Scott Free

by John Gilstrap

  Brandon started at the beginning and plowed through it all for the fourth time. “It’s not going to change, Barry,” he said at the end.

  James Alexander had been the last to arrive, and had been listening quietly from the foyer. When he cleared his throat, all heads turned to face him. “That business about the president,” he said. “I think we need to get the Secret Service involved.”

  Whitestone sighed. As much as he hated the notion of prolonging his exposure to those sons of bitches, once someone breathed the word assassination it all became a new ball game. He nodded and made it so. To Brandon, he said, “We need to shift this meeting to our office.”

  Brandon nodded. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Suppose he calls back?” Whitestone asked.

  “He called on the cell phone. I’ll have it with me.”

  Whitestone wasn’t in the mood to argue. “We’ll see just how many people one little police station can hold. James, make your phone call.”

  Alexander tossed off a two-fingered salute and headed for the phone. He hadn’t taken two steps when he stopped. “Wait!” he exclaimed, launching everyone out of their chairs. “Waco? I know what that’s about.” He thought for a moment to recover the name. “Terrastar. You familiar with it?”

  “Sounds like a software company,” Sherry said.

  “It’s a satellite phone company,” James corrected. “One of those little portable jobs, works anywhere. I have one of them on my boat. The phone bills all originate in Waco, Texas. That’s the local number for them.”

  “No matter where you are?” Whitestone asked.

  Alexander nodded. “Right. Think about it. The whole concept works on shooting a beam to a satellite instead of a cell antenna. No matter where you are, the satellite thinks that Waco is home.”

  The room fell silent for ten seconds as they all contemplated this.

  “So, Scott is still local,” Whitestone said. “And I’d bet real money that he’s still alive.”

  Sherry sat up straight, wiping her eyes. This sounded like something she needed to hear.

  Whitestone explained, “It doesn’t track for me that he’s dead. From everything said, it seems we’re working with a professional killer. Wouldn’t make sense for him to taunt you like that.”

  “But why would he say it if it wasn’t true?” Sherry asked.

  “I’m guessing frustration. Anger.” He turned to Brandon. “That’s one resourceful kid you’ve got.”

  Brandon smiled. “What did I tell you?”

  SCOTT STARED AT THE PISTOL, his mouth agape. “W-What are you doing?” Tears pressed behind his eyes as his hope for rescue evaporated. “Who are you?”

  “Wayne Pembroke is my name,” the old man said. The pistol looked like something out of an old cowboy movie, and it seemed to take everything Pembroke had just to keep it pointed at him. “Mr. Clavan called me a few minutes ago. Told me to keep an eye out for you. Said you stole his snowmobile and was headin’ this way. Said if I saw you, to keep an eye on you till he got here. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

  “I didn’t steal anything!” Scott protested. Jesus, how many names does this guy have? “He’s trying to kill me, and I got away.”

  Pembroke laughed, as if that were the most ridiculous story he’d ever heard.

  Scott rose tentatively back to his feet, prompting the old man to cock the pistol. “Stay back,” Pembroke said.

  “Look at me, for God’s sake!” Scott proclaimed. “I’m barefoot. I got no gloves, no hat. Do I look like somebody who’s out to steal a snowmobile?” In spite of the danger, he found himself laughing at the absurdity of it all. “Wouldn’t you at least think I’d bring shoes?”

  Pembroke’s face darkened as his eyes dropped to the boy’s feet, and then back up to his eyes. He looked half-sold.

  “I was in a plane that crashed,” Scott explained, wishing for all the world that he had a story that was less outrageous. “Maybe you heard about me on the news? The author’s kid who was lost in a plane crash in the snowstorm?”

  “Ain’t had no TV here since ninteen and ninety-seven,” Pembroke said.

  Scott limped a couple of steps closer. “Just trust me, okay? I’m telling the truth. I hiked through the woods and I stumbled upon Isaac DeHaven’s house. His ranch. The bootlegger’s place.”

  “Isaac who?”

