by Mark Stevens
Allison stole a quick glance at Colin, who was looking around for something useful. An angle. Anything.
“But Armbruster, your team or your side—whatever—didn’t approve of the whole hunting dog thing?” said Allison. She was trying to provoke Armbruster into talking. She wanted Sulchuk focused on him.
“That was beyond your standards?” she asked. “Beyond your level of acceptable? Or were you just trying to expose one operation so your so-called business could take over everything?”
“Hell,” said Armbruster. “Does it matter?”
“Shut the hell up,” said Sulchuk. He turned to her. “And you.”
“I can’t” she said. “I have to know—why me?”
Armbruster managed a laugh. “Come on now,” he said. “Your reputation. Knew you’d be compelled. Like a dog to a squeaky ball. You wouldn’t be able to resist.”
She’d been hoisted, so to speak, by her own curiosity. Coupled with a desire to keep the Flat Tops free of crazy shit.
“What about William Sulchuk?” she asked, looking straight at him, pronouncing the name right. Just the thought of it was enough to keep her riled up inside. “I still don’t have a clear picture.”
“I think everyone can just shut up,” said Sulchuk. “Just keep a lid on—”
“Yeah, tell ’em,” said Armbruster. “Go ahead.”
“Hell,” said Sulchuk.
“I think we are about out of time for questions,” said Sulchuk.
Colin looked like he was searching for an edge. He turned slightly to face her.
“Easy,” said Armbruster.
Colin shrugged, used his elbow to tap hers. He gave her a look like she was missing something.
“So Armbruster, how far did you have to bring the body? Two miles? Three?” said Allison. “Did you have a sled or a cart? And you couldn’t be heading down the main trail in the middle of the valley in broad daylight so you had to do that all at night. Long night, I’m sure. Who was he?”
“Another Mexican,” said Armbruster. “One of millions. One of hundreds of millions.”
“But you didn’t like—”
“No, you’re right. He didn’t like the sport of it,” said Sulchuk. “For crying out loud, him of all people, drawing the line. He didn’t think it was fair. As if it was fair when they all came across the border and jacked up our crime rates, starting milking the government hand-out system, made sure their babies were born here—all of that.”
A mocking tone.
Sulchuk cradled the crossbow like precious cargo, left hand too close to the trigger for any comfort. He scowled.
“From the moment they cross our border, they’re targets,” said Sulchuk. “They asked to be targets. So they get one last chance to run for it, one wee bit of hope. The illegal loser of the day gets picked by lottery—righteous, isn’t it?”
“But Armbruster wanted to expose it,” said Allison.
Armbruster shook his head. “Just business,” he said.
“Fighting over a government contract?” said Colin.
“Contract to manage the jail or help fill it, too?” said Allison.
“Does it matter?” said Sulchuk. “Armbruster wants a bigger slice of the pie so he looks for the tender bits and squeezes hard like a mother fucker. That’s all.”
Was Colin planning anything? He turned to look at her again and then he slowly looked back across the campfire ring.
Woodrow’s hefty handgun.
Sitting there, inert.
The new arrivals had overlooked it and Woodrow was too focused on his injury to retrieve it.
Woodrow had managed his way to his feet so he stood side by side with Armbruster. Woodrow’s face bugged her. Simultaneously homely and creepy.
“I’m bleeding,” said Woodrow. “It won’t stop.”
He doubled-over again at the waist, one hand over his wound. Blood ran down his wrist, streamed down his arm and dripped from his elbow.
Armbruster turned back to Sulchuk. “He needs a doctor.”
“Now,” said Woodrow. He tried standing up straight again, but it didn’t last long. “Shit. My fucking eye!”
“What are we going to do with them?” said Armbruster. “Here, give me my crossbow back and we’ll take care of these two first.”
There was no second or next.
“You know some spots,” said Sulchuk to Armbruster. “You know every inch up here.”
