Mercy River

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  “And you never heard of Jaeger until today?” I asked Schuyler.

  “No. Damn Aaron. What has he done?”

  I had to shoulder some of the blame, too. I stole the drugs from Jaeger, kicking the ever-living shit out of the hornet’s nest. Then Jaeger and his goons came here to terrorize Schuyler and force Conlee to give them more targets. Goddamn it.

  “At least let me get you somewhere safe,” I said.

  “I can’t turn Aaron in. I can’t. If he’ll only stand up to Charles . . .”

  “Later. Now we’ve got to—”

  We were interrupted by the sound of a door opening downstairs.

  Schuyler gasped. I edged toward the bedroom door to listen.

  Footsteps on ceramic tile. Too many to judge the number of people.

  “Sit down,” a man ordered.

  “You have what you want,” another man said. Schuyler put her hands to her mouth. The speaker must be Aaron Conlee. Still alive, at least for the moment. How were they back from his office so soon? “I can get you more, later. Much more.”

  “You can,” said the first man. “You will.” His voice sounded like a whisper delivered by an actor onstage, loud enough to hear but strangely hushed, almost painful. Schuyler had described his voice as frightening. Echoing through the house, it made my skin prickle.

  Jaeger.

  “Please,” Conlee said, “let her go. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  There was the sound of a grunt, and the impact of someone falling. The staircase to the upper floor started at the living room. Jaeger and his men were directly below us.

  “Do you have a pistol?” I murmured in Schuyler’s ear. “Anything?”

  Her expression was enough to tell me no. I hastily scanned the room. Nothing here that might serve as a weapon. No exit.

  “Go cut the bitch loose,” Jaeger said in that calm, echoing rasp, “and bring her down here. We need to get some thoughts right in their heads.”

  Heavy steps dutifully began marching toward the stairs. Schuyler nearly screamed, a whimper that was fortunately lost to the sounds from below.

  We were out of options. The enemy was coming to us.

  Twenty-Eight

  “Stay behind me,” I said to Schuyler. There wasn’t time for more.

  When I judged the man in front was near the top of the stairwell, I took two fast steps out of the bedroom and had a second to catch the shock on the hulk’s fleshy face before I kicked him full force in his broad chest. He toppled backward, into the peroxided guy behind him, both of them crashing into a pile on the stairway landing halfway down.

  I raced after them. Peroxide was nearly upright, pinned between his burly buddy and the wall, his face in profile. I punched him and his head snapped sideways as he slumped. From the floor, the big man hauled at my leg. I fell onto the stairs leading upward. Someone shouted from the living room. Tucked into the waistband of the stunned Peroxide’s jeans was a small automatic. I grabbed it and pointed the muzzle right in the center of the big man’s goatee.

  “Let go,” I said. He released my leg. When he moved, his blond buddy slid unconscious to the floor of the landing.

  “Reese?” someone yelled from downstairs.

  “Up,” I said, hauling the hulk’s shoulder so that he stood and walked ponderously down the stairs ahead of us, my new little S&W pressed against the back of his neck. Behind me, I felt Schuyler close at my heels.

  Jaeger and the hulk’s cousin waited in the living room. Jaeger had left his shearling coat and scarf on the entryway table, so that he wore only black from head to toe. Aaron Conlee rose from the couch at the sight of me and Schuyler.

  Cousin Number Two held a revolver large enough to be substantial even in his plump hand. He brandished it uncertainly, not sure whether to aim it at us.

  “You,” Jaeger said when he saw me. He stood as I’d seen him before, with his hands relaxed at his sides. Motionless. His eyes were such a pale green I could see their glitter from across the room. The skinhead leader might have been examining a curious species of insect, for all of the concern he showed.

  “Schuyler?” Conlee said to his wife

  “Aaron, go outside,” I ordered. I had a gun. The cousin had a gun. Maybe Jaeger did, too, but even if he didn’t, it was at least three against me. Best to vamoose before they started thinking hard about their chances.