  Scott instinctively checked out the window, expecting to see headlights in the driveway. “DeHaven. The guy you call Clavan. Some guys came to the house this afternoon, and they thought his name was Powell. The guy’s got like a thousand names.”

  It all seemed too much for the old man. “You’re talking crazy,” he said.

  “He’s a killer, okay?” Scott blurted. His voice rose an octave. “Clavan—whatever you want to call him—he’s a killer. And he’s planning to kill the president.”

  “Of the United States?” Pembroke scoffed. “He’s staying here on vacation.”

  Scott gave him an expectant look, waiting for him to put it together for himself. He rapped his own forehead with his knuckles. “Hel-lo. That’s the point. The president of the United States is here. The killer is here.”

  “Clavan is always here,” Pembroke said. “He lives here.”

  “I watched him kill two people today, Mr. Pembroke. Saw it with my own eyes. He made up some story about the witness protection program, but I guess he knew that I saw through it, so now he’s coming after me.”

  “This is crazy,” Pembroke said. But his face showed a crack in his commitment.

  “It sounds crazy, I know,” Scott granted. “But I’m telling you, every word of it is the truth.”

  “If he’s a professional killer, then how come you’re still alive?”

  “Because I never was where he thought I was going to be. Christ, he shot at me—” Scott paused, suddenly struck with an inspiration. “Come with me,” he said. “I want to show you something.” He headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Outside. I want to show you.”

  Pembroke raised the revolver a little higher. “You just sit down like I told you in the beginning.”

  “There are bullet holes in the snowmobile,” Scott explained. “He shot at me when I was leaving—”

  “Of course he did. You was stealin’ it.”

  “I wasn’t stealing—” Scott let out a roar of frustration. “He was going to kill me for stealing a damn snowmobile? Does that make sense to you? If he was so attached to the machine, why would he shoot it full of holes? Come here, I’ll show you.”

  Scott watched as the wheels turned in Pembroke’s head. He was coming around.

  “He’s trying to kill me,” the boy said softly. “And after he’s done it, he can’t afford to keep you alive, either.” That piqued the old man’s interest. “You’d be a witness. In his line of work, witnesses are bad. That’s why he’s after me.”

  Bingo. Scott actually saw his argument strike home.

  “So,” Scott pressed, “all we have to do is call the police—”

  “No!” Pembroke said it so suddenly, with such force, that Scott jumped. “No cops.”

  “But he’s—”

  “No cops!” Clearly, this was nonnegotiable. “I’ve done some business with Clavan over the years, mostly taking care of equipment for him—that snowmobile, in fact. I don’t need no cops snoopin’ around here and findin’ that out.”

  “So, what do you suggest?”

  Pembroke gave him a hard look. “My instinct is to throw you back like a fish that’s too small to eat,” he said. “I don’t need none of this shit, okay? My instincts say if I shoot you myself, nobody’ll be the wiser, and won’t nobody be on my back.” He paused, his gray eyes narrowing. “But they also say that if I was Clavan, I’d think that you probably told me all of this, and if it’s true, then you’re right, he’d have no choice but to kill me, too.”

  The old man took a deep breath and scowled. “Goddammit,” he g
rowled. “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Shoes, boy!” Pembroke roared. “What size do you wear?”

  “Um, ten. I think.”

  The old man eased the hammer of the revolver down and gestured with his head toward a dark corner of the living room. “Check in that pile over there, and you should find some eleven and a half boots. Put ’em on and meet me outside.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Outta here.”

  EVEN AT THREE-THIRTY in the morning, Agent Sanders wore a suit and a crisply starched shirt. Every hair was in place. It was as if he’d never lain down. Barry Whitestone was lucky he didn’t have his badge on upside down.

  “We’ve confirmed that the Waco telephone number is, indeed, a Terrastar number,” Sanders said.

  Whitestone turned to James Alexander. “I thought we did that.”

  “Well, I’ve confirmed it. The number traces to a man named Cranston Burkhammer of Toledo, Ohio. We’ve got Toledo police rousting him right now.”

  “In Ohio?” Brandon said. “He’s not going to be the same guy.”