The whole thing came together, the curtain yanked back faster than twenty men pulling on the rope.
“So that was a temporary tattoo?” She said it casually. “Henna or something?”
The question caught everyone off-guard.
“Damn,” said Colin.
“The fuck you talking about?” said Woodrow. He spoke in full growl.
“Helluva shot from there,” said Allison. “I found your shells in the bushes. A flat-shooting load, right? Shot by a left-hander.”
Woodrow stood up, turned to face her with one good eye. Blood continued to gush.
“Hell,” said Armbruster. Looked at his boy. “For real?”
“Of course it is,” said Allison. “Face tattoo threw everyone.”
Armbruster turned to his son, not pleased.
“Was that henna? Few hours in a sweat lodge and a good scrub will take it right off,” said Allison. “Right?”
Woodrow smiled faintly—sheepishly—at his father.
“Shit,” said Armbruster.
“You hated Lamott,” said Woodrow to his father. “Much as anyone on the planet.”
“Hell,” said Armbruster. “You know what the fuck this means?”
“It means with your help they aren’t going to find me,” said Woodrow.
“Holy shit, we’ve got problems,” said Sulchuk.
Colin stood, sighed.
“Sit down,” said Sulchuk, showing him the crossbow.
“You don’t stand a chance,” said Colin. “Not a flipping chance.”
“Don’t make it worse,” said Allison.
There were plenty of spots in the Flat Tops that were so remote no random fisherman or hikers or hunters would ever discover their bodies.
Or bones.
Or ashes.
“You were taking a stand about the dog hunting—big point in your favor,” said Allison.
“Hell,” said Armbruster. “Now Woodrow here has gone and made sure every cop in the land will be on our trail. All that work. Nothing.”
“Think it’s already over,” said Colin. “If you think we came alone …”
“I’ve been watching this valley since dawn, don’t give us that crap,” said Sulchuk. “Shit.”
“It’s true,” said Allison. “They’re right behind us.”
Sulchuk held up the crossbow, the front of the industrial weapon like a Hammerhead Shark.
“Let’s get them out of here,” said Sulchuk. “First things first.”
Armbruster must have read Sulchuk’s intention. He went back to the rope, tied Colin’s hands behind his back, cut another length and then tied her wrists, giving an extra yank and pinch. Her skin burned where the rope dug in.
She tried not to look at the handgun, so close.
The horses …
If they left Merlin and Sunny Boy, it was too much of a giveaway.
But taking the horses was no easy solution, either. They could dispatch the horses in some remote location—perhaps—but you couldn’t exactly bury a horse the way you could two smallish-trim wranglers.
“We gotta take the horses,” said Sulchuk, a step behind her thought process. Crossbow in her face. “Where’s your horse?”
“Back,” said Allison, gesturing sort-of in the right direction. “Edge of the woods.”
Were Colin and Allison supposed to walk? Putt
ing them up on horses would be faster, to get off the main routes, and they would all look more normal. But it would be hard to climb up on a horse with your hands tied behind your back.
They would have ten minutes or more in the broad open meadows around Lumberjack Camp. It was a beautiful, clear day. Lumberjack Camp was a tough place to be stuck with two hostages on the first day of archery season.
“Fuck,” said Sulchuk, perhaps realizing the same issues or perhaps not wanting to take the time needed to fetch Sunny Boy.
Armbruster and his boy stared at each other, loathing their mess. “What the hell,” said Armbruster, all his anger at his boy, squaring off, realizing the impacted dilemma. “You fucked this whole thing up.”
“No,” said Sulchuk, “you fucked things up with your whole scene up there in the woods.”
Father and son glared at each other and Sulchuk raised the crossbow and started walking toward Armbruster, who turned his attention to the bigger threat.
