Montgomery pauses. “Because I don’t trust you not to do something stupid if they come here.”
Troutman looks at him. “Is protecting the sheriff’s department a hobby of yours?”
Montgomery doesn’t answer. He points his gun at Troutman’s chest.
Troutman tenses up, squirming into the back of the sofa. “What are you doing?”
“How ‘bout I just shoot you, then call you an ambulance?” Montgomery says. “And you wake up cuffed to your bed in the hospital.”
CHAPTER TEN
Sam drives his unit behind the Prescott sheriff’s lieutenant, second in a line of marked department cars. They creep along the dirt road leading to Troutman’s campsite without their lights or sirens announcing them, heading for the sun-bleached bare trees. The silver Airstream glints in the distance.
Sam parks his unit behind the lieutenant’s and cuts the engine. He peeks into the rearview mirror at the vehicles behind him, touches his weapon to make sure it’s still there on his belt, and waits until he sees the lieutenant emerge from the SUV in front of him before getting out of his own unit.
The three other deputies present come out of their vehicles, the sound of their doors closing loud and sharp in the cold quiet of the campsite. Sam looks over his shoulder at them and sees them walking up the dirt path toward him, then moves up alongside the LT’s unit as the older man proceeds to the Airstream.
Sam freezes next to the front end of the SUV, when he sees the familiar black pick-up truck parked ahead of it, right next to the camper. Plenty of people in this county drive old trucks like that, but Sam knows without getting closer that it’s Montgomery’s. His eyes fly to the camper door just as the lieutenant knocks on it.
“Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department,” the LT says in a raised voice.
No response.
The LT raps his knuckles on the door again, harder this time. “Come out with your hands up or we’re breaking in.”
“You back off!” Troutman shouts from inside the Airstream. “I got a hostage! I got someone in here with me, and if you don’t get the hell off my lot, I’ll kill him.”
“Who’s in there with you?”
“Fuck off! Now! Or I swear to God, I’ll shoot him, you hear me?”
The LT pauses, then turns around and goes down the metal steps. He walks a few paces away from the camper, the deputies watching him like a pack of well-trained dogs waiting for a signal from their master, then faces the camper again with hands on his hips. It’s quiet enough in the clearing that voices carry loud and clear when shouting, so he doesn’t ask anyone for a megaphone. He just hollers, “Mr. Troutman, I need you to come out with your hostage. I need to see that he’s alive and well—because if he isn’t and you insist on barricading yourself inside, we might just have to shoot your trailer up full of holes and count your hostage an inevitable casualty.”
He’s bluffing, Sam thinks as he looks back and forth from the LT’s back to the silver Airstream. The deputies would hang for pulling a stunt like that, and the lieutenant’s not crazy enough to order it. But Troutman might believe the lie.
“Mr. Troutman?” the LT calls.
One of the screened windows squeals open and Troutman, who remains obscured, answers. “I will fucking shoot this bastard, if you don’t leave! His blood’s going to be on your hands!”
“No, I don’t think you will, Joel. Because if you do, we have no reason not to kill you for refusing to surrender.”
Silence.
“Now come on out here with the man, show us he’s still alive, and we’ll deal with you,” the LT says.
Nothing happens for a minute that feels like an hour.
The door pops open, hinges squeaking as it swings back, and a pair of brown cowboy boots leads a tall man outside, slouching forward to duck under the door frame.
Montgomery, his hands raised palms forward.
A few steps behind him, Joel Troutman follows with a gun. They come down off the camper steps and onto the hard, dry ground. Montgomery stops when he reaches the front end of his truck, several paces in front of the lieutenant’s unit, and Troutman stops with him, the gun only about a foot from Montgomery’s back.
A silence settles over the trees and the campsite like a blanket of snow. Sam hears himself suck in a breath that he doesn’t exhale. None of the other deputies make a sound. Montgomery and Troutman look at them, and the deputies look back, both sides unprepared for this situation.
Sam finds Montgomery’s eyes with his own. Montgomery doesn’t come off scared, but Sam sure as hell is.
“Joel Troutman,” Lieutenant Warren calls out, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You’re under arrest for armed robbery. Put down your weapon and no one gets hurt.”
