Rain Dogs, page 19
“We’re on our way out of Colorado,” he said. “Almost to the line. Why?”
“Everybody’s okay there?”
“We’re fine. What’s the matter?”
Jack Coleman sighed into the phone. Tom heard him say something away from the mouthpiece. It sounded like he was talking to Tom’s mother.
He came back on and said, “I just got through talking with Ronnie Pavel. Better get yourselves and Scott on back.”
“What’s going on?”
“Looks like Foster spooked.”
“What do you mean, he spooked?”
“Nobody’s seen him since last night,” his dad said. “DEA boys locked the Landing down an hour ago.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Abby made an urgent face. Tom held up a finger: Hang on. “What do they know?”
“Not a lot, sounds like.”
“He just vanished? How do they know he didn’t just tie one on somewhere?”
“They found Harlan Pack’s Jeep in town,” his dad said. “Parking lot of the Jewel. Ticket girl knew Pack, said she saw him waiting around front late last night.”
“And Duane picked him up?”
“Little car-pickup thing with a shell, she told Roy.”
So much for Farmer’s good mood, Tom thought.
“I expect they’ll have somebody federal waiting for you at Abby’s place when you get there.”
“That’ll make it a party.” Tom checked the rear view. The Suburban followed closely enough that he could see Denbrough taking his turn behind the wheel this morning. “We’ve already got an escort.”
“Well. Just so you know.”
“How did you get in on this?”
“Roy had Ronnie Pavel call us at the house. I said I’d get word to you.”
“I put Pavel in the loop before we left. Why didn’t he just call Abby’s phone?”
“He said he tried.”
Tom took the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen. A message in the upper corner of the display indicated that they’d missed seven calls. They must have been in and out of coverage. He put the phone back to his ear.
“. . . more than they can handle as it is,” his dad was saying. “Deputy Pavel asked if I’d keep on it until somebody got you on the line.”
There was something else, Tom could hear it behind the words. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Jack Coleman paused a beat.
“You should know,” he finally said. “Cory Severs shot himself.”
“What?”
“Sheriff found him this morning.”
“Found him where?”
“Empty rental house he had over north of the hatchery.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“They figure he must have been down a couple, three days.”
Tom thought about that. “Three days?”
“They don’t know, son.”
“Like the day after we talked to Hilliard.” He remembered Duane saying that Severs had hassled him the same afternoon. Tom tried to imagine Cory’s path that day. To the funeral. The Wheeler home. Severs would have had to swing by the Landing before Hilliard had called him in. He couldn’t have had any idea what was coming.
“I expect.”
“Jesus.”
“Get yourselves home,” his dad said.
They had to stop for gas just across the state line. Wilson and Denbrough stayed in the Suburban. Tom paid at the pumps, and they all moved on.
Back on the road, Abby spent a few minutes on the cell with Lois Wheeler. She passed along condolences for Cory, asked to be called if Ryland’s sister needed any extra help with food or with the younger kids.
“That poor family,” she said when she hung up.
Tom agreed and borrowed the phone. He left a message with a nutshell version of Scott’s situation at Tyler & Tyler. Then he left one at George Junior’s home.
Other than that, it was one of the quietest car rides he could remember.
Tom could feel the climate change the further east they drove. He hadn’t perceived it so much going the other direction yesterday; now it was noticeable even with the windows up and the A/C going full blast. Little by little, the dry mountain air gave way to humid heat. By the time they finally reached North Platte, it was as if the atmosphere had grown heavier inside the car.
Wilson and Denbrough followed them north on U.S. 83. It was about a hundred miles from the junction to the Circle Slash. They made it just after one in the afternoon.
The DEA must have coordinated. Tom saw Terry Farmer’s Escape approaching in the oncoming lane, coming up on Abby’s driveway from the north as they arrived from the south.
Abby braked and turned in. Wilson and Denbrough drove past and pulled to the shoulder as Farmer swung around. In the rearview, Tom watched Farmer pull into the driveway a few feet, stop, and back out onto the blacktop until he drew parallel with the Suburban. The agents idled window-to-window on the highway as Abby took the minivan around the big dune.
From the backseat, Scott said, “What’s Lexi doing out?”
Abby looked across, out Tom’s window, to a bay mare grazing along the side of the driveway.
She sighed. “So much for my clover beds.”
Later, Tom wished he had paid more attention to the horse.
They went into the house through the garage, which led in through the kitchen. Abby said, “I’m going to call Phyllis.” She touched Scott’s arm. “Can you show Tom where the bathrooms are?”
Tom followed Scott out of the kitchen, into a spacious sitting room: big stone fireplace, rag rugs on oak, potpourri in a bowl on a coffee table. Tom saw a row of short bookcases with leaded glass doors. He remembered buying them at an antique auction for Abby’s birthday years ago.
He said, “Phyllis?”
“My grandma. She’s watching Hannah,” Scott said.
“Ah. Right.”
Somehow, he’d completely forgotten about Hannah. Yesterday, he couldn’t get the presence of that empty car seat out of his head. Today, he hadn’t even noticed. Something about that put a bad taste in his mouth.
He’d just screwed open the flask to wash it out when they heard something clatter in the kitchen behind them. Abby cried out.
They both turned. Tom said, “You okay in there?”
Nothing.
“Abby?”
“I’m here.”
In another moment, she appeared. Her movements seemed stiff.
When her step faltered, Duane straightened his arm, pressed the muzzle of the gun into the back of her head, and nudged her along.
