Dark Sky, page 20
part #21 of Joe Pickett Series
“Crap.”
“I know. I wish we still had Mike in charge.”
Sheriff Mike Reed, who’d been gunned down two years before, had been professional, competent, and a friend of Joe’s. The entire county missed him.
“So,” Marybeth asked her daughter, “what did you find?”
“Not a lot,” Sheridan said. “There have been no more posts from Steve-2. Even though it’s the middle of the night, his followers on ConFab are starting to ask questions and chatter about him. The hashtag #WheresSteve2 is trending and there are a few memes where people pasted pictures of Steve-2’s face on that ‘Where’s Waldo?’ character. Most of the comments are about how he’s done this kind of thing before, kind of jerking his followers around by not posting. There are a few people who think something happened to him, but most of them think he’s just a self-absorbed asshole.”
“Is he?” Marybeth asked.
“Of course. But I checked his timeline and it’s rare for him to be off-line for so long. He usually can’t wait to share his observations and philosophy.”
“Could it be he just can’t get on the Internet?” Marybeth asked.
“I suppose that’s possible, but I doubt it. He was online before. So what happened?”
“I’m afraid whatever it was happened to your dad as well.”
Sheridan sat back and lowered her phone to her lap as Marybeth drove back toward her house. Then she said, “Nate and Liv are at your place, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call Nate. We can get going right now to go up there and see if we can find him on our own.”
“Honey, is that a good idea?”
“Mom, don’t talk to me as if I were a child. Do you have a better idea?”
“No.”
“We can’t afford to wait until Sheriff Dipshit gets his act together.”
“Sheriff Dipshit?”
“Sorry, that’s what I think of him right now.”
“I can’t disagree,” Marybeth said.
“Just make sure in the morning that he knows we’re up there and ahead of him,” Sheridan said. “I don’t want him tracking us instead of finding Dad.”
TWENTY
Raylan Wagy opened his eyes and thought he might be hallucinating from the pain and shock and loss of blood when he saw two rough-looking females gliding through the living room of the old hunting lodge. They seemed to float at first. One had big blue eyes and a headband made of plastic flowers on her blond head, and the other one shut the television off.
Then the second woman, a sturdy brunette with wide hips, large breasts, and knee-high boots, turned and saw him sprawled out on the couch. She screamed. The blonde jumped back as well and joined her friend, and the two strange hippie women stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the fading television screen. They did matching poses when it came to their reaction: they pointed at him with one hand and covered their mouths with the other and screamed in unison through their outstretched fingers.
Wagy winced and grunted as he sat up. His head swooned from the movement and he almost pitched headfirst off the couch. As he came back into consciousness, he realized that yes, he wasn’t hallucinating, and yes, there were two thirty-something women in the house and he had no idea who they were, how they got there, or what they were doing.
“What’s going on?” Axel Soledad asked as he entered the room from the kitchen. He was carrying a grocery sack, which he placed on top of an old stereo cabinet. He wore his usual uniform of all black and his bald head bobbed about in the gloom like an unfocused blob, Wagy thought.
As usual on the days he spent climbing cliffs, Soledad clomped around in heavy lace-up boots, and his tactical pants were dirty with mud and debris. He wore a thick black turtleneck sweater with patches on the elbow. Several loose carabiners clinked from loops on his belt.
“There’s a bloody man on the couch,” the brunette said to Soledad.
Soledad didn’t get excited. He never did. Instead, he removed a twelve-pack of beer from the sack, then a sixer of hard seltzer and a fifth of Jim Beam. He turned after he’d opened a beer and drank more than half of it in a long series of gulps.
Soledad had a presence about him, Wagy thought. Even in this situation, he seemed to radiate both menace and confidence. He had a kind of edgy take-charge charisma that at first glance either repelled people or drew them to him. Hence the two strange women he’d brought back.
“What in the hell happened to you?” he asked Wagy.
“I got attacked by a maniac,” Wagy said. “He stuck a pitchfork into my foot and nearly shot my head off.”
