From A Dead Sleep

by John A. Daly

  “Don’t,” he said again, shaking his head.

  A growing wet spot was spreading out quickly from the crotch of Tony’s pants.

  A monochrome blue Michigan Highway Patrol car with a sapphire shield painted proudly across the driver’s side door screeched to a halt behind the Volvo.

  Sean heard a door quickly open and the brisk shuffle of feet before a loud male voice shouted the words, “Freeze! Drop the gun!”

  It was a dangerous game for Sean to play, but he wanted the Vegas hood to question up until the very last second whether he would comply with the officer’s command. He ignored the lawman’s repeated calls until another car of the same make pulled up. Only then did Sean let his piece drop from his hand and to the ground. With his eyes still on Tony, Sean’s lips curled and he slowly placed his hands behind his head and interlaced his fingers.

  Lisa was with the officers. Sean could hear her impassioned defense of him and her calls for calmness as he was drawn down to his chest by two men in uniforms with a third barking commands at Tony.

  “They’re still in Colorado, Lisa!” Sean yelled over his rights being read to him. “Call Lumbergh! Tell him they’re with Ray Sarno!”

  Oldhorse raised his calloused hand to his forehead, which beaded with shimmering sweat under the relentless sun. A passing shadow from above had drawn his attention from the trace evidence of the four men who’d frenziedly raced through the woods days earlier. The shadow had been cast by a hovering bird whose wide wingspan and posture had deemed it significant among the others that meandered in and out of the treetops. It was a turkey vulture that he had quickly identified by its bald, red head. He watched it glide from sight behind a rummage of needled treetops. He kept his gaze trained on the sky, watching for any company. He quickly found it in the appearance of a second vulture of the same species. They were low, and they were circling.

  He hurried in the direction of the scavengers, weaving in and out of imposing trees whose low branches he ducked. In patches that were less dense with growth, he looked to the sky and spotted a third vulture in tow. Something had certainly caught their attention.

  He leaped over a downed tree and found himself in an area of open ground that was bone dry from its unobstructed exposure. A fourth vulture was consumed with a pile of detached branches along the forest floor. The forager poked and prodded at something beneath it with its sharp, cone-like beak. When he approached, the bird danced away but didn’t take flight. He understood why when the rank stench of death filled his nose. It was strong, and he was expecting to uncover the decaying carcass of a deer until the peeling back of the branches revealed a more familiar, distinguishing odor that he had experienced a couple times overseas.

  It poured out from between the wooden planks that covered an old, brick water well. The planks had already been pried loose from the frame of the well so they came up without much effort. The reeking stench intensified greatly at the removal of the wood, and Oldhorse breathed through his mouth. The inside of the well was deep and dark, and the bottom could not be seen.

  He dug into his pack for a book of matches and found one. He pulled a single match loose and lit the heads of the remaining matches before dropping the entire book into the shaft. He watched the flickering flame float slowly downward in a soft, spiraling motion before it eventually came to rest on the bottom.

  He knelt down and adjusted his eyes while the distant flame lit up the sides of the well’s brick walls. After a moment or two, the exposed tips of a set of human fingers revealed themselves, and the vultures above cackled with envy.

  Chapter 50

  Lumbergh allowed a great deal of distance between himself and the Cadillac. Even though his Jeep didn’t bear any obvious markings to identify himself as a law enforcement officer, he didn’t want the presence of the large spotlight mounted on the side of his car to invite any suspicions. He continually reminded himself that in all likelihood, the person behind the wheel hadn’t a thing to do with any of the crimes that had plagued the area in recent days, but a nagging fluttering at the pit of his gut told him that his pursuit was worth the effort. That feeling was the same fire in his belly that drove him to great achievements when he worked in Chicago. It wasn’t something he could easily verbalize, but its presence was unmistakable.