Troutman stares at the back of Montgomery’s head, holding the gun steady before him. “If anybody wants this cowboy to live, you’re all going to get out of the way and let me leave with him,” he says, in a raised voice. “I’m not a killer. But I got at least seven rounds in this gun and I’ll shoot him and as many of you as I can, if that’s what I have to do.”
Sam steps forward without thinking, past his lieutenant and directly across from Montgomery. He raises his hands in a placating gesture, his sidearm still holstered on his hip. “Hey,” he says, his voice low and gentle. “Nobody needs to get hurt. All right? We can figure this out.”
“You,” Troutman says, looking at him over Montgomery’s shoulder. “You’re the cop from the diner.”
Sam swallows and doesn’t answer, maintaining eye contact with Troutman. He knows fear is all over his face, but he tells himself to stay cool-headed, tries to remember the crisis training and hostage negotiation lessons he’s received half a dozen times in his career. He’s already broken out in a sweat, his pulse is quick, and everything looks sharper. He thinks about how many guns there are in this showdown and how fast everything could go to hell.
“Just tell me what you want, Joel,” Sam says, still holding his hands up.
“I told you,” says Troutman. “You and your boys get the fuck out of my way, now. I’m leaving, and I’m taking Cowboy with me. Anybody tries to follow us or stop me, he dies.”
Sam wants to look at Montgomery, but he doesn’t. He gives Troutman his full attention because Troutman’s the one he’s dealing with.
“Mr. Troutman,” the LT says, standing off to Sam’s right with his hands on his hips. “I don’t think I have to tell you my deputies and I are armed. We’re within our legal rights to shoot you in self-defense or in defense of innocent civilians, like your hostage there. You shoot him, and you’re dead.”
“You going to make me shoot him?” says Troutman, smile spreading white on his face.
“No,” says Sam, before the LT can reply. “Of course not. But that’s the thing, Joel—if we let you go, how do we know this man will be safe?”
“I’m not a killer, I said. I got no reason to shoot him once I get clear of you.”
“We’re supposed to take you at your word? Do you understand why that’s a tall order?”
“Sam,” Montgomery says, voice soft and worn as good old boot leather.
“You shut up,” says Troutman. “Make up your mind, deputy.”
Sam looks to his lieutenant now, and the older man glances at him, too nonchalant.
“I’m going to have a word with my men, Mr. Troutman,” the LT says. “You’ll excuse us.”
He turns around and disappears behind the passenger side of his SUV.
Sam meets him behind the back of the unit, the other deputies joining them in a tight huddle.
“You know who that is, Roswell?” the LT asks.
“His name’s Montgomery Clark. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Why the hell is he here with our fugitive?”
“I don’t know. But Montgomery was at the Dog Bowl the night of the hold-up. He’s the one who shot Decker.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What do we do, sir
?” Deputy Beale says to the LT. “Should we call for backup?”
“You think more cops stopping up this bottleneck is going to make things better, Beale?”
“I think you should leave me with them,” says Sam, looking at the LT. “If there’s only one of us here, that should make Troutman feel less cornered, more in control, and he’ll be able to get away if it comes to that, or at least believe that he can.”
“Are you out of your mind, Roswell? I didn’t come here to let this jackass get away. And if you think I can leave one deputy alone with an armed fugitive who’s taken a hostage, you should see somebody about your mental health.”
Sam raises his voice now, an edge of desperation to it, looking at his commanding officer as if no one else is there. “Sir, our primary objective now is to secure the hostage alive and uninjured. If we let Troutman leave with him, we lose control of the situation. If all five of us stand our ground and try to intimidate Troutman into surrendering, there’s a real risk that somebody gets hurt, maybe even killed. I think I can get Troutman to release the hostage if I’m the only one he’s gotta face, and once that happens, you can chase him to kingdom come and use all necessary force without hesitation.”
The lieutenant stares at Sam for a silent pause, his expression surly. “Fine,” he says. “Have it your way. But if this goes belly up, you’ll answer to the sheriff and take full responsibility.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got your sidearm, Roswell?”
