by David Stone
she was going to write was never going to happen. He took the CD from her skeletal fingers and she closed them over his hand, pressing hard.
“You’re more than just a pretty boy, else I would never have blabbed on like I did this afternoon. This thing here, it’s all I have left to give to anybody. Kids don’t call. Friends all dead. I’m in the end of days here. I was gonna win ...a Pulitzer....”
She released his hand and fell back into her chair, her eyes closed, wheezing through her trachea implant. Woodstein jumped up on her desk and stared at her for a while before turning his impassive gaze onto Dalton.
“Barbra...?”
She opened her eyes, waved him away, and went deep inside herself again. A hot wind stirred the drapes and the cooler ticked away like an old clock in the corner. Her lips were blue and her eyes, when closed, looked purple and sunken. The image of death itself was almost visible there, just beneath her skin, like a face rising in a pool.
Dalton pulled her laptop around, placed the CD inside the slot, put a blank disk in the burner, copied it, and placed the original on the pile of papers in front of her. He reached out and stroked Woodstein a couple of times. The cat arched, pressing against him, and then pulled away. The cat crept slowly into her lap, she placed one bony hand on his back, and in a moment they were both asleep. Dalton turned the fan on them, touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers, and left.
AIRBORNE AGAIN, rising up over the Rockies with the sunset a thin turquoise band far behind them, Irene staring out the porthole as the earth turned beneath them like a whale sounding in a limitless ocean of the purest blue, Dalton put Barbra’s CD into his laptop and opened it up.
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It was all there: her notes, scanned in and perfectly organized, cross-references, websites noted, copies of transcripts, letters, all of the material laid out and charted through a general menu.
Clearly she had been—still was—a great investigator, and given any chance at all she would have made this story a national sensation. But of course she never had any real chance at all, because the entire intelligence community was lined up against her.
She was lucky to be alive.
Halfway down the menu he came across a file marked “Accident Photos.” He clicked on it and found a file folder filled with JPEG images of the multicar accident scene on Interstate 25, some of them images from the Accident Reconstruction Team of the Colorado State Police, and others apparently done by a stringer for one of the local papers.
Taken from various angles, they showed a tangle of cars and trucks, dimly seen through a screen of flying snow, a close-up of a Mercedes, its rear end crushed by the blunt nose of a flatbed trailer, another shot of a cube van sitting literally on top of a small red Fiat, another that showed a wide gap in the barrier, apparently torn open by a vehicle, another shot, taken from the bridge, showing a pickup truck lying on its roof on a shoal of boulders at the edge of the Purgatoire River a hundred feet below, a smaller red plastic object close by it.
More random shots of people standing around, looking stunned or avid or simply curious, depending on their natures, here a shot of the first patrol cars arriving. Cops deploying. Now the ambulances. A fire truck: a hundred different images showing the long line of cars and trucks lined up on both sides of the Interstate.
And a medium shot of a man standing beside the open door of his eighteen-wheeler, part of the door visible, a sign saying freightways. The man’s expression was unreadable, opaque, even guarded, as he stared into the lens, his mouth half-open as if to voice
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some objection and his other hand halfway to his face as if he had intended to shield it from the camera.
Under this shot was a notation that read:
DALE FRANCIS FETTERMAN?? FREIGHTWAYS DRIVER / MATERIAL WITNESS?? CURRENT LOCATION UNKNOWN??
Dalton stared at the image of a much younger Willard Fremont for a long while. Fremont had told him that “Fetterman” was one of his operational covers.
Somebody in the Agency had decided that Consuelo Goliad had to go away (the reasons for that weren’t yet clear—something to do with Red Shift Laser Acoustics and FrancoVentus Mondiale)—but it was damned clear to Dalton that they had put Fremont’s unit on the job.
Fremont had told him that they had never actually executed anyone, but they sure as hell killed Consuelo Goliad. Along with a whack of other people. Bystanders. Innocent bystanders, including two members of the Escondido clan, one of whom was related to Ida Escondido.
And Ida Escondido was one of the two people who ID’d the corpse of Pinto Escondido out there at Comanche Station.