“So that’s why you’ve got that bath towel on your foot?” Soledad asked.
Wagy nodded painfully. His right leg was elevated and propped on the coffee table. He recalled his last action before he collapsed on the couch. He’d lurched into the bathroom on his injured foot and had pawed through the drawers in the bathroom for a clean towel. When he found one, he wrapped it around the wounds on his foot and secured the towel with an Ace bandage. The towel was now wet and hard with blood.
“Fuckin’ right,” Wagy said. “To stop the bleeding.” He noticed that the room was coming into sharper focus now. He knew he must have passed out, but he had no idea how long he’d been sleeping other than it was dark outside.
“What time is it?” Wagy asked.
Soledad didn’t respond. The blond girl struggled to remove the phone wedged into her tight black jeans pocket. When she got it out, she looked at the screen.
“Three-o-five,” she said. Then to Soledad: “Time for a hard seltzer, I’d say.”
Soledad chinned toward the drinks on the cabinet. “‘Ain’t no laws when you’re drinking Claws.’”
Both women laughed at that. Wagy got the impression the phrase had been used quite a number of times between the three of them before they showed up and came in through the back door.
“This is Zenda,” Soledad said, pointing the neck of his beer bottle toward the blond woman. Then the other: “That’s Cyndy. They’re passing through, just like us. They’re on their way to protest the killing of buffalo that wander out of Yellowstone Park into Montana.”
“Bison,” Zenda corrected.
“That’s Cyndy with two y’s,” Cyndy said.
“Like he’s going to have to spell your name in a blog post or something,” Soledad chided. Cyndy didn’t look amused at the sarcasm.
As the two women pulled thin cans from the packaging, Wagy made a face and addressed Soledad. “Where in the hell have you been? I’ve been here bleeding out for hours with no way to get help. You took the car, and it’s not like I can call an Uber out here.”
“Why didn’t you call or text?”
“The maniac crushed my cell phone, and the landline here doesn’t work.”
Soledad shrugged. He was nothing if not cool and uncaring, Wagy thought.
“I thought you’d be happy I brought us some company,” Soledad said. “Zenda and Cyndy like to party. Or so they said.”
“Not with that one,” Cyndy said to Soledad after gesturing toward Wagy on the couch. “He’s a train wreck.”
“I’m hurt bad,” Wagy said, suddenly serious. “I’m in a really bad way. I’m in no shape for a party.” Then, to Soledad: “Where have you been?”
Soledad sat down on the coffee table in front of Wagy and stared at him, then sipped his beer. Wagy couldn’t tell if Soledad was disappointed or angry with him, or simply oblivious to the situation. He was a hard man to read.
One thing Wagy had learned about Soledad was the falconer’s utter disregard toward life and death. The man was totally amoral. Wagy had witnessed Soledad kill living things like pigeons and prairie dogs to feed to his captured raptors. There wasn’t even a flinch. There was no difference between Soledad twisting the cap off a beer bottle or the head off a pigeon. He’d seen Soledad hold a bunny up by the neck and punch it so hard in the face it died instantly. He’d also observed as Soledad “culled” weak or injured falcons by lopping their heads off with a scythe he’d found in the barn.
Soledad had the same attitude when it came to human life, which was disconcerting. Wagy didn’t think much about the welfare of other people either, especially the one percent. But Soledad was in an entirely different category.
Although Wagy had heard stories, he hadn’t been sure he believed them until that driver in the luxury car shot by them on Interstate 25 on their way up from Colorado to Wyoming. The Mercedes SUV was a mile ahead of them when it swerved suddenly to avoid a herd of pronghorn antelope and it rolled two and a half times into the sagebrush on the right side of the highway and finally came to a stop upside down on its roof in a cloud of dust.
Soledad was driving, and he stopped at the scene of the crash. There was no other traffic on the road at the time. The middle-aged woman behind the wheel was injured but alive, and she hung suspended upside down by the seat belt she wore. Her arms were pinned tight to her sides beneath the belt. Wagy saw her turn her head and watch them climb out of their Suburban and walk toward her.
