Tracer

by Dustin Stevens

  The top of Pratt’s scalp was visible as he bowed his head in concession.

  “I am very sorry for your loss. Mitch Webb was a good man.”

  There was no sound as Sara pressed her mouth closed and nodded.

  She’d dealt with enough faux sympathy in the last week. She didn’t need it from him too.

  “So you’re telling me there was no indication? Nothing at all last night that might have tipped you off that he had hostile intentions?”

  Sara blew a long, slow breath out through her nose. Made sure he heard it. Shook her head from side to side.

  “Like I said, we haven’t had a normal day since he got back. He’s been in Afghanistan the last eight months. That’s a twelve hour time difference, in the desert.

  “His body clock, internal temperature, everything is off. I thought he was going to bed.”

  The slightest bit of frustration was creeping into her voice. She stared back at the Sheriff, meeting his gaze.

  Almost dared him to challenge her on it.

  Pratt sensed the growing animosity within her. Opted to switch directions.

  “The weapon recovered from the scene was a Winchester 30.06. Any idea where he got it?”

  Sara bobbed her head. “It was dad’s rifle. He kept it on the rack in the truck.”

  “Just like that? He kept it in the truck?”

  Another nod. “He used it when he was working the cows, in case a bear or mountain line came around.”

  “So your brother was familiar with the weapon?”

  “We all were. Dad taught us how to shoot it.”

  Pratt raised his eyebrows. “That’s an awful lot of firepower.”

  The ire continued to ebb away at Sara’s resolve. “Lukas was an Army sniper. I think he can handle a 30 gauge.”

  A bit of color flushed Pratt’s cheeks. “I meant for you.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  A tense moment passed, each side staring at the other.

  For the previous sixteen hours, Sara had been scared. She’d been worried that her brother might not make it. Concerned with how she could handle burying her entire family in the same week.

  Now she was getting angry.

  This was starting to feel less and less like an interview.

  Closer to a witch hunt.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Pratt leaned in close. “Miss Webb, I can appreciate how difficult this must be for you. And I assure you, I am only trying to figure this thing out.”

  Sara shrugged. Said nothing.

  “At the same time though,” Pratt continued, “your brother walked into a public forum and opened fire last night.”

  Sara waited for him to continue.

  He did not.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that is a very serious offense.”

  Sara leaned back a moment and exhaled again. Swallowed down the bile rising in the back of her throat. Stared across at the Sheriff.

  “So what happens when you find out why?” she asked.

  “What happens?” Pratt asked. “Your brother discharged a firearm in a public place. Fired a gun designed to take down an elk at human beings. He is going to jail for a very long time.

  “To be honest, I don’t much care why.”

  Pratt stood, his cheeks flushed red. Took up his hat from the table. Stared down at her.

  The words hit Sara square in the stomach. Forced the wind from her lungs.

  She sat with her jaw slack, unable to respond.

  “You should both be considered lucky that he didn’t hit anybody,” Pratt said. “I don’t think I need to remind you that Montana is a death penalty state.”

  He spun on his heel and left without another word.

  Chapter Six

  The last of the bags was heavy.

  Extremely heavy.

  Drake’s shoulders screamed in protest as he hefted them from the floor. Carried them down the stairs. Loaded them into the bed of his truck.

  Beside it stood Ava Zargoza, the left side of her mouth curled up into a smirk.

  “And here I thought you were some kind of big strong football player.”

  “Who said I wasn’t?” Drake asked.

  “Don’t give me that. I heard you grunting.”

  “That wasn’t me grunting from exertion,” Drake said. “My head hurt trying to add up how much it’s going to cost you to check those things.”

  Ava arched on eyebrow. “They’re not that heavy.”

  Drake circled around the bed of his truck and slid in behind the wheel. “You are aware that airlines have a fifty pound limit right? That you can’t wrap up a baby elephant and try to check it through?”

  Opposite him, Ava climbed in and slammed the door closed. Looked up at the second story walk-up that had been her home the previous four months.

  “You sure you’ve got everything?” Drake asked. Gazed up at the apartment as well. “Shower rod? Bed post? Kitchen sink?”

  Ava was a third year law student from the LSU School of Law. Displaced by Hurricane Wanda, she had found herself assigned to the University of Montana by virtue of her place in the alphabetical pecking order.

  She was the very last person to choose.

  Montana was the very last destination to be chosen.

  Not once in three months had she missed an opportunity to point out either.

  Ava shifted her attention from the apartment to Drake. “I’ve been packed and ready for three days now.”

  Drake coughed out a laugh. “I think you mean three months.”

  A smile creased Ava’s features. The skin crinkled around her brown eyes, her face framed by hair hanging in dark ringlets.

  The engine of the truck whined once in protest as Drake turned the key. Kicked to life as warm air burst forth through the dash.

  This day had been a long time coming.

  For the entire semester, Drake and Ava had been partners in the Montana Legal Services clinic. Free legal service for the poor and indigent residents in the community.

  Most of the time the work was mundane, boring even.