  “Don’t you move,” Jaeger said to Aaron. In person, his whispery voice was even more eerie.

  “Aaron, go,” said Schuyler. Conlee hesitated.

  “If you leave now there will be no forgiveness,” Jaeger said. “Only retribution.”

  There was a cough and movement from the landing. The peroxided skinhead was waking up.

  “Aaron,” Schuyler pleaded.

  That did it. Conlee walked robotically toward the double doors. The cousin tensed and raised his revolver another fraction. The hulk I was holding started to turn, and I screwed the S&W into his ear canal to tell him how I felt about that.

  “Lose the gun,” I said to the cousin. “Behind the sofa.”

  He didn’t move, though his eyes moved to Jaeger. I cocked the S&W. The hulk I was holding winced at the sound.

  Without turning his gaze from me, Jaeger nodded. As detached as if we were all acting out a play for his benefit.

  The cousin licked his lips and reached out to drop his revolver between the couch and the wall.

  Schuyler opened the left-hand door. They stepped out.

  I smacked my forearm across the back of the hulk’s bullet head. He dropped to his knees. I pointed the gun warningly at Jaeger as I patted his coat on the entry table. No weapon, but his wallet and other things were in the pockets. I took the coat. And his scarf.

  “Running won’t save you,” Jaeger rasped as I walked backward into the sunlight.

  “Another time,” I said, and shut the door. I took Jaeger’s black scarf and knotted it quickly around the twin door handles. It wouldn’t slow them down for long, but we’d only need a minute to get out of sight.

  Schuyler was already leading her husband in a fast walk across the park on the other side of the street. I ran to catch up. A collie in the off-leash area barked at us. Its owner called it, but it continued to dash in circles, up to the fence near us and back again, elated by its temporary freedom.

  You and me both, dog.

  Twenty-Nine

  “Will we be safe?” Schuyler said, not for the first time.

  We were racing down Highway 206 out of Wasco. On each side of the two-lane road, a seemingly endless array of towering wind turbines stretched toward the far horizon. Each turbine was over four hundred feet tall, if you counted the rotating blades, but between the vast expanses of sky and the smooth land the enormous machines appeared almost delicate. Perspective. Our current troubles were minuscule when compared with the war Moulson and Booker were headed toward.

  Still, trouble was trouble. Nothing from nothing leaves nothing. That song had been playing on repeat in my head since Portland.

  Schuyler had taken the front seat while Conlee sat stiffly in back. He’d been silent during the two hours we’d been driving. His wife’s question roused him out of his shock.

  “Jaeger,” he said.

  I looked at him in the rearview. “When did he first show up?”

  “It was . . . about two weeks ago. I went to the grocery store after work. He and his men were waiting at my car when I came out. They knew my name.” He turned to Schuyler. “Yours, too.”

  “And they knew where you worked,” I said.

  “Jaeger said . . . he said this would be just once. That if I gave him an easy delivery to rob with good stuff, he’d leave us alone.”

  Until the next time. Then the skinhead would be back, and bolder.

  “He asked for drugstore deliveries. Something they could sell quickly. He didn’t want a big truck. I couldn’t find anything like what he wanted, but the oxy stuff—”

  “Oxymorphone. Go on.”


  “That was due to be picked up in a week. Jaeger wanted it sooner. He made me change the date, so that he would have it the next day.”

  Which put Conlee’s name on the shipping records I’d seen.

  “You should have gone to the police,” said Schuyler, reaching back to touch his leg.

  “They knew all about you,” Conlee said to her. “Where you worked, and even that you were living with Doug and Francine right now. Jaeger said if I told anyone, he would know, and he’d find you and—”

  “They’re animals,” said Schuyler.

  Conlee didn’t have to finish the thought. Maybe Jaeger had left it to his imagination. What a husband could imagine would be much worse.

  “How did they find us?” he said.