“Help me,” she begged. “Cut me down. Please help me.”
Soledad said, “Who have you ever helped, rich lady?”
Then he bent down and reached through the smashed-out driver’s-side window with both hands. He told her, “I could cover your mouth and nose so you can’t breathe and no one would ever be the wiser.”
Her eyes got wide and she struggled, but she couldn’t wriggle free from the strap.
Soledad chuckled and left her hanging there.
* * *
—
It wasn’t a successful day on the cliff when the snow rolled in,” Soledad said. “I had to pack it in early, and then I went to a little town called Winchester to drown my sorrows. That’s where I met Cyndy and Zenda and we got to know each other. Time got away from me until they kicked us out when the bar closed.
“So,” Soledad said, “tell me how he got the jump on you.”
Wagy sighed. “He snuck up on me from behind and pinned my foot to the floor with a pitchfork.”
“Were you fried?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Describe him.”
Wagy grimaced as he recalled what had happened. “Big guy, blond ponytail. He seemed to know all about us and what we’ve been doing. He said you violated the falconer’s creed.”
Soledad took that in and a small smile crept across his face. “Did he carry a big revolver?”
“Yes. He shot it and nearly killed me.”
“I know him,” Soledad said. “Or I should say, I know of him. His name is Nate Romanowski. He was a special operator in the same unit I was in before they kicked me out. Five years ahead of me, in fact. The officers who knew him talked about him like he was some kind of phantom, and the falconers in these parts talk about him like he’s some kind of god. I think it’s all bullshit. I’m not afraid of him.”
“You didn’t meet him,” Wagy said. “He twisted my ear half off. In fact, I can barely hear through it now.”
“I did notice it was a bit crooked.” Soledad placed the bottle down on the coffee table and sat back. The grin grew wider. “That’s him, all right.
“He used to be somebody to fear,” Soledad said. “He was a legendary badass. He did a bunch of covert crap for Uncle Sam, and when he got out, he did his own thing. But I hear he’s gotten old and soft. He’s a corporate sellout now. A ‘bird abatement’ guy trying to make it rich so he can look down on people like me, even though I’m the kind of rebel he used to be.”
Soledad drained the rest of his beer and signaled for a fresh one. Both Cyndy and Zenda looked at each other to see who would obey. Finally, Cyndy rolled her eyes and tossed one to him. Soledad opened it and turned back to Wagy.
“Romanowski is like one of those old-school mafia guys you’ve heard of. He’s got a code,” Soledad said with derision. “You know, like don’t hurt the families of your targets or run narcotics in your own neighborhood, or make sure to take care of your brothers when they’re in the can—shit like that. He’s from another time.
“You and me,” Soledad said, nodding to Wagy, “we’re the new breed. We’re the Sinaloa cartel, the Zetas, the Jalisco New Generation. We’re the fuckin’ MS-13 of outlaw falconers. That old shit doesn’t apply. There are no rules for us, dude. Romanowski’s exactly the kind of guy we hate. So he thinks I’m in his territory, does he?”
Wagy nodded his head. He didn’t like how this was shaping up. He wanted a doctor.
“Did he find the birds?” Soledad asked.
“He must have,” Wagy said. “He seemed to know all about them.”
“Did he take them?”
“I don’t know. He had to leave here real fast, like it was an emergency. I’ve been here bleeding out and getting ready to die alone.”
Soledad ignored him. He turned to Cyndy and Zenda. “Do you girls need a ride back into town or do you want to crash here tonight?”
Zenda’s eyes flashed. “Is this your idea of a party? One drink and we break it up?”
Soledad didn’t answer her. And he didn’t feign concern, something Wagy had gotten used to.
“You can walk back for all I care,” Soledad said to her. “I’ve got some urgent business that just came up that I need to attend to.”
