“That would be his MO.”
“Well, the Morales character is known for his particular form of punishment, El Guiso, or The Stew—he douses his victims in diesel fuel and burns them alive in sealed oil barrels.” He looked at me. “And this is the guy Bidarte is wiping out.”
Standing, I walked over to the window.
“Walt, there’s no way they could’ve gotten Cady out of the country that quickly. We’ll find her. Kidnapping across state lines, murder, extortion . . . I’m afraid Mr. Bidarte has incurred the wrath of the Department of Justice, and we have long arms.”
“I appreciate that.”
“If he has her, they’re probably sitting in a hotel room watching pay-per-view here in Cheyenne.”
I stared out the window. “I hope you’re right.”
“Just in case I’m not, I’ll also get in touch with the Policía Federale Ministerial, the investigative arm of Mexico’s Federal Police, and our Border Patrol; I know a guy down there who is one tough old hombre, kind of like you.”
“Thank you, Mike, and thanks for coming up.” I glanced around at the all-but-empty room. “Have you got a place to stay?”
He laughed as he escorted me from the borrowed office. “I’m the federal government; I’ve always got a place to stay.”
I walked through the skeleton crew, attempting not to make eye contact, and took the elevator to street level.
Outside the state capitol, I placed a hand on the railing in front of one of the statues that represented Wyoming’s history. I just stood there, but my chest was heavy and each breath felt like I was shoveling air. My eyes drifted to the overcast sky and then to the profile of the pioneer woman, her face fearless and resolute.
Tears came then, tracing the lines in my face. I’m not sure how long I stood there, but by the time I stumbled into my truck, my face was dry.
I climbed in, closed the door behind me, and sat there staring at the yellow traffic lights that blinked down West Twenty-fourth Street. My first thought was that I needed to get back to Cady’s in case anybody called, but then I remembered that I had Henry’s cell phone in my coat pocket. I pulled the thing out and pressed a few buttons, calling the apartment only twelve blocks away.
“Hello.”
I stumbled. “Sorry, I’m not used to you answering the phone that way.”
“Anything?”
“No. You?”
“No. Vic is on the deck, and I am patrolling the perimeter while your Dog is sleeping at the foot of your granddaughter’s crib and Lucian is sleeping in a straight-back chair in her doorway with a cocked .38 revolver in his lap. I am not sure which is more dangerous.”
“Don’t make any sudden noises.”
“I do not intend to. Where are you?”
“On my way back. Mike’s doing some legwork in their systems, but there isn’t anything we can do until he finds something to move on.”
“Agreed.”
“See you in a few.” I deposited the phone in my inside jacket pocket as I hit the starter. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I pulled out and headed south toward the Union Pacific roundhouse.
I drove onto the overpass to look down at the big steam engine. There wasn’t any traffic, so I pulled over and got out, walking across the lanes to study the gleaming black of the thing through the wrought-iron fencing.
As I stood there, I became aware of the sound of a vehicle approaching and turned around to see a dark Suburban or maybe a Yukon slowing, probably on seeing my sheriff’s unit.
Thinking it might be the Bobs, I started to wave, but once I got a better look I didn’t raise my arm.
The windows were heavily tinted, and as near as I could tell, the vehicle didn’t have any plates on the front. It dawned on me that it might be McGroder, having followed me, just checking to make sure I wasn’t going to jump from the bridge, but he would have stopped, and the SUV kept moving, if slowly.
I pushed off the barricade and watched it pass by my truck, unable to see anything inside except some dark shadows. Now I could see there were no plates on the back, either. They had slowed to a stop and were now sitting at the apex of the overpass about fifty yards away.
Maybe they thought I was in trouble.
Maybe they thought I needed help.
Maybe I’d find out.
I unholstered my Colt and started walking toward them but suddenly found myself running across the three lanes. I was only ten yards from the vehicle when they hit the accelerator and pulled quickly away, leaving me standing there in the middle of the road, a long way from anything.
16
Holland crammed himself in the doorway with the mic dangling in his hand as the car swayed and slapped against the rails. “Security to engineer, you copy?” There was no response. “Saunders, it’s Holland.” He tried again. “Roback, pick up. Everything all right up there?”
Lucian looked past us out the frost-scarred door at the tender and shuddered. “No other way up to the engine than that, huh?”
I stood at the doorway and looked out the window at the fuel car now covered with snow and, worse yet, ice. “Not that I know of, and it wasn’t much fun when I did it earlier in comparatively mild weather and at a much slower speed.”
Holland turned to look at us. “Now I’m worried. I don’t think there’s anybody up there.”
“Oh, there’s somebody up there, and if it’s who I think it is, this isn’t going to be easy.”
“Wait, you know who’s up there?”
I avoided the question with one of my own. “You think the crew jumped off a little while back when we slowed down?”
“Or got pushed.” He gestured with the mic. “Nobody’s picking up. Now, if there was an emergency or something going on, there’s two of them up there and one of them should be answering.”
