Dead aim, p.17
Dead Aim, page 17
“What about the money?” Nicole wondered.
“If they killed Paul, then they probably kept the money.”
“I hope they killed him,” she said. But she didn’t mean it. She tensed and then excused herself to work on the dishes. I was about to object when Lyel gave me one of his all-knowing looks that told me to leave her alone.
“I’d like to get a look inside those barns,” he said.
“You and me both.”
“You and me together,” he suggested.
“Tonight?”
“It may be our last chance if you’re right about Hudson telling them to shut it down.”
I looked over at Nicole. Lyel knew what I was thinking. He raised his eyebrows, asking me which it was going to be.
“You’ll need dark clothes,” I said.
He stood. “I’ll ride with you.”
I nodded.
“Thanks for dinner,” he said. He walked over to Nicole, who was just finishing up at the sink. She looked so tiny next to him. He took her by the shoulders from behind, leaned forward and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. I admired the innocence of the kiss for some reason. She brushed cheeks with him in response. “Nice meeting you,” he told her.
Chapter 24
Lyel wore a black windbreaker. “How’s she doing?” he asked. “It’s beginning to sink in. We were a little rough on her, I think.”
“We have to prepare her for the possibility he’s dead. I’m sure he is. In the long run it’ll be easier on her.”
“I’ve been doing that. Still…” I didn’t know what to say.
“Have you slept with her?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I could feel it. Unfortunately it felt like a form of tension. Do her a favor. Don’t sleep with her again. Not now. It’ll only confuse her more. Besides, she could direct some of the blame over to you if she looks at it the wrong way. No sense in ruining something before it’s started.”
“I love her. I think I love her.”
“Yes, I know that much. In all the years we’ve run around I’ve never seen you quite like this.”
“Like what?”
“You ogle.”
“Do I?”
“And I even felt some jealousy out on the porch.”
“Guilty.”
“I was flattered. Have I ever stolen a girl from you?”
“No.”
“Would I?”
“I don’t think so. But stranger things have happened, right?”
“I chase eighteen-year-olds around the warm-up huts on the mountain. I watch them work out at the club. I surround myself with youth, focusing on the impracticably of companionship.”
“But you want it, don’t you?”
“No. The dirty laundry I can do without. I’m too set in my ways, I’m afraid. I look at them. They humor me. Once in a great while I drink too much and find myself wrapped up with one. It’s different for me than with you.”
“You have more women friends than any man I’ve ever met.”
“They know I’m harmless.”
“Bullshit. You’re much too big to be harmless. People like you are rarely harmless.”
“I project a sexual neutrality that the young ones find attractive. They’re used to the pimple-faced ones with bones in their crotch chasing them out onto the dance floor for a slow grind. They tire of it. I offer them the chance of a lifetime: a discussion. Conversation. They warm up to me quickly.”
“Sexual neutrality?”
“Just a term.”
“Don’t kid yourself.”
“I try not to.”
“I think they find you a curious phenomenon, a sort of hyperthyroid teddy bear with brains and a knack for language. You’re the only writer I know with an MBA.”
“Privileged information, Klick. If word of that got out, I might never see another Danskin again.”
“You’re a strange duck, my friend.”
“Yes. Quack, quack.”
We rode in silence for a few minutes. The phone poles on Pole Road clipped by like the uneven frames of a silent movie. A gray mouse darted across the road.
Lyel said, “I wonder what the world looks like through his eyes. Can you imagine what this truck must look like, barreling down on him, how its wind must feel on his back, how loud the engine must ring in his ears?”
“The mice never pause to look. Not like other animals. They rush straight across as fast as they can run. I think somehow they know they’ve got trouble. They have a brain smaller than a snow pea and yet they seem to know instinctively that if they pause to look, they’ll be dead. Maybe their eyes are different. Maybe that’s why they don’t freeze in the light like other animals.”
“Perhaps they’re running blind, totally blind. Perhaps they run flat out until they strike something.”
“It’s a thought,” I said. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“You always were fast.”
“I’m listening.”
“We’re running a little blind ourselves, Klick. We don’t want to make any assumptions without something to back it up. We also don’t want to run so fast that we strike something and hurt ourselves.”
“You’re worried about this.”
“I don’t like the description of the brothers. I prefer it when we’re bigger than our opponents. I’d prefer Denver over Atlantic City, if you’ll recall.”
“Those suckers were big in Atlantic City.” I grinned.
“I didn’t enjoy that.”
“Nor did I.”
“Prudence is in order here, I think. We should proceed cautiously. If we happen to have guessed correctly, then they have a lot to lose.”
“A point well taken. So I’ll go in alone. You’ll remain behind as backup. If I mess it up, you can make a quick decision whether to attempt to help or head off for reinforcements.”
“Who would I call on? Sheriff Hudson perhaps. They would certainly appreciate that.”
“George Blokowski, DEA. If you can find Debbie Benton, Blokowski won’t be far behind. He’s the only one I’d trust right now.”
“Okay.”
“He drives a white pickup with Nevada plates.”
“Did you happen to bring a gun?”