  College students contesting MIP charges. Amicable divorces. The occasional property line dispute.

  Twice though, things had gotten ugly.

  Very ugly.

  The first had left Drake with a broken hand. Ava with a broken leg.

  Only in the last month had she gotten back to walking under her own power. Even at that, her gait was marred by a limp.

  On the second occasion, Drake and Ava had found themselves tied together near a creek bed twenty miles from town.

  Neither one had been hurt, but they were both lucky to be alive.

  And they knew it.

  After the first incident, Ava vowed she would stick out the remainder of the year in Missoula.

  After the second, she informed Drake she was heading back to Louisiana at the end of the semester.

  He accepted the news without protest.

  A bit of sadness he never dared show her, but not protest.

  The afternoon traffic was light as Drake angled his truck across town. Avoided the freeway in favor of the city streets.

  One last chance to show Ava what she’d be missing. Maybe even snag a few extra minutes in the car with her.

  “So do you think you’ll miss us at all?” Drake asked. Kept his gaze aimed at the road.

  “Us?”

  Drake waved a hand at the window. “Yeah, Missoula. You think you’ll miss it?”

  “Oh, yeah, terribly,” Ava deadpanned.

  The words drew a smile from Drake.

  “Come on, it’s what, sixty-five, seventy, in Baton Rouge right now? Sounds miserable.”

  Ava pulled her heavy pea coat out a few inches. Looked down at the designer jeans she was wearing. At the sheer blouse atop a black lace camisole.

  “Not having to wear a parka anymore? Miserable isn’t quite the word I’d choose.”

  This time she drew a laugh from Drake.
A shake of the head for good measure.

  “That I can’t argue with. After being the most overdressed person in Montana for four months, you’ll fit right in down on the Bayou.”

  Ava smirked. Stared out the window as a sign welcomed them to the Missoula International Airport.

  “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

  “You should,” Drake said. Swung around to the front of the terminal. “This town could use a bit more class.”

  The truck slid to a stop right along the front curb, not another car in sight. Drake set the flashers to blinking and climbed out, heard Ava do the same on the opposite side.

  He hefted the bags from the back and carried them inside, Ava limping along beside him.

  Both remained silent as she went to the counter and checked in, Drake loading the bags straight onto the conveyor. The attendant behind the counter pretended not to notice that they were both well north of fifty pounds.

  Slapped a pink HEAVY sticker on them just the same.

  Boarding pass in hand, Ava led Drake past the stuffed brown bear that welcomed visitors to Missoula. Past the sole gift shop. Up to the single security line with two bored TSA agents.

  Everything decked out for holidays.

  Still not another person to be seen.

  “Told you there was no need to be here two hours early,” Drake said.

  Ava smiled in concession. Shook her head.

  “Yeah, yeah. I figured I’d give you one small victory before leaving.”

  Drake matched the smile.

  Just as fast it faded away.

  “Listen, I know coming to Missoula wasn’t your idea, but for what it’s worth, I’m glad you did.”

  A wistful expression crossed Ava’s face.

  “You know, I might have liked it a little bit more here than I let on.”

  “Well, to be fair, nobody could have hated it as much as you pretended to.”

  The expression changed from wistful to a smile. Ava extended her arms and slid them around Drake. Pulled him tight.

  “I will miss you,” she said. “You might be the only thing I can say that about though.”

  Drake smiled against the side of her head.

  “Just remember, you’re always welcome to come back. If I end up deciding to hang a shingle after graduation, I could use a partner.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Ava said. Squeezed tighter. Released and pulled back, her hands on his ribs.

  The two stared at each other another moment.

  Ava pushed back in for one more hug. Kissed him on the cheek.

  “Thank you for saving my life,” she whispered. “Twice.”

  This time, Drake squeezed her tighter. “You’re welcome. Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas,” Ava replied.

  The two released and took a step back. Exchanged a nod.

  Drake watched as Ava told the agents she still had metal rods in her leg. Stood rigid while they passed wands over her body. Grabbed her bag and trudged up the stairs towards the gate.

  At the top she turned and waved one last time.

  Drake returned the gesture.

  They remained that way a full moment. Ava was the first to break away, disappearing around the corner.

  Drake waited just long to ensure she wasn’t coming back and spun on a heel. Exited through the front door.

  Went back to his truck still parked on the curb.

  Chapter Seven

  For the first time in two days, Sara slept.

  Not the deep, easy sleep of someone home in their own bed.

  The fitful, restless sleep of someone slumped in a hospital room chair.

  Someone wracked with worry for the person in the bed beside them.

  One moment, Sara was alert. Her gaze was aimed at the iron lung moving up and down. The hospital was semi-active.

  The next, her chin was on her chest. The lights were dim.

  The breathing apparatus was the only sound.

  Sara blinked herself awake. Sort of. Raised her head and rubbed the side of it.

  Let out a groan.

  “You should go home for the night. Get some rest,” a voice said through the semi-darkness.

  At the sound of it, Sara’s heart rate spiked. Her eyes popped open wide. Her breath caught in her chest.