I zipped my jacket up tighter and pulled out my scarf, tying it around my face as I’d done before.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Somebody’s got to climb over that tender and into the cab.”
“I’m the head of security, and this train is my responsibility.”
“You’re not dressed for it; besides, do you know how to stop this thing?”
He appeared to be at a loss. “In theory.”
“Well, I do.”
He suddenly looked suspicious. “How is that?”
“The engineer showed me.” I tugged on my gloves and handed Holland his sidearm. “Here, you’re off the hook.”
He stared at me and then out the window. “You’ll never make it—there’s got to be more than an inch of ice on that tender; the heat from the engine must be melting the snow just long enough for the wind to turn it into ice.”
“If you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”
He glanced at Lucian. “Hell with you, I’ve got only one leg.”
I started to push past the security man when he stuck out a hand. “Not to add insult to injury, but at this speed it won’t be long before we’ll be coming up on the curve at Walcott Junction.”
Sheriff Connelly slowly fell back against the wall. “Oh, hell.”
As I glanced back at Holland, my voice was muffled by the scarf over my face. “And?”
“We’ll never make it at this speed, and when this thing derails, we’re all dead.” He shuffled his feet and glanced toward the front. “Also, that loco’s not in shape to withstand this kind of speed for an extended period of time. If that boiler blows, it’s going to unleash over 23,000 gallons of scalding water and steam, not to mention more than 6,000 gallons of no. 5 fuel oil.”
“So, what should I hope for?”
“Well, with a derailment you’ll have a few agonizing moments, but if the boiler blows you’ll never know what hit you.”
Turning the lever, I put a shoulder i
nto the door and watched the thick coating of ice shatter and explode as it hit the grating and disappeared under the train. I just hoped the next thing under the train wasn’t going to be me. “God hates a coward.”
The vacuum slammed the door closed behind me, so I turned and grabbed on to the tender’s railing. The ice on the ladder broke apart as I lifted myself up and climbed toward the top of the fuel car, barely able to see through the blistering wind.
The train swung and bucked like a rodeo bull, and I lost my footing and clung there, my gloved hands slowly sliding down the glazed rails.
Kicking my boots against the stair treads, I was able to dislodge enough snow to get traction and started up once more. I’d just made it to the top when I almost lost my footing again, but hung on. From that vantage point, I could see that the tender looked like a glacier.
Ducking my head back down, I cursed and then reached over with my right hand, grabbing the rail that stretched across, using my left fist to break away chunks the size of dinner plates, a few of which flipped up and flew back at me, exploding on contact and almost taking me off the tender with them.
I slid forward, pounding my fist to clear the way like an icebreaker. I was about halfway across and thought that if I could get as far as the fill spout, I could rest a few seconds before climbing over it, but the train made a major shift. All I could think in that split second was that we’d reached the curve at Walcott Junction and were going to explode like a 500,000-pound grenade.
My left hand was numb from bashing ice, so I hung on with my right like a grappling hook. One leg fell over the side, and I could feel another railing underneath. I lodged my foot for purchase, reached back, and took hold of the fill spout, and slowly pulled myself on top. There was nothing ahead except snowflakes illuminated by the lights on the front of the locomotive that parted to make way for the train, seeming to want to avoid it.
I lay there thinking about whether I wanted to die and came to the conclusion that, no, I didn’t want to quite yet.
I’d made it to the front edge despite my hand and some vertigo, and could see that the heat from the engine had turned the snow there to a smothering slush. I tried to peer into the cab, but the snowmelt blew up in my face. Carefully feeling for the stairs, I pivoted, found a tread, and lowered myself down until I found another.
The train swayed again, only to buck the other way. I felt my boot slip and I fell backward, breaking my watch in the process.
The Colt slipped from the back of my jeans along with Murder on the Orient Express as I landed on the metal flooring. My head crashed with a soft, melonlike thump that left stars flashing in my eyes like heavy artillery, and all I could hear was the roar of the big locomotive as it threatened to blow apart at the seams.
I lay there for a second stretching my face. Somebody was whistling “This Train.” When I opened my eyes, I found the business end of a Model 60 .38 Special stuck against the numb, frozen skin of my forehead.
“Hello, Deputy—it had to be you.”
—
Sitting in the chair in the living room of Cady’s apartment, I stared into the night and tried to slow the whistling express of every thought I’d had in the last day, but I felt like the chair I was sitting in was falling backward faster than I could think.
What was I going to do? What could I do? I hadn’t been at this much of a loss since Martha had died, and the feeling of coming unraveled wasn’t helping one bit. I remembered my father telling me that you knew you were a man when everything went bad and suddenly all eyes were on you for help. All eyes were on me now, and I had no idea what to do.
There was a noise, and I turned to see Henry quietly closing the door to Lola’s room. “She asleep?”
“I am amazed that between Lucian snoring and Dog snoring, your granddaughter can sleep at all.”
“How about you?”
