Dark Sky, page 15
part #21 of Joe Pickett Series
He froze in place about two hundred yards from the ranch when the hairs on the back of his neck and on his forearms pricked up. He knew instinctively he was being observed. Nate slipped his weapon out of the holster and smoothly thumbed the hammer back.
Then the cow moose stepped out from her shelter of brush, snorted, and pushed her way into the heavier willows ahead of her. He gave it a full minute to see if there was a calf with her. If so, he didn’t want to get between them. When there wasn’t, he lowered the gun alongside his thigh and continued on.
The buildings of the ranch appeared in the snow as he got closer. There was a two-story house that might have served as a residence at one time and it was flanked on both sides by two rows of small cabins, three to a side. By the look of the identical construction of the cabins, Nate guessed the facility had once been a rustic dude ranch or a hunting lodge. There were gaping holes in some of the cabin roofs, as well as collapsed porches and broken windows. None looked occupied, and he could see no parked vehicles anywhere.
He ducked behind a large sagging barn that blocked him from the main lodge and the cabins. The slats covering the barn were silver with age and there were gaps between the planks. Nate shadowed his eyes and peered through one of the gaps in the siding.
Inside the barn on a mat of old hay were small portable wire dog crates. He could smell the sharp presence of falcons from the spatters of white excrement beneath the cages.
“Bastard,” he whispered.
Nate found an open side door and slipped inside. Snow hung in the air like powdered sugar. He squatted down in front of the row of cages: a yearling peregrine, a red-tailed hawk, two prairie falcons, and, alone in the largest crate, a pure-white gyrfalcon. All were blinded with leather masks. Leather jesses had been attached to the talons of all of the birds and tied to the wire mesh of the cages so there was no way they could escape. To Nate’s eye, the gyr looked either sickly or injured. He confirmed that suspicion by leaning down close to the cage and noting horizontal stress lines on its tail feathers.
Gyrs were notoriously fragile and emotional, he knew. Especially after they’d been captured.
He could see by the tufts of brown hair and bone slivers on the hay beneath the crates that the birds had eaten recently. The falcons’ gullets bulged from the meal, except for the gyr.
Nate noted several boxes stacked near the horse stalls. He recognized the boxes as being similar to what Dusty Tuckness used to crate up his prairie dogs. Sheridan had returned to the van with one earlier.
Next to the falcons were six empty crates. Wagy was still in the act of gathering up more birds, Nate thought.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly in a cold rage. He wondered how many young birds had been injured or had died and had not been transported to the barn. He was looking at the entire generation from his bluff. All of them were caged and in the possession of the worst kind of outlaw.
The falcons and hawks were destined, no doubt, for buyers employed by Middle Eastern royalty.
* * *
—
On his way to the back door of the house, Nate snatched a pitchfork from where it leaned against the doorframe. The handle was cracked and weathered. The three thin prongs looked rusted but sharp.
He stepped onto the broken concrete porch and tried the doorknob. It turned and he eased it open. He was met with a wash of warm air and marijuana smoke from inside. Of course, he thought, they were from Colorado.
With his cocked revolver in his right hand and the pitchfork in the other, he paused and looked and listened. The kitchen was from the 1970s: linoleum floor, rounded white appliances, pink cabinets. The sink was stacked with dirty dishes and the counters littered with fast-food bags, empty beer bottles, and a nearly empty half gallon of Jim Beam. He wondered if the lodge was rented from the owner or simply occupied by a squatter. The latter, he guessed.
Nate padded through the kitchen into a narrow hallway. The walls were covered with faded and crooked sporting prints that looked like they’d been torn from hunting magazines and cheaply framed. So, he thought, it had been a hunting lodge at one time.
He could hear murmuring ahead and moved slowly with his gun at his side, ready to swing up and take aim.
The living room was separated from the hallway by a cheap beaded curtain. He hoped it wouldn’t rattle when he pushed his way through, so he did it in slow motion.
The murmuring was coming from the screen of an ancient television mounted in a console. There was a snowy picture on it and the audio was tinny. Cartoons were playing.
A man with shaggy hair sat with his back to Nate in an overstuffed sofa, watching the set. Sharp-smelling weed wafted up from where he sat. Next to a saucer filled with cigarette butts on the end table under the arm of the sofa was a semiautomatic handgun. The weapon was an arm’s length away from the man on the couch.
Nate stopped still just a few feet behind the sofa, listening. If there was anyone else inside, they were away in another room and completely quiet. Because there hadn’t been a vehicle outside, he guessed that the shaggy-haired man was the only person inside.
As he moved close to the back of the couch, the man apparently heard him and turned around and looked over his shoulder. His eyes got big.
“Don’t move,” Nate said.
The man ignored him and prepared to lurch for the handgun.
Nate raised the pitchfork like a spear and bent over and thrust it down hard in front of the man’s face. The middle tine drove through the man’s boot deep into the wood floor and he screamed. His joint flew out of his mouth and the sparks from the cherry cascaded down his shirt.
The wounded man lunged for the pistol, but the pitchfork held him in place. His fingers stopped six inches short of the handle of the weapon.