The other one was a kid named Wilson Horsecoat.
Comanche Station.
Dalton reached up, touched the intercom buzzer.
Irene turned to stare at him, her jaws wide, her eyes white around the rims. She had been scrubbed and cleaned and fed and walked and given a mild tranquilizer but she still look terrified and lost. He rubbed her behind the ear and she licked his wrist.
“Yes sir?”
“We’re not going back to Langley yet, Mike.”
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“No problem, sir. Where to?” “Southeastern Colorado.” “How about Colorado Springs? We can land at Schriever Air
Force Base?” “No. I need a civilian airport.” “Nearby?” “Near as you can make it.” “Okay. Let me punch it up. Will Pueblo do? They got an airport
there that can handle a Gulfstream.” “Pueblo’s fine.”
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saturday, october 20 comanche station two miles west of timpas, colorado comanche national grassland
7 p.m. local time
here was a bank of snow cloud resting on the distant peaks of the Rockies far off in the west, but out here on the edge of the Great Plains the air was hot and dry as Dalton wheeled his rented pickup into the haphazard little collection of shacks and trailers and bungalows at the end of a long arrow-straight gravel road. The wind stirred up a sea of long yellow grass, a great golden plain that reached out for miles in every direction, an ocean of rippling light as the day was closing. He parked the truck in front of a low wooden structure that had once been whitewashed but was now the color of bleached bone.
In the shade under the porch roof three ancient leathery-looking men, all in faded jeans and dusty boots and cowboy hats or rumpled ball caps, leaned back in their chairs, their hard, pinched faces closed and wary, watching grimly as Dalton climbed out of the truck, followed by Irene, who trotted off across the dusty hardpan to investigate a stand of stunted cottonwood trees.
A flag bearing the profile of a Plains Indian surrounded by rays of light and embroidered with the words “Comanche Station” flapped in the wind, and from inside the building came the sound of country music, a Dobro endlessly moaning as a woman with a drawling sensual voice lamented her taste in lovers as she lay fearfully awake in her double-wide listening to an angry drunk pounding on her door. Dalton climbed the withered old stair boards and stopped in front of the three old men, who looked up at him without any sign of life or interest.
“I’m looking for a boy named Wilson Horsecoat,” said Dalton. “I’m told he can be found here most evenings.”
“Who’s looking?” said the man on the far left. His skin was as dry and cracked as a Gila monster’s and he had small, sharp teeth stained golden brown. He seemed to have the power around here, and the other two looked blankly out at the sea of yellow grass as if Dalton had simply snapped out of existence.
“The name is Micah Dalton.”
“That she-wolf yours?”
Dalton looked back into the street. Irene was sitting a few yards away, on her haunches, staring up at the porch.
“She’s with me. But she’s not mine.”
“What’s her name?”
“Irene.”
“She looks snake-mean. I like a snake-mean dog. No use else they snake-mean. Buy her from y
ou, if you want. I’m Bill Knife. This is my place. No whites allowed in here. No offense.”
“None taken, Mr. Knife. Is Wilson Horsecoat inside?”
“Might be. Might not. Can’t say. What you want with him?”
“Just some personal business.”
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“You federal?” “Yes.” “What kind of federal?” Dalton reached into his leather jacket and pulled out his Agency
ID. He leaned down and held it out. Bill Knife leaned forward to
squint at it, and then looked back up at Dalton. “You ain’t a Goddam Feeber then?” “No sir.” “Hate the Feebers. Terrible folk. Deaf. No ears on ’em at all.” “That’s been my experience.” “Has it?” “It has.” “Well. What’s a spook from D.C. want with that young fool?” “A talk. Nothing more.” Bill Knife studied Dalton for a time, recognizing incoming trou
ble and mildly curious to discover its precise nature. “Wilson is in there, if you want to go bring him out.” “I can go inside?” “My place, isn’t it? Watch his hands there, son.” Dalton sketched a salute to Bill Knife, looked briefly at the other
men, who continued to stare impassively out at the moving sea of grass, and then he called to Irene, who snapped her panting jaws shut and came racing up the steps to stop beside him, looking tense and eager.
