nodded. The paramedic had given me a safety pin and I was trying to close up the rip in my jeans. “He also represents Nolan O’Connor, the woman you’re holding in the car over there.” I pointed to Nolan’s silhouette, in the squad car across the street. I wanted Bertrand to know about all his clients as soon as possible.

  He never missed a beat. “Yes, Officer, I represent Ms. O’Connor and Mr. Oswald. Now then, could you tell me what the charges are?”

  The officer shook his head and sighed. “We’re in the preliminary stages of investigating a shooting. Your clients were involved. I am not sure what the charges will be.” He emphasized will be.

  Bertrand pursed his lips as if in deep thought. “Hmm, yes, I see. A shooting. How many victims are there?”

  “Victims?” the cop said.

  “Victims,” Bertrand said back.

  The officer scratched the back of his neck and looked off into the distance. “Like I said, this is the preliminary stage of the investigation. We haven’t found all the victims yet.”

  “Oh, I see.” Bertrand’s pocket chirped and he pulled out a cell phone. He turned it off in midring. “So how many victims have you found as of this point?”

  “Well, actually, none.”

  “None?” Bertrand said.

  “None,” the officer said back. “But there’s a lot of empty casings in several spots, and a couple of places we’ve found blood.”

  Bertrand nodded and then pointed to my leg. “My client has been wounded, perhaps that was his blood?”

  The officer pulled out a rumpled pack of Marlboros and lit one. He blew a plume of smoke into Bertrand’s face. “Perhaps. Maybe if I could ask your client some questions, we could determine that.”

  Bertrand didn’t so much as blink as the cloud of tobacco smoke enveloped his head. “By all means. Ask my client anything you want. I am sure that we can do that here or at my office rather than the county jail, don’t you think so, Officer?”

  I sensed that Doc Holliday would rather take me to the lockup but he said yeah, he supposed so, then turned to me and began the interrogation. Forty minutes later, he’d run out of things to ask. I had answered everything truthfully, if not completely. Bertrand had not interrupted once. They left me sitting in the ambulance while they went to talk to Nolan. I watched the police wrecker hitch up what was left of my pickup truck and haul it away. Another thirty minutes passed and we were in Bertrand’s BMW, headed north. The conversation stayed light, nothing concerning the afternoon’s events. Bertrand’s a big believer in plausible deniability. Instead, we talked about his matrimonial status with wife number three, Sandra Jo, Miss June of 1991 and also an ex–Cowboys cheerleader. She’d maxed out her American Express Gold Card, something that was theoretically impossible, when she charged a new Ford pickup on it last week. The truck was for her little brother who had started a pool business. Bertrand was quick to clarify it was pool as in billiards, not swimming.

  I’d met Sandra Jo a couple of times. I’d let her max out anything of mine.

  Bertrand wheeled onto the freeway. “Where do you want me to drop you? Home or office?”

  “Hold on a second.” I dialed Olson. He answered on the second ring and we had a quick conversation. I hung up. “The Texaco, Stemmons and Inwood. Olson’s picking us up there.”

  Bertrand nodded and headed that way. He knew better than to ask why, and I knew better than to explain that since the police had confiscated our guns for the duration of the investigation of the shooting, I needed a firearm on my hip before I went anywhere.

  It was full-on rush hour when we pulled into the Texaco. Olson was there as promised. We hopped out of the BMW. Bertrand said he’d send me the bill.

  We got into Olson’s truck. Before he pulled out into the traffic, he took a long look at us and raised his eyebrows. “You stink. What the hell have you kids been up to today, besides getting shot and dirty?”

  Nolan looked out the window while I detailed the events of the last few hours.

  “Two cars full of hoods, huh.” Olson whistled. “That means six or eight heavily armed guys. All of them looking for you. What’s up with that?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m getting tired of it.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have taken that package.”

  “Yeah. I’m thinking that wasn’t the smartest move. Still, at least I’ve got it for a little leverage. If I can just figure out how to use it without getting killed.”

  “Where do you guys want to go now?” We were driving down Lemmon Avenue, a mile-long strip of car dealers, bars, and greasy burger joints.

  “I need to rent a car. It’s tough to be a private eye in Dallas without wheels.”

  “I’ve got wheels,” Nolan said.

  “Would that be the Eldorado?”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong with that?” Her tone was wary.

  “I
need something that’s not too obvious,” I said. “Especially if we’re gonna find Aaron Young’s maintenance guy.”

  Olson swerved to miss an old man shuffling across the street. “What’re you still doing on the deal? I thought it’d be over since Wesson turned up stiff.”

  “Charlie’s sister doesn’t think he’d kill himself. Neither do I.”

  Nolan leaned into the space between the two front seats. “Addicts rarely kill themselves intentionally.”

  “Nolan has a degree in psychology,” I said.

  Olson nodded and looked at her in the rearview mirror. “It all has to do with sex. And Mom. Right?”

  Nolan nodded and winked. “Exactly.”

  I ran my hand lightly over the bandage on my thigh. “Take me home so I can start looking for a replacement ride.”

  “Ten-four.” Olson made a turn. “Then what’s your plan?”

  I dug a piece of dirt out of my left ear. “I’ve got two leads. The maintenance man who had access to the place where Charlie died, and a guy I can’t seem to track down named Fagen Strathmore.”

  Olson chuckled. “That’s an easy one.”

  “What is?”

  “Fagen Strathmore.”

  “What the hell do you mean?” My tone was sharp; I wasn’t in the mood for Olson’s circuitous logic.

  He sighed, as if explaining something to a particularly slow-witted child. “Seeing that guy. It’ll be easy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Delmar is meeting with him tomorrow, to sell him a gun.”

  “Fagen Strathmore?”

  “Yep.”

  “You sure it’s the same guy?”

  “How many cats in this city named Fagen Strathmore? Rich guys willing to buy one of Delmar’s overpriced shotguns?” He had a point.

  I scratched at the wound on my thigh and tried to make sense of it all. “Strathmore buys guns, huh?”