  “You a detective in your spare time, Mr. O’Toole?” Sanders said. As if it were possible, he was even more condescending early in the morning.

  “No, I’m a rocket scientist,” Brandon said. “But it doesn’t take one of me to know that Burkhaldter, or whatever the hell his name is, can’t be in Ohio if I just talked to Scott on his phone from Utah.”

  “You’re assuming that the call was made locally.”

  “Scott said he walked to the cabin. He sure as hell didn’t walk to Toledo.” Brandon looked over at Whitestone, who seemed to be enjoying the back-and-forth.

  Sanders paused for a second, seemingly low on steam. Finally, he said, “When the president of the United States is involved, you cover every available base.”

  “Does he know about all this?” Alexander asked. “The president, I mean?”

  Sanders shook his head. “No, and I don’t intend for him to. He doesn’t consult me on foreign policy, and I don’t burden him with the details of my job.” He turned to Brandon. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” he said, his voice leaden with forced sympathy.

  Brandon shot a look to Whitestone.

  “Uh, Sanders,” Barry said, “we’re not ready to call that case closed yet. Just because a fruitcake says something doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  Sanders nodded. “Of course. Well, I hope everything turns out perfectly for you all, then. What I need to know is, how sincere was your son when he talked about this assassination threat?”

  Brandon could count on one hand the people in the world whom he genuinely disliked after only one meeting. Agent Sanders was one of them. “Well, he sounded damned serious about someone trying to kill him,” he said. “Neither of us had a whole lot of time to assess the seriousness of the threat to the president.”

  Sanders stewed for a moment. “I don’t understand how your son could still be alive—even when he spoke to you—if a professional killer was after him.”

  “What a ghoul,” Sherry said, her first words since arriving at the police station. “You sound disappointed.”

  Sanders scowled. “Hardly disappointed,” he said. “Just confused.”

  “He’s a resourceful boy,” Brandon said.

  Whitestone added, “And damned lucky.”

  Brandon was tired of talking about the president’s problems. The president had all the power and authority of the most powerful nation on the planet to take care of him. For Scott, it was just a couple of exhausted small-town policemen.

  “I’ve got a question,” James Alexander said. “What about the other kid? Cody Jamieson?”

  All eyes turned to Brandon, who blushed and looked away. “I never thought to ask,” he said.

  31

  BUT FOR THE RUST, Pembroke’s Ford pickup would have been a collection of steel panels. The engine roared like a tugboat, and from the way the lifters rattled, you’d have thought he put dice in there.

  “It’s about forty mile into town,” the old man yelled over the noise. “A little place called Eagle Feather.”

  “Eagle Feather!” Scott exclaimed. “That’s where I started out.”

  “Well, I ain’t takin’ you all the way in. I don’t want to be no part of this nohow, you understand?”

  Yeah, he understood. “Where do I go when you drop me off?”

  “Why don’t you just go home?”

  “We’re staying up in SkyTop.”

  Pembroke snorted out a laugh. “Well, I sure as hell ain’t takin’ you up there. If you just stick to Main Street, you’ll see the police station up and on the left. Don’t look like much, but trust me, they got jail cells you don’t want no part of.”

  That sounded like the voice of experience, but Scott didn’t pursue it. “I don’t suppose you could crank the heater up, could you?”

  “This is all she wrote,” Pembroke yelled. “By the time we get to town, she should just about be warming up. I’m afraid it’s a little tough on her, keeping up with all the breezes blow through here.”

  When he didn’t hear a response, the old man turned to see if his passenger was all right.

  Scott was lost someplace in his head, staring at a spot in the dark that only he could see.

  THE PUNCH TO HIS SHOULDER nearly knocked him out the door.

  “Hey, wake up!” Pembroke yelled. “We got trouble.”

  The words sliced through Scott’s guts like a hot knife. He shook his head and blinked his eyes to wake up his brain. “What?” But Scott already saw it in the beam of light from the mirror that exposed the terror in Pembroke’s eyes. Scott whirled in his seat to see the vehicle behind them, racing to catch up.

