by Jeff Carson
“Hey, I’m Deputy Rachette,” he said holding out his hand.
The other deputy shook with a cold palm. “Rachette?”
“Yeah, I was in the Sluice Department. I got shot a few months ago and been recovering, so I haven’t been around much. But I’m just about back in action.”
The Deputy eyed Rachette up and down as if looking for the wound.
“Right here,” Rachette patted his shoulder. “Took a nine mil hollow point. Blew my shoulder pretty much to shreds. Lucky though, wasn’t a direct blow to the joint. Could have been worse.”
The deputy stood frozen with those eyebrows.
Rachette eyed his name patch. “Well, Deputy Prough, it was nice to meet—”
“Prough,” he corrected, pronouncing it Prow, rather than rhyming it with poo as Rachette had done.
“Prough. Cool. Nice to meet you. Later.” Rachette double-timed it down the hall the opposite way of MacLean’s office.
He’d gotten nowhere with the visit to the department. The FBI had all gone, and none of the deputies were there except a few low ranks that were holding down the fort for admin duty. They were deputies Rachette had met once at most and had forgotten their names instantly, so he had decided against engaging them in his plain clothing.
Trotting down the stairway and stepping outside, he pulled out his cell phone and considered who to call.
His derelict car was parked six blocks away, hidden at the moment behind a line of vehicles. It could rot there for all he cared.
He had a long walk home to his apartment, with nothing waiting for him when he got there. Eyeing the Sunnyside Café, he decided on a meal first.
His phone vibrated.
Jack is missing. The text message was from Patterson.
Rachette’s chest tightened. What the hell?
He pushed her phone number.
“Hey, Rachette..”
“Hey, what’s going on? Jack’s missing?” His armpits broke into a sweat. His phone vibrated again and there was a beep in his ear—another call coming in from a number he didn’t recognize. “Tell me everything. What do you mean he’s missing?”
The connection crackled. “Just a… school … there, so we’re going to his grandparents’ house.”
“He’s missing from school so you’re going to his grandparents’ house?”
“Yeah.”
He paced in front of the county building. “I think his grandparents are out of town. I remember Wolf telling me that they go up to Vail a lot now for a development project Sarah’s father’s involved in.”
The connection crackled again.
“Hello?”
There was no answer.
His phone chimed and vibrated again, and it was the same random phone number.
Again he ignored it. “Patterson? Are you there?”
“Just a second.”
“Okay.”
A full twenty seconds passed and then Patterson’s voice was a whisper. “…might be bad. I don’t know …”
“What?” Rachette asked. “Might be bad? The connection?”
“No.” Patterson’s voice was a plea.
Rachette stood listening to dead silence. “I can’t hear you. Call me back when you get into good cell range.”
“… breaking up. I’ll keep you …”
Damn it. “Keep me posted.”
No answer, and then the connection went dead.
He stood breathing heavy and then forced himself to relax. Jack was at an age when it was normal to skip school. And hadn’t Wolf recently been concerned that his grandparents were spending time away this month for a project in Vail?
And who knew how Jack was holding up after his mother’s death? Maybe he was skipping a lot of school now. Maybe he was even thinking about running away. Maybe he’d heard about his father being on the run and had done the same.
His phone vibrated and rang.
It was the same number he’d screened before.
“What?”
“Tom?”
“What? Who’s this?”
“It’s Harold Burton.”
“Sir. Thank God you called. Patterson says Jack Wolf is missing.”
“I know. I have him.”
Rachette froze. “You do?”
“Yes. And I need your help, right now.”
“How?”
“I’ll explain everything when you get here. Where are you?”
Rachette turned and looked up at the glass building. “I’m in front of the county building.”
“I don’t want you to repeat any of this conversation to anyone, above all to MacLean or anyone from his department. Not to any Byron County deputies. In fact, better to not tell anyone at all.”
“Okay. Why’s that?”
“We have reason to believe MacLean is behind Wolf’s framing.”
“Really?”
Burton paused. “We’re not sure who else could be involved. But it’s probably best to not trust anyone from Byron County.”
Rachette thought of Patterson and how she was with Undersheriff Lancaster. Then he thought of Deputy Munford’s beautiful face and his heart dropped. The odds of her playing him for a fool just went up.
Then he turned around and flinched, because Deputy Munford stood only a few feet away.
“…of the Fire House?”
“Uh … sorry … what was that?”
Deputy Munford was staring, listening. And for how long? He turned away and walked down the sidewalk.
“I asked if you know where my wife’s family’s place is, a few miles south of the abandoned Fire House on 328?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. Bring every gun you have and plenty of ammo. See you there as soon as possible. Don’t tell anyone about this, do you hear me? Anyone.”
“Sir, my car just broke down.”
“What?”
Rachette felt like a kid who’d just told his father he’d crapped his pants. “It just died. Minutes ago.”
Burton exhaled hard into the phone. “Can you fix it?”
Rachette calculated the odds of that. “No.”
“Can you get another car? From a friend?”
Rachette looked back and saw that Munford was still standing on the sidewalk, still intently listening to his every word.
