by Rob Aspinall
"Well, we're not doing anything in a hurry now," Jim said.
40
The call comes in on our way to Rattlesnake. I take the wheel and let Darla relax in the passenger seat. She needs it. I lasted longer this time.
She sits low in the seat with a gentle smile on her face. Cheeks flushed. Lips a smudged red.
My eyelids feel like lead. I have to slap myself a couple of times. But wild, in-car sex'll do that to you.
The phone call wakes me up, though. It's Collins. I hold the phone in one hand, the wheel in the other as we cruise down the open highway. Nothing but blue sky and birds.
"It worked a charm," Collins says. "Their crews are a drunken mess."
"Good," I say. "If nothing else, it ought to cause this Welch guy a distraction."
"Whether it does or not," Collins says. "It sure feels good."
"Almost wish I was there," I say.
Darla punches me hard on the arm. "Almost," I say to Darla.
She settles down again and closes her eyes.
"How did it go at the bank?" Collins asks.
"Like clockwork, thanks to Meryl Streep, here."
Darla glances across at me and smiles, proud of herself.
"Loretta texted Darla," I say. "She said the servers ought to be down until two. I reckon we've got until three at least. After that they'll have the repo pushed through."
"Shit, that ain't long," Collins says.
I checked my watch. "It's ten-thirty now," I say.
"At this rate, they might delay it until Monday," Collins says.
"Multibillion project at stake? They'll want everything wrapped up today," I say. "Including me."
"Maybe you should forget it and get out of town, Charlie," Collins says. "This specialist you talked about. He's coming for you, right?"
"I'm banking on it," I say. "But don't worry about me. It's time for your phase two. Get on the phone to the sheriff."
"Already done," Collins says. "She's on her way."
"I'll leave you to it, then," I say.
Collins hesitates on the phone. "Charlie, if this is the last I hear from you--"
"Thank Janice for the pot roasts," I say, ending the call. I turn to see Darla snoozing in the passenger seat. I put my foot down and gun the Mini back to town.
41
Mr Box spotted a rest stop ahead. A small service station with fuel, air, water, a 7-Eleven and small fifties diner. The service area was beat-up and rundown, with great swathes of debris and dust blowing across the forecourt. Mr Box pulled his car into a quiet spot close to the road and away from the fuel tanks. He reversed the car so it faced the highway at an angle, with the tail pointing towards the desert. He turned off the engine, removed his seatbelt and reached inside the glovebox. He took out the black box he'd found under the passenger seat and opened the driver door. He stepped out and rested the box on the roof of the car, the paintwork hot to the touch. He removed his jacket and folded it over. He ducked inside the car and pulled the boot release. He carried box and jacket to the rear of the car and raised the boot lid. He set the jacket and box down in the boot, pausing to look around before opening the box. He took out the various parts and spread them out on the boot floor. He removed a folded elasticated shoulder strap and pulled it on over his shirt.
It was a snug fit. Perfect.
Next, Mr Box took the frame of a .40 calibre Smith & Wesson and assembled the various other parts: the barrel, the firing pin, the slide and the clip. Finally, he screwed on the silencer extension, before slotting in the first of three clips. He checked around the lid of the boot. The forecourt was still empty. The highway just as deserted.
So Mr Box turned and held up the weapon to check the sight. Satisfied, he rested the pistol on its side on the floor of the boot. The box had a knife inside a rubber safety sheath. He pulled the blade out, nodded to himself as the sun winked off the metal. He slid the blade inside a brown leather holster on the shoulder strap. The holster sat tight but comfortable to the left of his ribcage. He drew the blade a couple of times. It came out smooth. So far, so good.
Mr Box pulled his jacket on over the shoulder strap. He tested the action one more time, reaching inside his jacket and drawing the blade.
It worked just as well, so he placed the knife back in the holster and turned his attention to the box again. There was one more item inside. A belt. The kind used for holstering a weapon.