  While his controlling nature pled with him to return to his office in Winston and sync up with the FBI, his old-school investigative instincts urged him on. From his glove box, he snagged a compact pair of binoculars given to him by Diana as a gift shortly after they moved to Winston. A straight stretch of road had given him the opportunity for a closer look without closing the gap between the two cars. The strap from the binoculars dangled against his chin as he gleamed through its eye-cups. His aim bobbled until he had his sights set on the license plate. He mouthed the combination of three digits and three letters repeatedly to remember them, then lowered the binoculars to the side console and pulled his radio receiver to his lips. It took him only a few seconds to get Jefferson responding.

  “Jefferson, when you were talking to the Feds, did you get the sense that they were inclined to be helpful on this matter?”

  “I think so, Chief,” the officer replied. “I don’t think they were taking too kindly to someone posing as one of them.”

  “Good. Call them back. Get the same person you talked to before. Ask them to run a Nevada plate for me: 742-GFA. You got that?”

  “Yep. Will do.”

  “Anything more from Sean or the Traverse City police?”

  “Nothing from Sean. The police have been dispatched to the address, but they haven’t gotten back to me with any info yet.”

  Lumbergh shook his head. “You’ve got to stay on those people, Jefferson. If you don’t hear back from them in fifteen minutes, you call them. It’s important.”

  “I will. Are you gonna be back soon?”

  Lumbergh hesitated before answering. “In a little bit. I just need to check on something first. Let me know as soon as you hear back from anybody, okay?”

  Jefferson acknowledged the request before signing off. No sooner did Lumbergh get off the broadcast with his officer than the white Cadillac flipped on its right blinker. Lumbergh tapped on his brakes until he watched the car disappear down a dirt side road. Temple Trail. Lumbergh had never been up the road as it fell outside of his jurisdiction, but he knew that a lot of the mountainous property it crossed was owned by a couple of Lakeland’s more successful businessmen. He wasn’t familiar with the men personally, but he’d heard people in town talking about how the two had been smart enough to snatch the land up at a time when nearby Lakeland was struggling financially, back before the legalized gambling boom launched off some major economic growth. They apparently got it at a steal. It wasn’t clear if the two were associates or just like-minded opportunists.

  The Cadillac’s change in direction discouraged Lumbergh a bit. If there was any reasonable explanation for an expensive, out-of-state car to be passing through these parts, it would have been as a visiting guest of one of the rich businessmen. Still, the pursuit was worth following. He slowed down and made the same turn.

  It wasn’t hard for him to keep out of sight of the Cadillac. There wasn’t much in the form of wind, so the lingering dust trail left by the car hovered long enough to make it the only visual he required. Every quarter mile or so, he would see a black and orange “No Trespassing” sign protruding from the bark of a tree. They served as reminders of how remote and isolated the surrounding area was. A few miles in, he noticed that the dust trail was beginning to thin out, and he feared the Cadillac was pulling away from him at a faster pace.

  He narrowed the distance between his gas pedal and the floor to try and keep up. His decision proved detrimental when he rounded the crest of some low-hanging birch trees and suddenly found himself cast into a totally exposed, large clearing of open land. Greenery and timber no longer provided concealment, and the sight of a broad, stately home made mostly of wood stood prou
dly along the slope of a mild hill. Its gravel driveway proved to be the only outlet of the long, winding road he’d traveled. The Cadillac was pulling up toward the open garage door when it slid to a halt just shy of the overhanging archway above the building. The driver had apparently taken notice of the unfamiliar Jeep and wasn’t sure what to make of the unexpected visitor.

  “Shit,” moaned Lumbergh who eased his speed and reached for his radio. “Jefferson? Do you have a make on that license plate yet?”

  His answer was nothing but faint static. “Jefferson, this is the chief, come back.”

  Still no response.

  He sighed in annoyance and decided that the best course of action was to play things cool. After all, he had little to go on besides curiosity and his gut. There was no sense in jumping any further toward a conclusion until he got a feel for who was driving the Cadillac. He was also out of his jurisdiction. He technically had no claim to conduct town business there without the permission of the Lakeland P.D., although he was certain he could get it if needed. For now, he would play things casual.