“I brought us both guns. I brought bolt cutters, too.”
“This is a lousy business, Klick.”
“Yup.”
“I prefer girl-watching.”
“You and me both.”
***
Although I knew it would take longer, I parked at the abandoned mine and decided we would circle all the way around the far side of the ranch, remaining hidden by the ridge. I had been spotted from the other side, and this was too far away and too much country to patrol effectively. We had a good cloud cover overhead. We moved north-northeast for about fifteen minutes. I stayed in the lead and I stopped us two or three times a minute to listen. I read once that lions hunt with their ears—their night vision is horrible—and ever since I have done so as well. It requires this frequent stop-and-go procedure, but more than once it has paid off. Lyel was accustomed to it from other outings with me. He followed my lead well. Thirty minutes later we began to round to the west as we curved along the rim of the bowl-like ridge that contained the Sweetland ranch. We crossed through several fences, though we didn’t come upon any livestock. Twice we reconnoitered our position from the top of the ridge; we were drawing steadily closer to the compound and the backside of the two huge barns. Fifteen minutes later we were right above them.
Lyel handed me the bolt cutters and, tapping his wrist, told me that he would give me ten minutes. If I wasn’t in sight after that amount of time he would either leave for help or come get me, depending on the situation. I nodded as his big hands flashed ten at me. I felt for the gun in the small of my back and slipped over the crest of the ridge, descending the broken-rock face slowly and quietly. It was too dark to spot a sentry, and that bothered me. It’s much easier to move when you know the position of your opponent. I crossed silently through two corrals. In the second, a pair of mares slept on their feet in the corner, not bothered by my presence. I didn’t need the bolt cutters; the big sliding door on the back of the barn was cracked open slightly, enough for a man to walk through. I stepped inside and pressed myself up against the wall, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
There were six stalls straight ahead on my left, three of which each contained a pretty, young thoroughbred. A post-and-rail fence separated this area from the open center of the barn. At the far end I spotted two doors. The inside arena was large enough to work horses. Large funnel-shaped overhead lights were suspended at regular intervals. My heart was pounding with adrenaline and the dispirited coolness of failure passed through me. I was ready to leave when I noticed that the lights were attached to a flat ceiling. It meant the barn had a hayloft. In the darkness I looked for evidence of a ladder leading up to the loft and saw none. I couldn’t see any way to get the hay down into the stall area either. I walked slowly down the aisle, studying the ceiling overhead. Halfway down the aisle I noticed the outline of the trapdoor that would allow bales to be thrown down from above, but searching the floor I saw no evidence of fresh hay indicating the trapdoor had been used recently. I remembered from my previous visit a haystack near the paddocks. Its presence implied the barn’s hayloft was not being used. At least not for hay.
Unable to locate an access to the loft, I decided to try the doors. I opened the door to the first room and I could smell the rich leather and saddle soap mixed with the heavy animal odor. The tack room. I had fond memories associated with these smells, and for a moment I stood charmed by them. No way up from this room either.
I closed the door carefully and moved on to the next room. It was locked. In my experience with barns and ranches, it was tack rooms that were locked, and only then rarely. Tack is expensive and easily stolen. More often than not, trophies are kept in with the tack. But the tack room was unlocked, so why was this one locked? I returned to the tack room and looked for and found the small refrigerator that kept various drugs and medicines cool. For a moment I had thought that perhaps the other room was locked to restrict access to the medicines, but this was obviously not the case. Then why lock it? I was frustrated to be denied entrance to the room. For a moment I debated putting a shoulder to it. But that would hardly do. It would make a racket and leave behind evidence of my visit.
On my way out I passed below the trapdoor and it gave me an idea. I scrambled up the side of a stall and I could easily reach the ceiling. I leaned out and pushed against the trapdoor and it moved. It wasn’t locked. It was heavier than I had expected—something had to be resting on it. I heaved against it and managed to open it about an inch before its weight overpowered me. I didn’t get a look at anything. I didn’t see row after row of mature pot plants. I didn’t see the clever lighting arrangement that provided grow lights for each of the plants. I didn’t have to. I could smell the thick, pungent, skunk-like odor of fresh pot. I felt triumphant. Evidence that supported one of our theories. The Sweetlands were not just horse ranchers.
I jumped down and hurried to the far end of the barn and finally out the door into the corral. I spotted the electric box at the far corner and headed directly over to it. Two additional pieces of Romex had been cut into the box. They were crudely tacked to the outside of the barn and ran overhead, disappearing at loft level. I popped open the fuse box. By the color of the plastic I could tell that three 40-amp breakers had been added recently. It was further proof.