Mr Box unbuckled his own belt and whipped it clear of the loops on the waist of his trousers. He rolled the belt up and placed it inside the box. He detached the holster from the gun belt and threaded the woven strap through his trouser loops. He clipped on the holster, snug to his right hip and fastened the belt to a comfortable tightness. Mr Box picked up the gun from the boot and unscrewed the silencer barrel. He slipped the silencer in the righthand pocket inside his jacket. In all likelihood, he wouldn't need it, but it was better to have the option. Besides, the inside pocket was large and concealed the barrel well.
Mr Box slid the pistol inside the holster. He inserted the two remaining clips in their slots on the rear left of the belt. He checked his surroundings one more time, pulling the flap of his jacket over the weapon.
The jacket covered the pistol nicely--not even a bump.
Mr Box stood square, his back to the boot of the car. He dropped a hand close to his righthand side. He twisted at the hip, the flap of the jacket came away from his waist. He drew the gun from its holster.
It released well. Fast and smooth.
He did it a second time. Faster.
A third time. Faster still.
Mr Box relaxed his stance, spun the pistol round a few times in his hand and slid it back inside the holster. He was rarely anything other than efficient in his movements. And he had become more so over the years. Yet this was one of the few things he liked to do with a little flair. And why he preferred a gun belt to a shoulder holster.
He told himself it was more practical, of course. A faster action.
But he knew it was the result of a father who didn't know what to do with a sick child other than put him in front of spaghetti western movies recorded on the TV. His choice of career had been almost inevitable.
Mr Box covered the weapon with the flap of his jacket and closed the black box. He checked his watch. Ten-thirty. The town of Rattlesnake wasn't far away. Time for a comfort break and a tuna on toast. He closed the lid of the boot as a bright yellow Mini rushed past on the highway.
Mr Box turned and walked towards the diner.
42
I stop the Mini outside the motel and climb out. Darla slides over and takes the wheel.
"Stay home the rest of the day," I say. "No taking Prince for a walk."
"You can always hide out at my place," Darla says, concern in her eyes.
"Get out of here," I say.
Darla pouts her lips through the window. I kiss her on 'em.
"Good luck, Charlie," she says.
I slap the roof a couple of times and step away from the car. She drives off into the distance with a toot of her horn.
I check my watch, turn and walk to the hardware store down the street. It's open. I walk in and pick up a red plastic basket from inside the door. There's an old guy I haven't met before. He stands behind the counter and nods at me like he knows me. Maybe he's heard the news. I told Father Shaw and Florence to spread the word. Stay clear of the streets this afternoon. The old man obviously didn't listen, or didn’t hear.
"Got any rope?" I shout across the store.
He's a small guy with a face wrinkled like an old boot, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and grey hair plastered flat to his head like it's the forties. "Down to your right," he shouts back.
I move along the aisle. At the end, there's a small section dedicated to rope. Thin rope, thick rope. Old school, new school. I go for a length of old-school thick. I pull it out and test the strength. This ought to do it.
I roll the rope up and stick it in the basket.
"Got any wire?" I yell.
"Centre aisle," the store owner yells back.
I move on a couple of aisles and find the wire. There's a few different thicknesses, each rolled into circles and held in place by black plastic ties. I'm looking for something thin. But not too thin.
I put down the basket and pick up a roll. I hold it up. Undo one of the ties and pull the end of it tense between thumb and finger. I stretch it out at arm's length. I line it up with the floor and close an eye. Yeah, that'll be right. I dump the wire in the basket with the rope. I move on through the store and buy a set of heavy duty rubber gloves and a pair of wire cutters.
I walk to the counter and take out my stuff. I throw the basket on top of a pile of empties.
The store owner is tiny. He looks up at me. "This all you want?"
I look past the man to a gun cabinet behind him.
"You got a licence?" the guy asks, watching me scan the cabinet.
I look down at him. "Licence? No.”
"Hold on," he says reaching under the counter. He flicks a switch. The live black and white CCTV footage on a monitor to the left of the counter turns to static.