Colin gave Allison a minuscule high sign. He stood, hopped rabbit-like over the official camp sitting log and he was at a dead run into the thickest part of the woods, zig-zagging around trees. Allison was right behind him, but headed off and away at an angle, her last glimpse of Colin through the trees as she heard a crack and she turned sharply and weaved her way and heard the men call and she saw the edge of the woods coming up, wondering if it was better to hit the open country and give either one of them a chance to test their accuracy—or to stay in the woods and try to hide, buy time.
Maybe the sound was an echo lingering in the woods.
But there it was, a high-pitch buzz.
Steady. Purposeful.
The sound came from a bloated mosquito, circling down.
Allison stayed low, looked back over her shoulder on the edge of the woods and suddenly Colin was at her side like he’d slid down the tree.
“What the hell is that?” he said.
“Don’t know,” said Allison.
There were two people wedged on board the airborne apparatus, wingspan no wider than a standard-issue couch.
The person sitting in front wore dark sunglasses and his long dreadlocks flapped in the breeze. He was focused on the narrow trail that would be their landing strip. He feathered the nose up, slowed the flying bug even more.
The one in back she recognized.
Duncan Bloom held out his arm and popped up a thumb like he’d seen the whole show and approved of the outcome.
In the distance, cresting the ridge to the east, four backlit black dots and she caught the heavy whock-whock shudder of helicopters and they looked like they were coming fast.
seventy:
saturday, late morning
“Señor Bloom,” said Tovar. “¿Como está?”
He stood behind the screen door, face in shadow and dark. His house had a wide porch, clean and sharp, fronting a large stone house on the edge of the downtown streets, south of Lookout Mountain.
Tovar opened the door a crack and filled the space like he’d been watching something inappropriate.
“Muy bien,” said Bloom. Bloom was hoping to sense a touch of fear, some recognition of trouble. He wanted this over quick. “¿Y tú?”
“Bit of excitement today,” said Tovar. No glasses. He looked tired. No Guayabera shirt. Just a sweatshirt. He looked ordinary. No schtick. “Helicopter traffic makes it difficult to watch the game. What can I do for you?”
Bloom had rehearsed this a hundred times but still wasn’t ready. He hadn’t caught up with himself. The run to the Lumberjack Camp and back had taken three hours. The police helicopters and an air ambulance landed five minutes after Ziggy put down. Allison said one of the helicopters was familiar. Last seen, the Armbrusters were in cuffs and growling at each other. After an interview with police, Allison and Colin were riding their horses back to Sweetwater. Ziggy had made a run for his ultralight and got it airborne before he could be arrested—at least, for now—about flying a motorized vehicle into the Flat Tops. Bloom had taken the option of returning to Glenwood Springs via trained police department pilot. It was the only option.
“I was wondering if I could ask you a couple quick questions,” said Bloom. “Won’t take a minute.”
Tovar sighed.
“This really isn’t a good—”
“Three questions,” said Bloom.
Wondering if Tovar would be able to tell he was nervous.
“Aren’t the police arresting someone?” he said. “The TV reporters aren’t saying exactly, but can’t confirm, you know.”
“I’m in the same boat,” said Bloom. “Sketchy at this point.”
A complete fabrication.
“What I want to ask you about is a holding company, pronounced jail I believe.”
Tovar froze. He sighed, stared at Bloom.
Finally, he ran his fingers through his black hair. “Señor Bloom. You have been a busy boy.”
“G-A-O-L,” said Bloom. “Yours, correct? And Mr. William Sulchuk too. Or as you know him, William Wright. How long have you known each other?”
“I think I’ll ask you to leave,” said Tovar.
“And GAOL owns Pipeline Enterprises,” said Bloom.
Bloom had left the voice memos app on his phone in record mode. He was holding the phone tucked underneath his notebook, but not trying to hide it. He had his pen out, too, but hadn’t taken a note yet.
“We have your sister Yolanda and her daughter, Juanita?”
Again, more sharp breathing.
“We know Juanita’s husband, Ricardo, and his role, helping round up illegals for the detention center, tracking them down when they slip away.”