Nate wheeled around the sofa and kicked the end table with the weapon away. The pistol skittered across the floor and thumped into the baseboard on the opposite wall. Then he reached out and grasped the man’s ear with his left hand and fitted the hole of the huge muzzle of his .454 onto the tip of the man’s nose.
Tuckness had provided Sheridan with a good description. He wore rumpled black clothing and a black bandana around his neck. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes were glassy from smoking weed. His mouth twisted with pain and anger and he looked like he was trying hard to be defiant.
“Raylan Wagy?” Nate asked.
Wagy’s eyes got big and he tried to jerk his head away. It was held in place by a rough twist of the man’s ear.
“Raylan Wagy?”
“I ain’t done nothing,” Wagy cried.
“Incorrect. You and your partner have broken the falconer’s creed. You’ve fucked with another man’s birds.”
“My foot . . . Oh man, it hurts.”
“Good,” Nate said, releasing Wagy’s ear. “Where’s Axel Soledad?”
At the mention of the name, Wagy’s face turned pale. He was obviously scared of Soledad.
“Where is he?”
When Wagy didn’t answer, Nate reached back down and gave Wagy’s right ear a full half twist. He could hear tendons pop.
Wagy closed his eyes and made a cry that sounded like “Skeeee.” It was otherworldly and birdlike, Nate thought.
“I’ll take it completely off if you don’t answer me,” Nate said softly. “That’s what I do. Do you understand me?”
Wagy nodded emphatically.
“Will he be back soon?” Nate asked.
Wagy shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. He doesn’t always tell me. It depends on whether he finds . . . what he’s looking for.”
“Falcons, you mean,” Nate said.
Wagy nodded.
“Then I’ll wait for him right here,” Nate said. He settled into an armchair across from Wagy and placed his long handgun across his thighs. “You stay right where you are.”
Wagy grunted and chinned toward the pitchfork that held him fast. “It’s rusty. My foot will get infected.”
“Yeah, I know,” Nate said with a cruel grin. “Don’t pull it out. I like it there.”
* * *
—
An hour later, Nate asked Wagy, “What’s antifa?”
“We’re anti-fascists,” Wagy replied. “We fight against racism and capitalism. We fight for social justice against the oppressors.”
“In Denver?” Nate asked.
“Everywhere we find it,” Wagy sniffed.
Nate snorted and said, “Maybe you should get a job. It might take your mind off all the unfairness going on out there.”
Then he felt a series of vibrations, one after the other, from his cell phone in his pocket. Without taking his eyes off Wagy, who was now mumbling to himself with his head in his hands, Nate drew out his device. He hated being a slave to cell phones, but his business and the baby demanded that he have one with him at all times.
There were three texts lined up. One was from Sheridan, one from Marybeth, and one from Liv. They’d obviously conspired, he thought. He could envision the three of them standing shoulder to shoulder, tapping out letters.
Sheridan wrote: My Dad is missing and we can’t reach him. We’re getting worried. Can you please come back?
Before reading further, Nate glanced at Wagy. The man was using the distraction to wrap his fingers around the shaft of the pitchfork to pull it out.
In one motion, Nate grasped his .454, thumbed the hammer, and fired a round next to Wagy’s injured ear. The explosion was like a thunderclap and the force of the big round scared Wagy back into the cushions.
“Oh my God,” Wagy cried. “You nearly killed me!”
“Behave yourself,” Nate said. “Don’t even think of stabbing me with that pitchfork. It’s rusty, you know.”
Wagy groaned.
He read further.
Marybeth wrote: I’ve called Sheriff Tibbs and left messages for him to assemble a search-and-rescue team, but he hasn’t called me back. We can’t wait. We need your help.
Liv wrote: Get your ass home.
* * *
—
All three women in his life were telling him what to do, he thought. He wondered how many years it would take for baby Kestrel to join them as the fourth.
Nate sighed and dutifully stood up. When he did, Wagy recoiled. Blood pooled around Wagy’s boot where the pitchfork held him in place.
“Believe it or not,” Nate said, “it’s your lucky day. I’ve been summoned.”
And with that he walked out through the front door and started hiking toward the Power Wagon. He heard a scream from inside the house as Wagy pulled the pitchfork free.
FIFTEEN
Earl Thomas pulled up on the reins to bring his horse to a halt in the trees at the edge of a large clearing. He placed both of his gloved hands on the horn and leaned forward in the saddle to study the grassy meadow before them.
Tim Joannides sidled up next to him on his horse. He’d been complaining just a few minutes before about how uncomfortable he was and was this snow ever going to let up? His horse had taken on the characteristics of its rider, Earl observed. Nervous, jumpy, twitchy, and annoying. When Joannides asked stupid questions, Earl ignored him. He wasn’t a weatherman.
“What’s going on?” Joannides asked. “Why are we stopping?”
“To take a look ahead.”
Joannides’s saddle creaked as he shifted in order to try and discern what Earl was looking at. His horse shuffled its feet as well, again taking on the tics of the rider.
“I see snow on top of the grass,” Joannides said. “So what?”