"Now what'll it be?" he says.
"I don't need a shooter," I say. "Just a belt and bullets"
"What for?" he says.
"Beretta nine mil."
"How many clips?"
"Two."
The old man unlocks the cabinet. He takes out a belt and two magazines for a nine millimetre. He puts 'em down on the counter.
"And I'll take a pack of gum." I say, grabbing some chewy from a stand next to the till.
The store owner bags everything up in a large brown paper bag.
"How much?" I ask.
He slides the bag across the counter. "On the house," he says with a wink.
I nod and smile. He turns the CCTV back on.
"Close up early today," I say on my way out.
I walk up and across the street with the bag. The sky is blue and clear. The town baking. Activity sparse. Like even the birds know something's on its way.
I come to a stop outside my room. There's a package waiting at the foot of the door. A white plastic carrier bag. I pick it up and bundle my way in with the bags. I dump 'em on the bed and look inside the carrier bag.
I smile to myself.
Collins came through.
43
Chris Gallagher stood and watched as Jim changed the tyre on the Buick. He'd already made the call. Welch had blown his top, as expected. But he would have been sacked on the spot if he'd told him the real truth. The official line was there had been an issue with the unions, but that he'd argued them down and they were moving to the exploration site.
It had bought him some time while they loaded the scaffolding back onto its truck and waited for the rescue vehicles to arrive.
They also had the opportunity to reconnect those other trailers back onto their cabs. It would take a few hours to fix the mess, but at least it would give the crew the extra time to pack up the tents. And more importantly, to sober the hell up.
Gallagher rolled his neck around his shoulders. He felt sober himself. The pounding in his skull reduced to a dull ache in the back of his head. Better still, that churn in his stomach had turned to a pang of hunger. Gallagher swigged on a litre bottle of water.
Jim rose from the balls of his feet and slapped his hands, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his fingers black. "There," he said. "All done."
Gallagher handed him the bottle of water. Jim took a drink and put the bottle down on the grass. He rolled the wheel around to the back of the car and heaved it into the back of the Buick. Gallagher picked up the jack and tyre iron, placing them in the boot. As he closed the lid, he heard tyres over dirt and the single whoop of a siren.
"What now?" Jim said.
Gallagher turned to see the sheriff parking her cruiser up to the left of their car. She climbed out. A male deputy rose from the passenger seat—dark hair, a baby face and a cocksure swagger.
"Well what do we have here," Sheriff Dooley said, casting an eye over the camp. "Looks like you've had a rough morning." She and her deputy approached. "Or should I say a rough night . . . Do you smell alcohol, Deputy White?"
Deputy White sniffed the air. "You know, Sheriff, I think I do. On private property, too."
"Your boys wouldn't have been operating heavy machinery under the influence, would they?" Dooley asked.
Gallagher and Jim looked at each other.
"I don't know what you're implying, Sheriff," Gallagher said.
Dooley nodded to a pile of empty beer cans and whisky bottles. "I think it implies itself."
"They were there here when we arrived," Jim said.
"Yeah," Gallagher said. "Not our fault the guy litters on his own land."
"What does the law say about lying to an officer, Deputy White?" the Sheriff said.
"I dunno the exact wording, but it ain't recommended," the deputy said.
"Neither is trespassing," Dooley said.
"No, you don't understand, Sheriff," Jim said. "Collins gave us permission."
"Welcomed us with open arms," Gallagher said. He pointed to the Ford pickup heading their way from the farmhouse. "Here he is now. You can ask him yourself."
Bill Collins brought the pickup to a stop in front of the cruiser. "Thanks for coming out, Sheriff," he said, jumping down. "These guys have been camping out here since yesterday afternoon. Causing one hell of a mess."
"What the—you son of a bitch," Gallagher said. "You said to--. Brought us trays of food . . .”
"Hell, you even bought the beer," Jim said.
Gallagher elbowed Jim sharp in the side.