  He pulled over to the edge of the road, stopping short of the driveway. He was careful not to block the driveway so as not to appear threatening. He sat in his car for a moment, taking notice that the driver had not yet exited his car, nor had he even turned off the engine. Lumbergh found it suspicious but not enough to alter his approach. He watched through the deeply shaded back window of the Cadillac and was sure he could make out only the outline of the driver and no one else. The brake lights were still illuminated. The driver had yet to put the car in park.

  Lumbergh twisted his key in the ignition and let the Jeep’s engine die. He stepped outside, with the cuffs of his pleated pants falling below his ankles when he stood up straight. His holster and its firearm were exposed for the driver to see along with the police badge that hung confidently from his shirt pocket. He raised his open hand in the air in greeting and managed to form a wide, inviting grin.

  He wasn’t but a few steps up the driveway before he noticed a second car nestled under the shade of the interior of the garage. It was a late ’90s Buick. A dark sedan. Nevada plates as well.

  His grin dissipated. His body froze. Just then, a door along the wall that bordered the rest of the house swung open loudly from inside the garage and a large, dark figure of a man emerged. He walked purposefully out into the driveway with the boldness of a military tank, his broad shoulders resembling two turrets. When the sunlight fell on his glasses and his thick head of sinuous, silver hair, Lumbergh’s heart stopped. The chief immediately reached for his sidearm, but just as his hand clasped the grip of his Glock, the giant man’s arm raised stiffly and steadily like an opening security gate, and with it an AK-47 machine gun. Its controlled blast screamed out a hail of bullet fire that shattered the tranquility of the surrounding forest along with Lumbergh’s upper chest and shoulder.

  He howled from the wrenching pain that tore through his body and fell awkwardly backwards to the unforgiving gravel road. Through some miracle, he managed to hold onto his gun. His uninjured limb clung to it out of pure impulse. Wincing through dust from his fall, he spewed a sick grunt between his numb lips and raised his arm, squeezing off two rounds toward his attacker. He didn’t wait to see if they connected, and instead spun his body along the ground so he was facing his Jeep. He was grossly outgunned, but fierce adrenaline pushed him forward on his knees. He scrambled to the other side of the Jeep before his dead arm collapsed under him and he fell to his chest. He rolled again to escape his attacker’s line of fire but a second barrage of automatic gunfire pummeled the hood and grill of the Cherokee. Shards of splintering metal sprayed into the air. A sharp gust of pressure jetted into his waist before the frame of the Jeep drooped cockeyed from a blown-out tire.

  Lumbergh could hear the roar of an engine and punching of rock on dirt before the Cadillac rammed the front of the Jeep in reverse. The fender from the passenger side of the Jeep smashed against his decimated shoulder and his skull, sending his body barreling into the center of the road. His head buzzed like a fire-drill siren and his tight stomach nearly forced him to vomit. The wild move from the driver of the Cadillac didn’t seem intended to take out Lumbergh, but was a desperate means of escaping from the ensuing fire fight. The driver popped the transmission and sped past Lumbergh who was left with barely enough awareness to crawl out of the car’s way.

  Lumbergh found himself at the backside of his Jeep. With a moment of temporary cover from the man with the silver hair, he fired a couple of rounds into the backside of the Cadillac, leaving a charred hole at the center of its back window along its trunk. It continued back down the road it had driven up just a minute earlier, weaving wildly at the hands of the panicked driver.

  Lumbergh knew to let it escape. Saving his own ass was the only effort that mattered.

  His mangled shoulder was coated with blood, and the small rocks and dirt that clung to it resembled the sprinkled nuts on a caramel apple. He didn’t know the extent of his injury, only that the ripped flesh around it felt like it was on fire. By the way his shoulder drooped at a sharp angle, he was sure it was dislocated. It was the least of his problems at that very moment.