Earl gave Joannides a sidewise glance, then turned back to study the clearing. Kirby joined him on the other side, so the three of them were abreast at the edge of the tree line. Brad was behind them, leading the string of packhorses.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Earl asked Kirby.
“I am,” Kirby said.
“What?” Joannides asked impatiently. “What is it you two are seeing? All I see is snow on the top of grass.”
“You already said that,” Earl replied.
“We’ve lost the track,” Kirby explained to Joannides. He did so in the tone of an adult speaking to a small child.
“What? Why do you say that?”
Kirby chinned toward the clearing. “We’ve been following the creek in the timber for a long time where you couldn’t see footprints on account of the hard ground and all the rocks. But anybody can see that no one’s crossed that meadow up ahead. If they did, there would be fresh tracks in the snow.”
“Maybe they went around?”
“Not likely.”
“This is unacceptable,” Joannides fumed. “How could you let this happen?”
Earl turned his most withering deadeye stare on Joannides. It didn’t have the desired effect. Joannides was miffed and apparently wanted it known to all.
“It’s unacceptable, is it?” Earl asked him.
“How could we possibly lose them?” Joannides said, his voice rising with anger and panic. “They were ahead of us. We were right behind them, or so you said. Now they’ve vanished into thin air. I’ve done my job: I delivered him to you. Now you have to do yours.
“Do you realize that with every hour that goes by, more and more ConFab followers will start to talk and wonder why they haven’t heard from Steve-2? The speculation will begin, if it hasn’t already. It’ll become a really big thing in the online world. It’ll be one of the biggest business stories of the fucking year: ConFab Founder Goes Dark.
“Do you realize,” he continued, “what will happen to me if somehow Steve-2 and that game warden make it down the mountain and start talking to the police?”
“Yeah, I think I know,” Earl growled. “But you won’t be the only one in the shit.”
“Except I matter,” Joannides said.
The words just hung there for a moment. Earl felt his face get hot. He could sense a certain stillness in his son Kirby that was often the calm before the storm. Joannides seemed to realize he’d said the wrong thing.
“You know what I mean,” Joannides said. “I mean I’m in the tech world. They’ll crucify me, or at least some of them will. There are people who hate Steve-2 as much as I do, people he’s fucked over. But we’re kind of in two different worlds, wouldn’t you agree? Not that I’m better than you, just that we exist in completely different universes.”
“And you matter in yours?” Earl asked quietly.
“Really, man, I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I was just upset.”
Earl took that in without comment. Inside, he seethed.
“The guy is right about one thing,” Kirby said to Earl. “Steve-2 has millions of followers out there. And Price never shuts up—he posts his thoughts constantly. People will start to wonder why he stopped.”
Earl turned away from Joannides because he couldn’t stand to look at or listen to the man for another second.
“What do you propose we do?” Earl asked Kirby.
“Buy some time,” Kirby said. “Then double back and find where those sons of bitches cut away from the creek. As you taught us, everybody leaves tracks behind. We just have to find them.”
Then to Joannides, Kirby said, “You know what to do. Maybe you can dig your way out of the shithole you put yourself in.”
Joannides nodded his head and dutifully climbed off his horse.
* * *
—
Ten minutes later, after Joannides had made a ConFab post using Steve-2’s satellite phone and personal account, he looked up to see that all three Thomases had dismounted and were surrounding him. Earl observed the man carefully.
“What’d you say?” Earl asked.
“I retrieved a selfie from yesterday that Steve-2 took when we were riding up the mountain. He looks really happy in it. I said, ‘Enjoying the big sky and the mountain air. It’s fun to be off the grid for a while.’”
Earl grunted his approval.
“Now his followers won’t get too concerned if they don’t see another post from him tonight. They’ll figure he doesn’t have cell service. They don’t know about all the gear we brought along to make sure he’d never be off-line.”
Joannides looked expectantly to Earl, then to Kirby and Brad. He obviously wanted someone to validate his actions and forgive him for his slip of the tongue earlier. Earl eyed him with complete contempt.
Earl said, “Show Kirby here how you did that.”
“Did what?” Joannides asked. He was in the process of returning the satellite phone to the saddlebag where he’d retrieved it.
“How you sent that message or whatever you just did.”
Joannides paused.
“I need his password,” Kirby said.
“But why? I’m here. I can handle it.”
“You won’t give me his password?” Kirby asked.
“I . . . I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Joannides stammered. “It’s just . . .” He let his sentence drop away.
“What?” Kirby asked.
“This is how I can be helpful to you all. It’s my contribution. I can’t track men in the snow and I don’t know the geography here. But I do know how to post as Steve-2. I do it all the time on his behalf.”
“You’re real close to him, aren’t you?” Earl asked Joannides.
“Of course I am. That’s how I was able to make all of this happen. That’s how I was able to bring him to you.”
“You’re one hell of a friend,” Earl said. “You’re a snake in the grass.”
Joannides started to defend himself, but thought better of it. Instead, he looked to Kirby to intervene. Joannides seemed to think he had the best rapport with Kirby, Earl thought. Probably because they were about the same age. Kirby knew all about ConFab, and he participated in social media, after all. Brad was oblivious to it, just like Earl had been until all of this.