Jim swallowed his words.
But it was too late. The sheriff had them all ends up.
"I want these people off my land, right now," Collins said.
Gallagher motioned to the trucks. "That might be a problem."
"Well what are you doing about it?" Deputy White said.
"We're waiting for rescue trucks. In the meantime, we're loading the scaffolding back on and working on the earth movers."
"Seems like there's been some sabotage to me," Jim said, eyeing Collins. "In the night, when we were sleeping."
"Or maybe you're all a little drunk at the wheel," Collins said.
"We don't have to listen to this," Jim said.
"Then get the hell off my property," said Collins.
"I think we should let our legal team handle the matter," Gallagher said, taking out his phone.
"Yeah, shouldn't this guy have to prove the land's his?" Jim said, pointing a finger at Collins. "Time's up on that loan of yours. Last we heard you were packing to leave."
"I don't recall that at all," Collins said. "Until I see an eviction notice, I'm not goin' anywhere."
"Yeah? Well until I see something in writing about trespassing, we're not budging, either," Gallagher said.
"We're not here about trespassing," Dooley said. "And I don't need anything in writing to test you for D.U.I. Fetch the breathalysers from the trunk, Deputy White." She smiled at Gallagher and Jim. "Lucky for you, we brought a couple extra."
Deputy White peeled away and opened the boot on the cruiser. He returned with an armful of breathalysers.
"D.U.I?" Jim said. "We were changing a damn flat."
"Yeah, what are you going to test us for," Gallagher said. "Drunk in charge of a tyre?"
"They aren't for you," Dooley said. "They're for your boys over there. I think that's what you call being in charge of a vehicle, ain't it?"
Gallagher looked to his right and saw a truck backing up. A pickup with its engine on and a man at the wheel smoking a cigarette. He rolled his eyes.
"Shall we, Deputy White?" Sheriff Dooley said.
44
I change into a vest and a check shirt--a mix of dark and pale blue. I button it up and roll the sleeves halfway up my forearms. I pull on the gun belt and attach the holster. I load the Berett
a I took from one of the dead kill squad and slide it in the holster. I test the draw a couple of times and adjust it. I don't have the luxury of a jacket, so a hip holster will have to do. I pull the shirt tails over the butt of the weapon and grab my holdall off the bed. The rest of my clothes lie in piles on the bed sheet. The holdall weighs heavy in my hand.
I check my watch. Eleven-twenty. I need to make this quick. Chances are he'll be here soon, if he's not here already. I lock up the room and stride to my left, towards the far end of the street. I head down a narrow side street between two buildings—a butchers on the right and the post office on the left. The butchers is a brick building, but the post office is traditional. A remnant from the old frontier days. It has a rear entrance under a slanting roof supported either side of the porch by white wooden poles. The white paint peels off and the boardwalk under the porch creaks beneath my feet.
I know from my time here, the post office doesn't open on Saturdays, which makes it the perfect place.
I drop the holdall partway along the porch. I open it up and take out the wire. I pull on my gloves and cutters. I remove the ties from the circle of wire. I unfurl the wire and tie one end as tight as I can get it around an inner pole that stands close to the rear of the building. I pull the wire taut and tie it off round the outer pole supporting the porch roof. I use the cutters to clip the rest of the wire off.
I test the tension.
Tight as a fly's arsehole. And almost invisible to the eye.
I pick up the holdall and move further down. I throw the length of rope over a solid oak roof beam. As I go about setting things up, I pull hard on the rope. I tie it off around a wooden railing at the front of the porch. The railing has seen better days. That's good. It'll make things easier.
I pick up the holdall and re-trace my steps. I pause, step over the tripwire and head down the alley. I emerge onto the main street, a hand close to my hip in case. I look both ways along the street. It's dead. The owner of the hardware store locks up and bugs out. Everywhere else is closed for the day. Except for Al's. His place is open. The lights still on. I notice a car parked by the kerb a little way down from the bar.