“Yes, sir,” Sam says, touching the gun in his hip holster.
“Don’t be conservative about using it,” the lieutenant says.
All of the sheriff’s deputies climb back into their units. The vehicles behind Sam’s move slowly in reverse down the dirt path away from the campsite. Sam moves his unit off to the left, past the mouth of the path and into the circular clearing. He gets out again and rounds the vehicle to watch the lieutenant go. The lieutenant turns his unit around, idles for a moment, rolls down his window and gives Sam a last look. The kind of look a disappointed father gives his adolescent son before taking off.
Once he’s alone, Sam goes to face Troutman and Montgomery. The sun’s higher in the sky now, the light brighter and flashing in every metal surface it touches: the Airstream, the pickup trucks and their silver trim, Sam’s unit, the gun in Troutman’s hands, and the star pinned onto Sam’s uniform. All three men have their eyes narrowed, almost squinting in the brightness. Montgomery isn’t wearing his hat, Sam realizes.
“What are you still doing here, man?” Troutman asks.
“All I want is your hostage, Joel,” Sam says, keeping his voice steady. “You give him to me, and we’ll leave. You can hit the road after us.”
“You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know you and your sheriff buddies are just going to wait for me on the highway? Or maybe I wouldn’t even get that far. Maybe you’d just pull your gun on me yourself, the second I give up the cowboy.”
“The other deputies are gone. They’re not going to put me and your hostage in danger. And I’m telling you, I’m not trying to screw you over. I just want to get this man out of here safe. That’s all.”
“Bullshit,” Troutman says. “No, I’m keeping him until I’m clear of you and the other cops. I think I made myself pretty fuckin’ clear. So you can either turn around, get back in your car, and leave—or I’ll shoot you and run with him. Your choice.”
Montgomery’s watching Sam with his mouth set in a hard line.
“I’m not letting you go with the hostage,” Sam says. “So maybe—you take me with you. Two hostages. And you drive my car because nobody’s going to stop you in a sheriff’s department vehicle.”
Montgomery’s face remains stony and inscrutable, but there’s a flinch in his eyes.
Troutman contemplates the proposal, then says, “Put your gun on the ground and kick it over here.”
“Sam,” Montgomery says, his tone a warning.
“You shut up, unless you want to get shot!”
Sam reaches for his pistol, keeping his eyes on Troutman, and slowly pulls it from the holster. For a split second, he considers taking the shot at Troutman. He remembers that afternoon in Skull Valley, when he and Montgomery practiced shooting empty jars and beer cans. He’s not good enough. He’s not going to risk Montgomery’s life.
He bends down and lays the gun on the ground, then kicks it just enough to send it skidding across the yard between him and Montgomery. It stops off to the side of Montgomery’s right boot.
Troutman starts to move around Montgomery, stepping sideways and aiming the gun at his head now. Sam watches, standing still with his hands up in front of him. Troutman picks up Sam’s sidearm, keeping his gun pointed at Montgomery with his other hand, and throws it at the trees to the left of the Airstream. He looks over his shoulder at Sam with sinister eyes. The gun in his hand glints when it catches the sun.
“All right,” Sam says. “Why don’t we get in the car now?”
He reaches into his left pants pocket for the keys, keeping his other hand raised, and lifts them up to show Troutman.
“Take them. Let’s go.”
Troutman stares at Sam for a long, silent beat.
Sam tosses the keys at Troutman’s feet.
Troutman looks at Montgomery, still pointing the gun at his head.
He whips around and shoots Sam.
Montgomery pounces on Troutman, throwing all his weight into the other man, and they tumble onto the ground. The gun goes off a second time. Troutman loses his grip on the weapon, and they scramble for it, limbs flailing, Montgomery trying to climb over Troutman while pinning him down. Troutman’s fingertips are inches from the gun. He strains his arm from the shoulder to reach it, but Montgomery won’t let him budge, half straddling him with one hand pressing down between Troutman’s shoulder blades. Montgomery tries to reach the gun himself but he can’t without letting up on Troutman.