I heard the footsteps to my right and immediately pushed up against the rough lumber of the barn. A heavyset man came out of the barn, looked directly at me, then the other way, and paused. I heard him fish out a pack of cigarettes and when he struck his lighter I saw the angry, garish face of Larry Sweetland. He was no longer wearing the fancy belt buckle or shiny boots. He was even bigger than I remembered him, and he seemed solid. It had been Larry who had been banging the young girl on my last visit, and I remembered that now and wanted to hurt him. He stood there smoking his cigarette, not twenty feet away. Then I noticed the bolt cutters. I had leaned them up against the wall. They were directly behind him, and as he backed up to rest against the barn to smoke his cigarette, they were between his calves and the wall, only inches away. I wanted to reach out and grab them. I wanted to move him away from them. How much longer could he stand there and not notice them? He lifted his foot and placed the sole of his boot against the building, barely missing the bolt cutters. Then I saw them move slightly. They shifted to the right and slipped silently along the wall. They stopped. The big man continued to smoke the cigarette. Again he looked directly at me and didn’t see me. I must have looked like a shadow against the wall, partially hidden by the electrical junction box. His eyes had been affected by the flame from the lighter, and remained unadjusted to the darkness because of his attention on the cigarette’s orange ember.
Then the bolt cutters fell over and thumped to the ground. He jumped and looked back at them. At first I think he mistook them for a neglected farm tool, for he kicked them and leaned back against the wall. But then he seemed to reconsider and he turned to have a look. He reached out and touched them, and I saw his recognition of what their function was in the sudden stiffness with which he carried himself. His head moved in little jerks, first toward me, then toward the other side of the barn. He stood up and hurried inside the barn.
I ran to the doorway and heard him run and stop at the far door that I had found locked. He unlocked it and hurried inside. I could hear him climbing a ladder, heard a board move, and then, a few seconds later when he turned on the lights, I could see two thin gaps in the ceiling where light now trickled through. I heard his footsteps at the far end of the hayloft.
I debated taking the bolt cutters with me—I wasn’t worried about prints, I was wearing thin gloves—but decided to leave them. If I removed them, it might alert the man to my immediate proximity. If I left them, there was no telling what his reaction might be, but there was a chance that I would buy Lyel and myself an extra few minutes. If they pursued us on horseback, we would need every bit of a head start we could muster.
I cut through the two corrals quickly and in doing so I startled the two mares, which I had forgotten about. I stayed as low as I could and still run effectively. With my size that wasn’t very low and I knew it. I paused twice to have a look. The first time I stopped, Larry Sweetland wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The second time, I could just barely make him out at the doorway. That meant he could just barely make me out as well. The sage grew thicker and taller on the slope and helped to hide me better. As I crested the ridge, Lyel said in a whisper, “What happened?”
“The bolt cutters,” I explained, moving past him and down the other side quickly.
Thirty minutes later we were back in the truck, headlights out, cruising very slowly through the darkness toward Pole Road. I turned left, electing to take the long way home in case they had driven to the end of their road and were waiting for us.
By the time I got home, Nicole was in her room, fast asleep.
Chapter 25
I woke up late. Nicole was out for a run, having left behind a note signed with a stick figure taking a long stride. Hot coffee was waiting. I poured a cup and fixed myself a bowl of GrapeNuts. I don’t take a morning paper. The regional papers are too poorly written for my tastes, and the national papers arrive by mail three days late. I read Time, turning to “People” first.
She was out there running somewhere, and she was all I could think of. My infatuation was quickly turning into a problem. I was too far gone, and we both knew it. She had cooled noticeably, preparing me, I feared. I experienced that sickening, hollow feeling of grief. I was about to lose her and I wasn’t sure why. Had I been too honest too quickly? It is something I’m famous for.
Time provided no diversion. The photographs of the swells and the glamorous did nothing to distract me as they sometimes do. I found myself substituting Nicole’s face for the women. Here she was a princess on the arm of a prince, here a motion-picture queen, here a best-selling author of romantic intrigue, and here a star athlete competing for a place on the US Olympic team. I tried to isolate my insecurity, tried to think it through rationally. She had come to me the night before. Had I misunderstood everything? Had she been waiting for me to return the interest last night? Was I really vain enough to think she would come to me two nights in a row? Was this horrible feeling driven by sexual frustration or had I sensed in her a reluctance to allow our partnership a chance to evolve?
I ate only half the cereal. I rinsed the bowl and placed it in the dishwasher and poured myself another cup. I knew I should have been focusing on “Red” Clay, on Sheriff Dean Hudson, on the Sweetland brothers and on my findings of the night before. So I pushed the Nicole matter out of my mind temporarily, though I continued to anticipate her return, and tried to think what my next logical step was.
Lyel stopped by his guest house. He looked the part of the country gentleman, only he was far too big. He said, “It has just occurred to me that the discovery of the bolt cutters may prompt a speedy reorganization out at the Sweetland ranch. It is my recommendation that I conduct some reconnaissance in the back country on horseback in an effort to confirm or disprove our suspicions.”
“Not such a good idea, friend—”
“They don’t know me from Adam,” he said, interrupting.
“That’s not the point. The point is that if you happen to see something, and they happen to see you, there’s a good chance they would kill you without asking any questions.”
“Point well taken. Another idea then.”
“Yes?”
“Tim could take me up in a glider. He can keep that thing aloft for hours, and it’s completely silent from the ground. Even if they spot us, the last thing they would think is that I’m spying on them.”