He pushed open the screen door and held it for Irene, who padded into the cool dark of the interior. The broad wooden-walled room was filled with a scattering of couches and wooden chairs, facing every which way, with a few card tables here and there, an ancient fridge wheezing away in the corner.
The four lean, rangy young men inside—there were no women visible—had all fallen silent as Dalton and Irene came into the room. The radio had been turned off a while back so they could hear the
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conversation out on the porch. They were now leaning back in their chairs, staring at him, using the same slack-jawed hard-eyed war face that young men all over the world have copied from the movies.
They all looked range-hard and capable and frankly Dalton didn’t give a bucket of horse spit how they looked. In the center of their circle there was a low, rough-hewn table filled with empty beer bottles. The shabby room was thick with hanging smoke. It smelled of sweat, chili, and beans. Warm beer. Teenage testosterone.
“Afternoon,” said Dalton. “I’m looking for Wilson Horsecoat.”
“That your wolf bitch?” said one of them, a lean Comanche boy, rather horse-faced, with red-rimmed staring eyes, his long greasy black hair held back from his high pockmarked forehead by a silver conch.
“You Wilson Horsecoat?” “Who the fuck is he?” “You are.” “Who says.” “Mr. Knife.” “Bill Knife can suck my cock.” The other three hooted at this and the boy with the long black
hair showed Dalton his teeth, fine and strong and vivid against his muddy brown skin. His eyes were twitchy and his pupils too small for a dark room but he seemed to be reasonably straight. Dalton looked at the boy’s hands, veined and knotted, and at the butt of the Ruger pistol they were resting on. Irene, who had been sitting near Dalton’s leg, got to her feet and started to emit a low purring growl. The laughter stopped.
“You leash that bitch,” said the boy, “or I’ll shoot her.” “Get up.” “What?” “You’re Wilson Horsecoat. Get up.” “So I’m Wilson Horsecoat. So fuck you.”
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No one saw him move; it was as if Dalton’s Colt had just materialized in his right hand. He leveled it at Horsecoat’s nose.
“You,” he said, looking at one of the other boys. “Reach over and lift that Ruger out of his belt. Put it on the floor and kick it over.”
The boy leaned over, tugged the pistol loose, holding it with the tips of his fingers, set it down on the scarred floorboards, and shoved it across to Dalton, who had never taken his eyes off Horsecoat. Dalton picked the Ruger up and studied it for a moment.
“Where did you get this?”
“It’s mine, fuck-nuts. I had it for years.”
“This is a silenced Ruger Mark Two. It fires subsonic 22-caliber hollow-points. It’s a covert assassination weapon and simply being in possession of one will get you a federal twenty years. It can’t be bought anywhere in America.”
He hefted it, glancing at the slide.
“This particular weapon was modified for the CIA by a custom armorer in Alexandria, Virginia. This broad arrowhead is his personal trademark. This weapon was taken from an agent of the CIA and the fact that you have it opens you up to a charge of murdering an intelligence operative in a time of war. The penalty for that is death. And I have reason to believe that this weapon was used a couple of days ago to shoot a Special Forces soldier in the back of the head. Stand up.”
Horsecoat stood, knocking his chair over, trying for cold icy threat but barely reaching surly. The other three men stayed put, looking down at the table, hands in their laps. Dalton got the impression that Wilson Horsecoat had no friends in this room.
“Let’s go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“For a drive.”
“A drive the fuck where?”
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“You’re going to show me a grave.” “Whose grave?” “Pinto Escondido’s grave.”
THEY DROVE WEST into the rising night, across miles of rolling flatland, following two narrow ruts worn into the hide of the earth itself. In the far west the Rockies were a towering wall of peaks, black against the evening sky. The pickup pitched and bounced across the plains. In the space behind the front seat Irene sat quietly, staring hungrily at the back of Wilson Horsecoat’s head. Horsecoat sat slumped against the passenger door, unsuccessfully affecting disdain and contempt, his left knee jumping rapidly.