  He went as flat as possible to the ground, sprawling out on his chest and peering out from under his Jeep the best he could. He didn’t see the feet of his attacker. He craned his head around the taillight closest to the house and immediately saw flames of gunfire spreading out from behind the cobblestone corner of the garage. He dropped down to his butt and the imploding sound of incoming lead rippled across the land while his Jeep bore the brunt of more punishment.

  Almost hyperventilating through a grimace of fear and agony, he verbally calmed himself down to clear his head. He dropped to his side and awkwardly pulled himself along the ground toward the passenger side of the car. With his knees and a single forearm propping him up as he crawled, he resembled a miller moth with a missing wing trying unsuccessfully to take flight.

  He desperately needed backup, and he knew if he could get to his radio, he could call for help. It was a tall order. The garage of the house was on an incline, overlooking his Jeep. The man with silver hair could fire through the driver’s side window if he saw Lumbergh try to slide in along the passenger seat. The chief was pinned down.

  “Just one of you?” he heard his assailant yell out, almost in morbid amusement. The attacker’s voice was deep and hollow above Lumbergh’s heavy breathing and a hint of an accent could be heard. “I know you hillbilly hicks aren’t used to a lot of action, but this is a goddamned insult!”

  Lumbergh knew what the man was capable of, as evidenced by the two dead men he’d left behind at Sean’s place. But this twisted taunt proved to the chief the man was a pure sadist—someone who enjoyed violence and relished his participation in it.

  “Who gave it up?” the man yelled. “Was it Valentino? Is that prick even alive? If he is, I lost fifty bucks!”

  Lumbergh rested his head against the Jeep door and peered into the passenger mirror. He could see the distant image of the corner of the garage where the tall man had his back pressed up against it. He wore a dark blue jacket that deviated enough from the color of the forest to keep him from camouflaging in with the brushwood behind him.

  When he noticed the man’s arms working in feverish movement, he realized that he was in the process of reloading his weapon. The rhetoric coming from the man with the silver hair was a distraction to buy some time.

  Lumbergh managed to swallow through his dry throat and pulled himself up to his tottering feet before laying his arm across the warm hood of the Jeep. He took aim and fired at his assailant. Four rounds were let loose, but the man saw the offense coming and pivoted around the corner of the wall before the first one ever reached him. Gray dust clouded the air as a couple of the bullets ricocheted off of the wall where he took refuge.

  Lumbergh tucked himself back down as a hail of gunfire was returned. Glass shattered above him from th
e demolition of the side window and much of the jagged shards dropped across his thin shoulders. The offense was overwhelming and he knew that if he couldn’t get inside his Jeep to retrieve a second magazine for his Glock, he had only six or seven rounds left. His heart pounded his chest and his mind raced in a thousand directions, searching for an idea that would get him through this alive.

  A break in the gunfire let the chief hear an abrupt flash of static from his radio inside the Jeep. It was Jefferson trying to reach him, calling the chief ’s handle. A few seconds later, he tried again.

  “Just heard back from Sean, Chief. Got a lot of news. Come back.”

  The cursory though excited tone in the officer’s voice signaled that he hadn’t a clue of the dire situation his boss was in, which made sense, but drew a discouraged exhale from Lumbergh. With a sweat-laced wince folded across his face, he knew that with Jefferson in front of the radio back at the office, all it would take was a quick transmission to let him know where he was and that he needed help. In a mere minute his officer could have Lakeland officers on route. Without more ammo though, he wouldn’t last that long.

  He checked the mirror again and saw that the man with the silver hair was perched up on one knee beside the garage, lying in wait for him to make a move. He noticed what looked like a blood stain along the man’s thigh and realized that one of his initial shots had connected. It explained why the man hadn’t been able to finish him off from the onset.

  “Are you Moretti?” he yelled in hopes of breaking some of his attacker’s focus. “Or is he the pussy who took off in the Cadillac?”

  While he spoke, he stuck his Glock between his knees and raised his good arm to pry his fingers under the handle of the passenger door. He carefully lifted up on it and felt the hinges give.