  On the far side of the bed sat a solitary figure. His body was silhouetted against the opposite wall, but she knew the voice well enough to know who it was without a full visual.

  “Rink,” she whispered.

  The silhouette nodded. “Sorry I wasn’t here sooner. We played in Cody last night. Spent most of the day on a bus counting minutes.”

  Sara nodded. “Thank you for coming. You’re the first person that has.”

  Rink let the statement pass without comment.

  “Is it true?”

  “Depends. What have you heard?”

  Rink shifted his attention down to Lukas. Took in the breathing tube affixed over his mouth. The myriad of IV’s hooked to his arm.

  “Just what they said on the news. Lukas walked into a commissioner’s meeting last night and started firing. Some guy in the crowd was packing, shot him down.”

  Sara nodded. “That’s about all I know too. I wasn’t there when it happened.”

  Rink shifted his attention back to her. “The cops didn’t tell you?”

  A derisive snort rolled out of Sara. More reaction than response. It slid from her before she even realized she was doing it.

  “All they’ve told me so far is the minute he wakes up, he’s going to jail.”

  Rink winced. Drew in a breath between his teeth.

  “When do they expect that will be?”

  “One of the bullets punctured his lung. Right now they’re keeping him in a coma until he’s strong enough to breathe on his own.”

  Rink sat in the darkened room, his features clouded. He looked at his friend lying in the bed. Heard the breathing tube, the heart rate monitor, calling out a steady cadence.

  “There any way he didn’t do it?”

  A dozen thoughts went through Sara’s head. She pushed them back one at a time. “No.”

  Rink nodded. “What can I do to help?”

  Sara shook her head. A slow, exhausted movement. “Right now? Nothing.”

  “And later?”

  Her mouth opened and closed several times. Tried to find the words. “When he comes around, he’s going to be in a world of trouble.”

  The statement hung in the air for several long minutes.

  Weighed on Sara. Wormed its way into Rink.

  He turned his head and faced her. “I might be able to help on that front.”

  “You might be able to help?”

  Rink nodded again. “I know a guy. Let me make a call.”

  “Is this guy a lawyer?”

  Rink’s right eye narrowed. He gave a non-committal twist of the head. “Yes.”

  “You know I can’t pay much, especially after the funeral and everything.”

  “That won’t matter. You say the word and I’ll call him tonight.”

  Sara stared at Rink for a moment before shifting her gaze to Lukas.

  “Do it. I’m not going to lose him too.”

  Chapter Eight

  Snoring.

  Very loud, interminable snoring.

  It was the cadence that accompanied Drake the entire drive to Hamilton. One long inhalation of air that resembled a choking hyena.

  A pause.

  A slow, elongated release.

  Between every third or fourth round, a slight puff of gas. The feeling of nausea sweeping in right behind it.

  The source of this audio and olfactory crescendo was an English bulldog curled up on the front seat beside him. Short and compact, her entire body was wedged tight against the seat back.

  Drake had tried to sneak out of the house that morning without her, but Suzy Q would not allow it. Whined until he relented. Bounded up into the truck with practiced movements.
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  Curled up, she was fast asleep before they reached the Missoula city limits.

  Drake stared out as he drove south through the Bitterroot Valley. The morning was cold and clear, just another in the four month winter stretch in western Montana known as The Greys.

  One carbon copy of a day after another.

  He kept the radio off. The only sounds were Suzy Q on the seat beside him and the steady blast of the heater.

  Saturday morning traffic was non-existent as he pushed on, the thirty mile drive taking less than an hour. The entire time his mind worked through what he might find waiting for him.

  The only thing Rink had said the night before was he needed help. Not him personally, but a friend.

  Drake told him he’d been down in the morning without hesitation.

  No further details were given.

  There was no reason for Drake to believe that it had anything to do with the shooting a few nights before. For whatever reason though, he couldn’t shake the notion.

  Knowing Rink, it could be anything from a car accident to a bar fight gone bad.

  The only thing Drake knew for sure was Rink had said it was urgent and that he needed to meet with him in particular.

  For Rink, a satellite member of the Crew himself, to exclude the others could only mean one thing.

  He needed a lawyer.

  Drake slid his truck to a stop in front of the Hamilton Memorial Hospital and turned it off. Rink’s rig was parked a few spots over, but there was no sign of him.

  Drake pulled a woven blanket over Q and left her sleeping on the front seat. She cracked an eye in response as he did so, but made no effort to follow.

  The front doors parted to the side as he approached, a plastic placard pointing him towards the cafeteria.

  Over the last few years he’d spent a fair bit of time in St. Michael’s Hospital visiting Sage. He knew the basic floor plan without ever having stepped foot in Hamilton Memorial.

  Cafeteria to the left. Emergency Room towards the right. Surgery ward somewhere in the back. Myriad of departments and clinics filling in the gaps.

  Efficient, if not imaginative.

  Drake stepped into the cafeteria at three minutes before ten to find it less than half empty. A couple of heads turned his way as he entered, sizing him up.