Dalton pulled out his cell phone, dialed Sally Fordyce. “Micah? Where are you?” “Colorado. I need you to run a serial number for me.” “Sure. Hold on ...okay. Let me have it.” Dalton lifted the Ruger up and read the maker’s markings off the
slide, and the serial numbers under it. Horsecoat was staring at him, his face bony and frightened.
“Okay. Got it. It’s out of our armory at Alexandria. Suppressed Ruger Mark 2. Issued to . . . Agent Milo Tillman. Requisition franked by Bob Cole. Tillman’s unit commander. Both men marked deceased. Weapon lost in ’ninety-seven. Never recovered.”
“When was it issued?” “Let’s see . . . September seventeenth, 1994.” “Thank you, Sally.” “You’re welcome. What are you doing in Colorado?” “Hunting,” he said, and he closed the phone. “Was that about me?” asked Horsecoat. “What did they say?” Dalton stared out at the oncoming grassland and said nothing.
Hard dry grasses whisked and rustled along the underbody of the
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truck, and out here away from the town the air was cool and clean and smelled of sweetgrass. Wilson Horsecoat smelled strongly of fear. After a few miles, as Dalton expected, Horsecoat had to speak, if only to find some comfort in the sound of his own quavering voice.
“Come on, man. What’s this all about, anyway?” Dalton said nothing. “You can’t do this, you know. I got rights.” Nothing. “Man, you know, you’re so totally fucked, man.” Nothing. “You don’t know who’s coming for you, do you? I got heavy
people on my side, man. Hard guys. You think you’re a hard guy?
You’re a fuckin’ pussy.” “How far?” “How far to what?” “Pinto’s grave.” “It’s just up there, by the Little Apishapa. See it?” Dalton stared out at the plains, into the cones of his headlights.
There was a low rocky mound a thousand yards out. Some sort of pole had been stuck into it, and a scrap of cloth flickered in the wind. Irene began to whimper. Dalton turned to stroke her flat blade-shaped head. She was shaking now and her nose was working, her nostrils wide, breathing in, her broad chest heaving, her eyes wide.
“What’s with the bitch?” asked Horsecoat. “She smells somethin
g.” “Fuck yeah,” he said, with a honking snigger. “Fucking corpse,
man. Guts bubbling. Worms crawling. Eyeballs rotting. That’s what that cunt-dog is smelling.”
They reached the mound in a few minutes. By now Irene was trembling violently and her mouth was wide open, her pink tongue working. Dalton brought the truck to a halt a few yards from a mound of river rocks about five feet high and eight feet long. A pole
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had been driven into the top of the mound and a small flag, red, carrying the crest of the United States Marine Corps, shredded by the endless prairie winds, fluttered and snapped at the top. As he opened the driver’s door Irene scrambled out of the cargo space and vaulted out of the truck. She raced across the sweetgrass and clambered up onto the rock pile, her head low, snuffling and growling. Out in the darkness a coyote yipped. Bats flicked and whipped in the sky, small fleeting patches of utter black against a glowing field of countless stars.
Horsecoat got out of the pickup and came around to within a few feet of Dalton, staring at the mound, watching Irene as she padded up and down the mound, whimpering, scratching.
“What’s with your dog?” “She’s not my dog.” “Whose dog is she?” he finally asked. “She belongs to the man in that grave. Moot Gibson.” Horsecoat’s body tensed and he said nothing for a time. “Yeah?”
he said, defiantly. “And who’s Moot Gibson when he’s at home?”
Dalton looked at the skinny young man, his hands shoved into his back pockets, his face shiny with sweat. Irene stopped moving, sat back on her haunches, lifted her muzzle to the stars, and began to howl. The skirling, soaring wail rose up and echoed across the plains. The far-off coyote stopped yipping and the bats fluttered away.
Irene, settling deep into her grief, howled and howled. “Shut her up, will you. Cunt-dog’s giving me the creeps.” “You talk like that again and I’ll knock you down.” They stood there, listening to Irene, for a long while, and then
Horsecoat shook his head. “Can I say something?” “If it’s polite.” “You’re CIA, right?” “That’s right.”
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