To Wagy, Soledad said, “We’re done here. Romanowski has fucked up our operation and I’m six birds short of my goal. There’s no way I’m going to take that flight to Dubai six birds short.”
Wagy shook his head. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I need six birds to fill my order and I know who has them. It’s time this creaky old badass got taken down a peg, you know? He has no idea who he’s messing with.
“He should be pretty easy to find,” Soledad said. “It’s not like the old days when he operated off the grid. Now he’s a legitimate American businessman. He pays his taxes to fund the gangster government. Shit, he advertises. It’ll be like nothing getting the birds I need.”
“Will you at least drop me off at the ER on the way there?” Wagy asked.
Soledad said, “No can do. That would give away the game.”
Then he seemed to notice that both Cyndy and Zenda were glaring at him. Cyndy had her hands on her extra-wide hips.
“Are you still here?” he asked them. His eyes were so cold Wagy felt a chill just being near him.
“My partner’s turned into a liability,” Soledad said to them. “Maybe you two can help me load some cargo into my vehicle so we can blow this joint. I’ll help him out in a minute and meet you in the barn.”
“We didn’t come here to work,” Cyndy said.
“Then you’re a liability, too,” Soledad said.
Wagy watched as Cyndy and Zenda looked at each other for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Finally, Cyndy said, “What kind of cargo?”
“Falcons in cages. They’re not that heavy and they won’t bite.”
“I suppose we can,” Cyndy said. “But then we want a ride into town. This night has really turned into a bummer.”
“I’ll meet you in the barn,” Soledad said. When they didn’t move, he pointed toward the back door through the kitchen. “I’ll be right out,” he said.
Reluctantly, Cyndy and Zenda shuffled out of the house.
When the back door slammed shut, Soledad turned back to Wagy.
“Can you walk?”
“I can try.”
“Here,” he said, getting up and putting his beer aside. “I’ll help you get to your feet. Then you can lean on me to get out to the car.”
Soledad walked around the couch until he was in back of him. Wagy felt Soledad’s hands slide behind his shoulders until they were under his armpits.
“Ready?” Soledad asked.
“Ready.”
As Wagy took a breath against the inevitable agony of standing up, Soledad’s hands disappeared. They reappeared an instant later, with Soledad cupping Wagy’s chin with his right hand and grasping the surface of his forehead with the other.
The crunch sounded and felt like a muffled thunderclap and that was it.
Just like a pigeon.
TWENTY-ONE
An hour later, Earl Thomas surveyed a large clearing that glowed light blue on the snow from the moon and stars. He’d paused his horse and grunted as he dismounted and stepped heavily to the ground.
“Got to piss,” he said to his sons as they caught up with him. Brad pulled up on his right and Kirby on his left. One of the horses in Brad’s string blew its nose and whinnied.
Earl relieved himself between his boots and the odor of warm urine splashing on cold rocks was sharp. He turned his head away.
After burning the cabin to the ground, they’d been riding west down the mountain along a small and intermittent creek bed clogged with round rocks. They’d followed the two sets of tracks left by Joe and Price through the heavy timber and it had been a difficult journey. While the two men they pursued were on foot and could climb over downed timber and dodge through closely packed tree trunks, the caravan of horses weren’t as nimble and it had slowed them down.
Finally, though, the timber cleared and the trees became more widely spaced. The tracks they’d followed were clear in the snow until they veered out of the forest to the tiny stream. Then, because the smooth rocks in the creek didn’t capture the snow the way the grass and pine needle cover had, the tracks had become harder to follow. Earl assumed Joe would keep to the creek as he went west, and eventually down out of the mountains to the foothills, but for the last fifteen minutes he’d detected no sign that confirmed it.
Earl could also tell that the morning was going to dawn much warmer than the day and night before. He could tell by how it felt on his exposed skin and by the fact that the condensation clouds from the nostrils of his horse were getting harder to see. The sky was clear and the stars were hard. Soon, he knew, the sun would rise and melt the dusting of snow that covered the ground.