  I had some guesses on that. Jaeger led the supremacist First Riders. Erle Sharples had sold guns to the Riders, and to John Fain as well. Erle had to wonder what Fain had planned for all those rubber bullets and grenade launchers. And General Macomber had shown up in Mercy River around the time that Jaeger and his supporters were very efficiently rousted from town.

  If I could connect the dots, Erle could, too. The HaverCorp robberies had made the news. Three robberies, and Macomber’s kid working for that same company.

  Very cute, Erle. Tell Jaeger about Aaron Conlee, and the access Conlee had to all that lucrative HaverCorp data. Collect a finder’s fee. Then when Fain needs a middleman to buy the stolen drugs back, you deal yourself in for a slice there, too. Except that overreaching got you dead.

  “Does Jaeger know who your father is?” I asked Conlee.

  “I don’t think so. He never said his name.”

  I didn’t think so, either. That little fact was valuable, too much so for Erle to share it with Jaeger for nothing.

  “But you told your father about Jaeger,” I said to Conlee, “and the general said he’d take care of that little problem.”

  Conlee sighed his assent.

  It fit. Macomber would want to protect his son and Schuyler, of course, but he would also want to be sure that the trail didn’t lead through Aaron back to the Rally. Being a major general with highly trained and motivated former Rangers ready to run through concrete walls for him, I was sure Macomber had had no hesitation giving Fain the order. Had they planned to kill Jaeger and his men outright? Or to shock-and-awe the shit out of the skinheads, and ensure the bastards wet their pants if they ever thought of coming near the general’s family again?

  Having met Jaeger in person, I wouldn’t have bet on intimidation working. The man was scary enough himself. I knew from scary, having grown up with Dono Shaw.

  “We have to tell Charles you’re finished doing his bidding, Aaron,” Schuyler said. “No more.” Conlee didn’t reply.

  I had been driving with one hand and fishing through the pockets of Jaeger’s coat with the other, while being careful not to leave any prints. Three hundred dollars or so in small denominations. An Idaho driver’s license in the name of Arlen Fisher. The license hologram and ghost image could be legit, but I suspected Fisher was a false identity. Regular people recycle their license photographs with each renewal, until the state forces them to update it. The photograph of Jaeger staring expressionless at the camera might have been taken this morning. The issue date was from last month. So new that there wasn’t even a scratch on the card’s magnetic strip yet.

  In Jaeger’s left-hand button pocket I found a thumb drive.

  “That’s it,” Conlee said, pointing. “Jaeger made me download all of the car routes that HaverCorp has scheduled during the next month. Everything within our northwestern region.”

  He held out his hand for the thumb drive from the backseat. I ignored him.

  The Riders didn’t want to ride too far for their next score. Or scores. They could be aiming to hit a bunch of the HaverCorp trucks in quick succession and make a killing. Literally, if Jaeger stuck to his pattern of eliminating every potential witness.

  “Jaeger took you to your corporate office today,” I said. “Any chance he or his men were caught on camera?”

  “We didn’t go there. I work remote a lot. He made me log into work from a FedEx shop, using their computers and Wi-Fi. He didn’t trust me using my laptop or my home network. Thought I might have some way to silently call for help. Then he sent all the info on the armored trucks to himself using a temporary email.”

  That explained how the skinheads had made it back to Conlee’s townhouse so fast.

  “So this is a backup,” I said, holding up the thumb drive.

  Conlee nodded. “He didn’t trust that I wouldn’t corrupt the data somehow.”

  “Won’t your company know somehow? Don’t they have safeguards?” said Schuyler, sounding as frustrated with HaverCorp as she was with Aaron.

  “I wiped the audit trails. The records of who’s seen what data. They can’t find me. They aren’t even aware I can do that.” Conlee couldn’t keep an edge of pride out of his voice. His wife went silent.

  Despite Schuyler’s description of Jaeger as a maniac, the white power leader was cunning. Conlee was a loose end. Jaeger had forced him to hand over every scrap of information on the HaverCorp routes, likely planning to kill the married couple immediately rather than count on fear keeping them silent.