“I’ll work on it.”
Burton said nothing for a few seconds and then hung up.
Rachette pocketed his phone and walked to her.
“Jack Wolf is missing?” Munford asked. “Dave Wolf’s son?”
Rachette ignored her, scrolling in his mind through the images of his friends outside the force and the vehicles they drove. He crossed off the first three guys he could think of. Two of them rode their bicycles everywhere and used the bus to get to work in the winter, and the third one would never let him use his BMW SUV. Not in a million years, unless maybe he told him about Jack being in danger, which Burton had instructed him not to.
“And you were talking about your car being dead, right? Do you need a ride somewhere?”
For an instant Rachette was sucked into her eyes. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You said, Sir, thank God you called, Jack Wolf is missing. That’s what I heard you say into the phone. I was right here. Then you said my car just broke down.” She tapped her ear. “I have pretty good hearing.”
Idiot! How did he not see her?
“Tom, tell me, do you need help? Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“No.” He thought of another friend he drank beers with at Beer Goggles, but he didn’t have the guy’s number and had no clue where he lived. “Shit. Maybe.”
Munford’s voice softened. “Listen, if you need help, we’re here. Jack is missing? Let’s get everyone mobilized, damn it.”
“No. No. It’s not like that. I was mistaken.”
She straightened. “So he’s not missing. What’s going on?”
Rachette thought of Gail Olson’s seductive smile,
and his humiliation that followed. It had been the start of this entire mess.
He held out his hand. “Just give me your keys.”
“Yeah, right.”
Rachette realized she was stuck in this. She’d heard everything. Even if he managed to get her keys away from her, she would go inside and tell everyone everything. She would tell MacLean.
Tell him what? That Jack was missing? So what?
Burton said that MacLean was behind Wolf’s framing, that was what. And if that were true and if Rachette stole away in Munford’s cruiser to where Burton was holding Jack, then Rachette would be leading them right to Jack. There were GPS devices on all the vehicles.
Why had Burton taken Jack? He must be in danger, otherwise, why whisk him out of school?
“Hey, you look like you’re about to have a seizure. You want my help or not? Either way, I have to tell you, Rachette. As a cop I’m not comfortable keeping silent with this. You say Jack Wolf is missing? And you want me to walk away and pretend I didn’t hear that? No can do.”
Rachette wiped the sweat from his forehead.
She stepped forward and hypnotized him. “Hey. I’m paired with Deputy Wilson. He just went inside to use the restroom. When he gets back out, we’ll take you wherever you need to go. You can tell us all about it. Okay? Great.”
Rachette stared at her. It was impossible to say no to her, but more importantly, it was the best choice he had. The only choice. Rachette’s read on this woman was a moot point. And besides Patterson and Wolf, Wilson was as trustworthy as they came.
“Okay, Munford. You win, I’ll take that ride.”
“Yeah?” She nodded. “Okay, good. I just want to help.”
“But if you try to screw me over? I’ll kill you.”
She chuckled. “Oh really?”
Rachette stared at her.
She hardened her gaze and nodded and then she cracked a smile. “I’d like to see you try.”
“I’m sorry, Munford. But I’m serious. About this? I’m dead serious. Dave Wolf has killed people to protect me. I wouldn’t hesitate one second to do the same to protect his only son.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Okay. I think you’ve officially turned me on Tom Rachette.”
His face caught fire.
Burton was going to be pissed.
Chapter 26
As Pope drove Pepper’s truck over another batch of rocks sticking out of the unmaintained road he grasped the wheel with both hands to counter the terrible pull to the left. What a piece of crap. He wondered if the whining engine was even going to make it to camp.
His left forearm stung when he flexed his hand. It was bright red, having been slow roasted through the un-tinted window on the drive, and still smeared with blood.
His sunscreen was in his truck. His stolen truck.
He’d be able to borrow a shirt from someone, but he would never show such weakness as to ask if any of the men at the compound if they had sunscreen. Damn his Irish skin in the cloudless Colorado altitude.
Clenching the wheel, he slowed at the barbed wire fence and was glad to see there was no one in sight.
He stopped and cranked down the window.
A few seconds later a man dressed in full camouflage carrying an M4 Carbine assault rifle stepped from the trees.
It was Andre. The overweight man squinted and paused at the sight of Pope.
Shirtless and redder than usual, he didn’t blame Andre for giving a long second look.
Pope held his breath and watched the M4’s barrel closely. It never wavered from pointing at the ground. Andre’s finger remained outside the trigger guard.
The Compound sentinel gave him a knowing nod and Pope returned the gesture, and with that Pope drove up the double track.
It was a matter of minutes now, and his ambitions would be realized. Or not. He would live, or he would die.
And what if he lived, and all went to plan here? He had to think ahead, despite what was facing him in a matter of seconds.
His truck had been stolen along with his phone. Those two things alone could spell trouble.
No, things were still all right. If they had gone wrong, the feds would have beaten him to the storage unit. But the place had been clean. It was clear that Agent Tedescu had told his new partner about everything and that was why they had shown up.