  “Thirty seconds ago, he wasn’t even there,” the old man said.

  Now he was only a hundred yards away and closing fast.

  “Speed up!” Scott yelled.

  “I got it on the floor as it is!”

  “Maybe it’s not him,” Scott offered, and even without looking, he could sense the old man’s glare. He felt something tap his thigh, and he looked down to see Pembroke’s horse pistol, turned backward, butt facing him.

  “Take it,” Pembroke shouted. “Slow him down.”

  “Shoot him?”

  “That, or throw it at him. I thought you said he was gonna kill you.”

  “Yeah, but…” Actually, he didn’t have an argument. Behind them, the racing vehicle already had nearly halved the distance.

  “That window there opens,” Pembroke said, indicating the sliding panel in the middle of the rear windshield. “Open it up and pop off a shot. See if it don’t get him to back off.”

  “Suppose I hit him?”

  “Then I guess we all drive slower. Ever shoot a pistol before?”

  “No. Well, a flare gun. Killed a wolf with it.”

  Pembroke craned his neck to look at Scott, flashed a yellow smile. “You’ll have to tell me about that someday,” he said. “Well, that bastard’s gonna kick like a mad mule, so hang on tight. Pull the hammer all the way back.”

  That much, Scott knew. He thumbed the hammer back.

  “All the way,” the old man said. “Four clicks.”

  Scott was one shy. He pulled it all the way.

  “Now stick it out the window and shoot it.”

  With the back window open, the temperature in the cab instantly dropped to unbearable. The approaching vehicle was only fifty yards back now, probably less. With the high beams in his eyes, all he could see was light. He held the gun with both hands, just as he’d seen on television cop shows, but the weapon was completely lost in the glare.

  “Shoot!” Pembroke yelled.

  “The light is blinding me!”

  “Well, shoot the light, then! Jesus, shoot something!”

  Scott hesitated. “But what if—”

  Before he could form the question, a burst of automatic weapons fire ripped through the flatbed of the
pickup. No gunshots, just the tink tink tink of bullets finding their mark.

  Pembroke initiated a series of S-turns, taking up the entire roadway as they topped the crest of a hill. “Goddammit, boy, shoot! He’s trying to drive and shoot at the same time. He won’t be able to hit nothing.”

  Scott pulled the trigger. The blast and the muzzle flash were more what he would have expected from a cannon. He felt the recoil all the way into his shoulders. Isaac’s vehicle slowed and swerved. Scott cocked and fired again. And again. Each time, the distance between the vehicles grew.

  “Take it easy, Sundance!” Pembroke yelled. “After six, we’re outta business, and he knows it. Settle into your seat for a bit and let me drive.”

  The shootout was more relaxing. Running downhill now, at speeds that made the whole truck vibrate, the S-curves of the road seemed somehow to be at odds with the S-curves Pembroke was driving. Scott watched him for a moment, amazed by the old man’s athleticism as he yanked the steering wheel violently from one side to the next.

  “He’s not right on our tail anymore,” Scott offered. “I can’t even see him. I don’t think you have to take the whole road anymore.”

  “I’m not trying to take the whole road,” Pembroke barked. “I’m tryin’ to settle her down. The steering linkage ain’t as tight as it used to be.”

  What, in 1960? Scott didn’t say. He just settled into his seat, the pistol gripped in his right hand, and his left braced against the dashboard. Funny, after surviving a plane crash, a twenty-four-hour hike in a blizzard, an attack by wolves and a couple of shootouts, it never occurred to him that he might die by sailing off the side of a mountain in a truck.

  “How much further?” Scott asked.

  “Five, ten mile, I’d guess. I figure by the time we get to the outskirts, if Clavan is the killer you say, he won’t want to risk getting caught in town and he’ll break off the chase.” Pembroke’s dim headlights revealed a hairpin turn up ahead, doubling around, and heading back uphill.

  Scott saw in an instant that they were going too fast. “You see that?” he shouted.

  Pembroke kicked out the clutch and downshifted. The ancient truck lurched and the engine screamed, but with a hundred yards to go, they were still way too fast.