  And now I was on Jaeger’s hit list as well. Hunting us down wouldn’t be his first priority, but he would get around to it once he’d made his fortune. He’d said there would be retribution, and he had meant it.

  I’d been in Mercy River half a week, with Macomber’s Rally swirling all around me, and it had never occurred to me to wonder where the general lived.

  Conlee knew. His father had purchased a home in the town, to use when planning and executing his annual hoopla and all of the local charity work that went with it. Like Erle Sharples’s house, the general’s home was set above the town, a surprisingly simple one-story abode of gray stone and red shingles. A small cave for the old bear.

  Macomber answered the doorbell himself. He wore a blue plaid shirt tucked into woolen trousers, and soft leather slip-on shoes, one covering his prosthetic foot. The general hadn’t waited for sunset to start winding down after the big weekend. Ice in his glass of scotch clinked as he waved a confused hand in greeting.

  “Aaron. Schuyler. Hello.” He stepped aside and we walked past him into the entry hall, floored with gray flagstones to match the exterior of the house.

  “Dad,” Conlee said.

  “It’s Shaw, isn’t it?” Macomber said to me.

  John Fain stepped through the sliding glass door off the patio, where he and Macomber must have been sitting when we rang the doorbell. His eyes widened at the sight of Conlee. Fain would have fared poorly at the saloon poker tables.

  “It would save time if we cut the bullshit, General,” I said. “You know who I am.”

  Macomber’s face clouded. Enlisted men didn’t talk back to senior brass.

  “Aaron. Are you all right?” he said.

  “Yes. Because of Shaw. He saved me and Schuyler.”

  Fain crossed through the square living area. “What happened?”

  Schuyler’s jaw clenched. “What happened was that those madmen came to our home. They were going to kill us, Charles. All because of you. You talking Aaron into your damn cause.”

  Macomber and Fain both stiffened.

  “Yeah, she knows about the robberies,” I said. “I do, too. You’ve got bigger things to worry about. Like how to keep both of them safe.”

  “I should have anticipated this,” Macomber said to his son, “and sent John and his men to protect you.”

  “Too late now.” Schuyler stalked past Fain and into the living room. It was a warm space, dominated by a red brick fireplace and a well-padded beige sofa set made more for comfort than appearance. She sat in the chair and took off her shoes, rubbing her feet with the same ferocity she had shown to Macomber.

  But the general was staring at me. “How did you find Aaron and Schuyler?”

 
; “Off the shipping records in the boxes of Trumorpha.” If Fain hadn’t made the mistake of crossing Conlee’s name off on the copy he’d shown me, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. The Feds would tighten the net before long. Fain and his team were expert soldiers but leaning hard on beginner’s luck as criminals.

  “Has that been rectified, Aaron?” Macomber asked. “Can the records be traced to you?”

  “I changed the name on the route approval after Jaeger left. Too late to change their printouts, I guess.”

  The general turned to me. “I owe you a great debt, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Reward me,” I said. “Tell me how a bunch of regiment vets turned into armed robbers.”

  Macomber exchanged a look with Fain.

  The captain shrugged. “I told you Shaw was a wild card,” he said. “We might as well fill him in.”

  Macomber grunted assent and walked over to place his scotch on the mantel of the dark fireplace. He sat, slowly bending his artificial leg, on an ottoman by the hearth.

  “You know all of the activity and none of the intention,” he said to me, smoothing his trouser leg in a reflex motion over the artificial limb underneath.

  “Four years ago, I was in Washington,” he said. “That was an entirely different kind of fighting than I was used to. Even the Army’s politics have nothing on the Pentagon. But I was making a difference, I thought. There was a bill proposed to the House, as damned near bipartisan as one can get these days. Expanded medical care for all veterans. More autonomy for doctors to order tests without administrators shutting them down. Vouchers for services better covered outside the VA network. Even transportation for those needing care outside their home cities. Expensive, but we had momentum.”

  His charisma was palpable. Even knowing what I did about Macomber, I was half ready to charge right out and taxi a carload of vets myself.