The solution was clear. Two people had to die.
As he trundled up the bumpy road through the thick lodge pole pines, his inner strength swelled thinking about the people he’d killed in the last couple of days—all the tiny explosions of red flesh, and the streaming blood from gaping wounds.
It was a shame what all these incompetent bastards in the organization made him do. It was no different than the Marines had been—they were dropping the ball and he had to take over.
If he wanted to he could have ripped the steering wheel right off with the surge of adrenaline fed rage that coursed through him.
As he pulled out into the clearing and drove to the double-wide trailers, a swarm of men appeared from here and there at the sight of the truck. Some were armed, most were not.
The sight of Pope and not Pepper inside caused a stir, and the armed ones fondled their rifles; a subconscious preparation of what was to come.
Pope parked and opened the door. Stepping out into the sun, he felt his shoulders sizzle under the ultraviolet radiation.
The metal door to the nearest doublewide squeaked open and The Chairman loomed in the doorway. “Pope,” his deep voice boomed.
Pope nodded.
The steps squealed under The Chairman’s ample weight and then the ground crunched under each footfall. His chin was raised and his head tilted to the side, his bald head a tiny version of the sun with its waxed reflection.
Under The Chairman’s gray Army tee shirt his ham-like pectoral muscles flexed in turn, which pushed the talisman that hung around his neck back and forth.
Pope stood still, ignoring the searing glare off his own bare skin. A perfect poker face.
“Where’s Pepper?” The Chairman asked.
“I killed him with a pair of bolt cutters.”
The Chairman chuckled as if he was kidding, then nodded at Pope’s unflinching gaze. “You look like shit. You know, they told me what some of the men have been calling you lately. The Pope.”
The Chairman’s voice was like a trained actor. He projected himself well when he needed to.
The men shuffled near one another, keeping a safe distance from the confrontation. Just watching The Chairman in action could get you killed. Stray bullets were certainly about to fly.
“The Pope? You know what I see? I see Poop. I think I’ll call you Poop.” The man’s silverback gorilla torso bounced up and down as he chuckled.
Three other men in the crowd laughed. Pope knew exactly which three without looking.
“I didn’t think you’d be showing your face here ever again.”
“Why’s that?” Pope asked.
The Chairman stopped ten paces away. “You’ve put the entire operation in danger. Killing our insurance with the FBI? Killing that real estate agent in Rocky Points? Killing the runner bitch from Ashland? And I hear your plans are going to shit.”
My plans? There was a traitor.
Pope pointed at The Chairman and raised his voice. “You put the entire operation in danger long ago. Two FBI agents were running our organization, because you let them.”
“Running our organization? They were—”
“They were not insurance, they were a liability, and you just sat back and let it happen.” Pope shook his head. “Hell, you didn’t care. You’ve still been getting your cut. But what about us?” Pope extended his arms and twirled in a circle. “What about these men and their families? You’re bringing in more partners, and we’re getting pushed out on profits. But we’re the ones putting ourselves in danger out there!”
None of the men in the crowd moved a muscle.
The Chairman took a step for
ward. His lip snarled and his fists clenched into bowling balls. The man had a volcanic temper, and this was the look they all knew well. Mutinous talk like this was not tolerated in the least, and death was coming soon. Doled out by the Chairman himself.
Once Pope had watched The Chairman strangle a man to death with one hand while punching him with the other. The men that day had all stood in silence, listening to the connections of fist on face mixed with gurgling, each man unable or afraid to look away until the Chairman was done with his tirade of violence, which had been minutes after the man had actually died.
Pope had also seen The Chairman kill twice by gunfire. Each man had been made to suffer long with shots to the arms and kneecaps, the gut, and only then were they put out of their misery with a headshot.
But Pope did not intend to die by the Chairman’s hand today.
By God, he hoped not.
Raising his chin high, he puffed out his shirtless chest and pointed at the Chairman again. “Your time is up, Chairman. I’ve removed the FBI infiltration, which was something you should have done at the beginning. I’ve fixed your mess and ensured the safety of this organization. Once again we’re going to be free to do business the way it was supposed to be done. Not under the thumbs of a couple of crooked FBI agents that you didn’t have the balls to stand up to.”
Two men stepped out of the crowd. Both holding M4 carbines, they flanked the Chairman and faced Pope. Their eyes relaxed and locked on him.
Pope’s palms began to sweat.
The Chairman smiled and stepped up between them. “Your time is up, Poop. This conversation is over.” He turned to one of the men and held out his hand. “Give me your M4.”
The man turned and raised the barrel, and then fired a three shot burst into the Chairman’s muscled thigh.
“Ahh!”
Pope stepped forward, watching The Chairman writhe on the ground. Blood soaked the man’s desert camos. Arterial spurts flowed between his fingers.
The man who’d shot him, Luther, gave Pope the M4 and stepped away.
Three pistol shots rang out somewhere behind them, and the men shuffled and murmured in surprise, but Pope kept his attention on The Chairman.
Raising the M4, he aimed at the Chairman’s face.
The Chairman opened his mouth to speak.