He sat on the sofa and studied me. “I do not sleep nights like this one.”
“I figured.” I heard the refrigerator kick on in the kitchen and looked around at the wonderful job my daughter had done in fixing the place up. “I’ll die without her, Henry.”
“I know.”
“What am I going to do?”
“We will get her back.”
“How?”
“We will find who took her, and we will find her, and we will get her back—no matter what it takes.”
I stared at my lap and nodded, but I didn’t seem to convince him.
“You need to look back to the man you once were—the portion of yourself that you have kept locked away for a very long time—because that is the man we need now.”
I glanced up at him.
“I will tell you something I have never told you, something that will give you the heart you need for what is ahead.” He leaned forward, and I could see the glimmer of the floor lamp reflecting in his dark eyes. “I am a very dangerous man, but you are far more dangerous than I. I have only given a sliver of my heart away, whereas you have given so much; you must go after and retrieve that which will make it whole.”
“I—”
“Do not interrupt. There is one more thing which makes you absolutely dangerous—you have nothing to lose.”
I glanced toward Lola’s door.
“That is mine to protect, and you must trust in my ability to take care of her while you do what needs to be done. It will be contrary to many of the things you have come to believe, but you must cast them aside and become the furious warrior I know you to be.”
I nodded; there was nothing to be said.
“I will leave you to these thoughts and your memories of that younger man. If you search long enough you will find him—or better yet, he will find you.” He stood, placing a hand on my shoulder and squeezing until it hurt, then he let go and disappeared into the room where the sliver of his heart lay.
I stood and walked to the front door, opened it, and looked at Victoria Moretti’s silhouette. She was leaning on one of the railings with a blanket wrapped around her. “Do you guys ever shut up?”
I stepped out and joined her. “All quiet on the western front?”
“It gets much colder, and I’m shooting somebody just so I can come inside.”
“Seen anybody to shoot?”
“No, which is why I’m still out here.”
“Go inside and get some sleep.”
She nodded and started to go but then stopped. “He’s right, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re going to have to kill him.” She walked on, and I listened as the door quietly closed behind me.
I don’t know how long I stood there looking at the alley, and I wasn’t even aware of pulling the Colt .45 semiautomatic from the small of my back and holding it up in the mild glow of the streetlights. The metal gleamed, reflections racing up and down the slide mechanism, and the stag grips undulating with the ridges of the elk antlers, almost as if the weapon were breathing.
I leaned forward and placed it carefully on the railing, not trusting having it in my hand at that moment.
I thought about my wife, and then I thought about my daughter.
Picking the 1911A1 up again, I punched the button and dropped the magazine in my other hand and then pulled the slide, launching a round into the air and catching it. Then I sat on the railing and began thumbing each round, lining them up like soldiers on the flat surface of the redwood.
I pulled the tattered old buckaroo scarf from my jacket pocket and spread it out.
With my thumb I pressed in on the knurled end of my Colt, at the same time rotating the barrel bushing a quarter turn clockwise to free the plug and recoil assembly. I removed the assembly and then rotated the plug in a counterclockwise direction, freeing it from the recoil spring.
My hands began operating on their own, disengaging themselves from my mind, my fi
ngers dancing without any conscious thought. I rotated the barrel bushing counterclockwise, disengaging it from the slide, and continued disassembling the Colt without even looking at it.
Carefully, I polished the surfaces with the scarf and then set about reassembling the sidearm. When I finished, I started the process all over again, and then again, and again.
I don’t know how many times I did it, but my hands didn’t get tired, and every time the action became faster, almost to the point where I couldn’t follow it with my eyes in the half dark.
I finally began feeding the rounds back in the magazine, then slapped it home and jacked the slide mechanism back, holding it at inspection arms. I stood there in the two-handed grip as I thumbed the lever, and the thing slid home with a menacing click, the hammer hanging back like a fang.
I carefully folded the bandanna and tucked it back in my jacket. I stood there with the battle-ready pistol hanging from my hand, allowing the energy to seep into my limbs and mind, thinking about the things I was going to have to do.
I went inside to find Vic asleep on the sofa and sat on one of the overstuffed chairs with the .45 on my knee.
Tomorrow would be the beginning of a quest, but for now the sky was still dark. I wanted morning, but I wasn’t going to get it anytime soon, so I did what soldiers had always done—I drew the darkness closer and rested.
Then there was a noise, the sound of weight being distributed on the balcony outside.
My hand came to rest on the pistol.
I waited, but there was no more noise.
Carefully, I uncoiled from the chair, the air sucking back into the cushions like the furniture was attempting to hold its breath. I pivoted toward the deck with the .45 in front of me like an antenna. It was still dark, but with the streetlights, I could see two people ducking down the steps.
Vic was sitting up with her Glock aimed toward the door, and I’d just started for the bedroom when I noticed that Henry Standing Bear, Headsman of the Dog Soldier Society, Bear Clan, had filled the opening.
The Western Star Page 23