“I don’t think this is a fair conversation, Señor Bloom,” said Tovar.
“So a big, powerful Hispanic family wants to keep the Mexican riff-raff off the streets?”
“Illegals.” Tovar was ready for the bait. His eyes tightened. “You know, they damage our reputation. We are upstanding Americans. We are legitimate. We have worked hard. We have put in our sweat, we worked our way up. We have been here for decades, helped build this country. We accumulate resources, like good Americans are supposed to do.”
“And the dogs?” said Bloom. “Did you know about them?”
“I am going to close the door,” said Tovar.
“Do you know about the dogs? Hunting Mexicans for sport?”
Tovar looked exasperated. The door opened wide and Tovar backed away.
Bloom held the screen door open.
Bloom stayed on the porch, knew he hadn’t been invited in.
“Give me a minute,” said Tovar.
Bloom could see Luis Tovar moving quickly toward the back of his house.
Bloom turned around and gave a small head nod.
DiMarco climbed out of an unmarked car and from the cars parked nearby, another dozen cops were right behind him.
seventy-one:
saturday afternoon
Trudy shook her head. “Damn,” she said. “Sanctimony meets arrogance.”
Bloom was still rattled. Felt jacked up all over when he played the recording for Trudy, Coogan, and Hayes. He hadn’t turned the record button off when the cops came up the steps, warrants in hand.
“No time for chit-chat.” Coogan smiled. He was one happy editor. “The others have the arrest. We’ve got the whole story. And we’ve got Kerry London to beat.”
“Which we’re going to do,” said Bloom. “With sheer, utter pleasure.”
“I want my byline on that one,” said Hayes.
“You got it,” said Coogan. “If I have the whole piece in an hour, you got it.”
Trudy sat next to Bloom at his desk. She had given him the hug of a lifetime when he’d returned. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine regular trips to Sweetwater, and it wasn’t too much of a stre
tch to imagine being invited into the Sweetwater fold. Trudy’s vibe was unmistakable. Allison’s too.
Trudy was relaxed. The whole town had relaxed—or was about to. Bloom pictured the bars and restaurants filling up, strangers greeting each other again with a smile, the handshakes and back-slapping at police HQ. The sigh of relief.
“There was no resistance?” said Coogan.
“No,” said Bloom. “I think he was tired. He tried to make his way out the back, but they were waiting.”
Bloom smiled.
“And while you were out,” said Coogan. “Got a call from a Ms. Stacey Trujillo, who is at the hospital in Denver with Tom Lamott.”
Bloom flashed back to the pedestrian bridge, remembered Stacey’s sobs—knew he’d lost track of what had happened to her. Remembered her beautiful smile, too.
“Apparently, unknown to any other media outlets so far, Lamott has been conscious since yesterday morning and this morning our new pal Kerry London immediately jumped on the network and claimed that he was aware there was about to be a big break in the case and he credited the work of the local newspaper and named the two of you.”
“Holy crap,” said Bloom, imagining his name even being mentioned on national news. “A moment of magnanimity as big as his ego.”
“He credited inside sources but said an army of cops were headed into the Flat Tops based on your work,” said Coogan. “London has been breaking in all morning with updates.”
“London is a hard boy to figure,” said Bloom.
“The best thing is that according to Ms. Trujillo, Lamott wants to give the first interview to you.”
“Now we’re taking generous and forgiving to a whole new level,” said Bloom. “Today?”
Denver wasn’t in his plans. He only had eyes for Sweetwater.
“I asked. Ms. Trujillo said whenever you’re ready,” said Coogan. “And she also said something else.”
“What was that?” said Bloom.
“She said Lamott said he’d answer any question you had about what happened in Glenwood Springs or anything before that, too.”
“Remarkable,” said Bloom.
Bloom’s well-trained streak of cynicism immediately surfaced one thought. What better time to discuss old sins than when you were the nation’s current favorite victim?