He pivots his body on the axis of his hips, kicks his leg out and sends the gun skidding away from them with the heel of his boot. Troutman bucks Montgomery off his back, goes to lunge for the gun, but Montgomery grabs at his ankle and trips him to the ground again. Troutman rolls onto his back and writhes around as Montgomery climbs up his body, right hand shooting up to grasp Montgomery’s throat. Montgomery punches him in the face and elbows Troutman’s arm, freeing himself from the chokehold.
Sitting on Troutman’s belly with his knees in the ground on either side of him, Montgomery picks Troutman’s upper half off the ground with his hand curled into the collar of Troutman’s shirt and hits him again, letting him drop. He starts punching him with both fists, switching back and forth from left to right. He blackens both eyes and bruises both cheeks, watches blood begin to flow from the nose and the lips begin to swell, hurts his own hands on the chin and jaw. He doesn’t stop until Troutman’s silent and passed out, blood in his teeth and dribbling from one corner of his mouth.
Montgomery looks down at Troutman, his chest heaving for breath, neck gleaming with sweat. He feels the sun warm on his back, the air still cool on his skin. His hands stay balled into fists, arms bent at the elbows. His knuckles are raw with abrasions, fingers red and sore. He could keep beating Troutman, until the man’s as good as dead. He could slit his throat with the knife. He could go get the gun and shoot him in the head like broken livestock. He could do anything now and invent a story to explain it later. The sheriff’s department would believe him. Sam would forgive him.
He takes a breath and opens his hands. Stands up and steps over Troutman’s immobile form.
Montgomery stumbles over to Sam, dropping to his knees beside him. Sam lies still on his back, squinting up at the bright sky, his whole left shoulder soaked in dark blood. Blood stains the ground beneath him. Blood dulls the shine of his gold sheriff’s deputy star. His breathing is shallow. The pain radiates out from the entry wound into his chest and down his arm, worse than he could’ve imagined, more intense than any pain he�
�s ever felt. He’s sweating, his face slick with perspiration, but he’s cold, as much from shock as blood loss.
“Shit,” Montgomery says, leaning over Sam and looking into his eyes. “Sam? Can you hear me? Talk to me, Sam.”
Sam swallows, his mouth bone dry. He feels nauseous and light-headed. He wants to speak, but he doesn’t think he can. He moves his right hand on the ground a little, wanting to touch Montgomery.
“Listen, I’m going to go get you some towels. I’ll be right back. I promise I will. Don’t you go to sleep, Sam.”
Montgomery disappears from Sam’s view, and Sam’s alone for what’s probably only a couple minutes that feel longer. He thinks about reaching into his pocket for his cell phone, but even using his right hand to do that seems like it could spike his pain. He wants to call his lieutenant or one of the other deputies instead of 911, ask them to come back and help him if they can.
Montgomery returns with a clean towel from inside the Airstream that he folds up and presses to Sam’s wound. Sam moans, almost shouting, the pain flashing white through his eyes and erupting through his body like a lit sparkler.
“I know,” Montgomery murmurs, shading Sam from the sun. “Sorry.”
Sam wishes he would pass out, but he can tell that isn’t going to happen in the next few minutes. He doesn’t know how bad the gunshot wound is, doesn’t want to look at it, but he assumes he’s going to live. He’s not scared of dying, but he would give anything for pain relief, whether it’s drugs or unconsciousness.
“Did the bullet go through?” Montgomery asks, talking in a low tone like Sam can’t handle noise. “Sam?”
Sam swallows again, determined to answer, and coughs as he gets the word out. “No.”
“All right. I called you an ambulance, should be here any minute. You’re going to be fine.”
Montgomery starts to pet Sam’s hair with his free hand, crouched beside him and looking at him. Sam closes his eyes, soothed by the other man’s touch.
“I’m sorry,” Montgomery whispers.
Sam, who feels like he’s drifting away from the world and his body with each passing minute, wants to tell him that it’s Sam who’s supposed to protect civilians like Montgomery. He wants to tell Montgomery that this isn’t his fault. But instead, he just opens his eyes again and looks up into the other man’s face, clear blue sky behind it.
Lone Star on a Cowboy Heart Page 10