THIRTY-SIX
Where is it?”
He was bare-chested beneath a threadbare denim shirt and looked like he’d slept on the ground. The shirt hung open, tails rippling around his waist as he moved. The left pocket had a dark stain the size of a compact disc.
Scott stood beside Tom like a coiled spring. He said nothing.
Foster sighed, maneuvered Abby around a gliding chair, and sat her down in it. He stood behind her and pointed the gun at her head again.
“Don’t shit me, you little dickhead. Seriously. I’m not in the mood.”
The shirt fell open when Foster raised his arm. Tom saw a large, thick square of gauze crudely taped over Duane’s ribs. The gauze ended just below his left nipple, soaked red from corner to corner. The blood had loosened the bottom strip of tape, trailing rivulets down his abdomen, staining his waistband.
“Duane?”
“Little busy now, boss.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
To Scott, Duane said, “Where you been, kid?”
Tom jumped in before Scott could answer. “He wrecked my damn truck. Colorado state police called us. That’s why I left. What’s going on?”
Foster shook his head at Scott. “Douchebag. If you even tell me the shit’s locked up in Colorado somewhere . . .”
“Trev’s got it,” Scott said. “We were gonna meet up.”
Tom held his breath, waited. Duane closed his eyes and smiled. He let out a sigh and lowered his gun hand.
Good boy. Tom kept his eyes locked on Abby’s. Play dumb.
She mouthed the words: Where are they?
The doorbell rang. Duane’s eyes snapped open. The gun came back up.
“That’s Larry,” Tom said, palms out. “We met him on the way in.”
Abby’s eyes flashed when he said it. What are you doing?
He was hoping. That was all. It was the first thing Duane had said: Where is it? Like he really didn’t know.
“Goddammit, what’s that guy’s deal? He was sitting out there two different times this morning.”
So Duane had been in the house all day.
Surely Farmer’s crew would have secured the place. Had they not ventured beyond the exterior? Had they missed him somehow?
Did they know he was in here?
Tom couldn’t buy that. Not even Farmer would risk a barricaded suspect—with hostages—for a pallet of precrank they’d already secured.
Had Duane walked in from somewhere? Had he been dropped off? Where was the Sube?
Abby watched Tom and suddenly understood. From the chair, she said, “The magazine guy? From your place?”
“Larry Salinger,” Tom said. “Right. The guy we saw coming in.”
She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, shit, he called last week and booked a room. I completely forgot.”
“Oops.” Foster pulled her up by the arm, nestled the gun in her ribs. “Come on, let’s get rid of him.”
“Get rid of him how? What do you want me to tell him?”
“Tell him you don’t have any room.”
“I already told him I had a room.”
“Then tell him you’re fucking fumigating.” Duane threw up his free hand. “Christ, I don’t know. You were a schoolteacher, you can think of something.”
Tom breathed a little easier.
As long as everybody kept it together, they had the upper hand all the way. He understood in one quick flash: Duane hadn’t spooked. He’d merely discovered that his drugs were gone.
Farmer’s crew hadn’t gotten their shit together in time. Or they’d gotten lazy, trusting Duane to stick to his normal Saturday-night routine: casino, Landing, get stoned, go to sleep.
Or Tom and Terry had allowed themselves to get into a pissing match and screwed the whole operation.
Something along those lines. That left a hundred questions, but at the moment, Tom was only concerned with one of them. Duane answered it before he could think of the best way to ask.
“Friend of mine is babysitting over at Gramma Phyllis’s,” he said.
Abby’s face went slack. In the next moment, her eyes filled with something that went beyond fear. Tom saw wildness there.
Duane nodded. “Just so everybody understands the situation.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
She’s only four,” Abby said. “Please.”
“Don’t worry, little kids like Harlan. They think he’s a tree or something. She’ll be fine.”
The doorbell rang again. A sharp knock followed.
“Get your game face on.” Foster tightened his grip on Abby’s arm. He pointed the gun at Tom, then at Scott. “You two stay here.”
Larry, hi. I’m so sorry, I meant to call out to Tom’s and tell you.
Scott started across the room. Tom grabbed his right arm. The skin there felt rough, patchy.
“I’ve got a shotgun,” Scott hissed. He jerked his arm away.
I had a pipe break upstairs yesterday. Yeah, I know. It’s a mess.
Tom grabbed Scott’s arm again and dug into the soft inside meat with his fingers. He stepped in close and spoke quickly, quietly, in a middle register. “What are you going to do with a shotgun, spray both of them?”
The whole place is flooded. Part of the kitchen ceiling is on the kitchen floor.
“Let me go, goddammit.”
“Don’t whisper, it carries. Talk exactly like this.”
No, no, Larry, I’m fine, just fine. We’ve got a lot to clean up around here, that’s all. My four-year-old is busy helping. I’d better get back in.
“Listen to her,” Tom said. “She’s telling him everything he needs to know. Hannah’s okay.”
For a gambler, Duane’s tells were obvious. Now that Tom had seen Duane lie a couple of times, he could see it coming.
He was almost positive.
Larry, I swear, you’re as bad as Tom. You reporter types. I really have to get . . .
Her voice grew louder. Tom could tell she’d turned her head to face the interior of the house.
Hannah, put that down, you’ll get hurt.
“Keep your head on,” Tom said. “Okay? Don’t lose your cool on me.”
Scott pried Tom’s fingers away. “They’ve got my little sister.”
“Watch your voice.”
“Fuck you, this is your fault.”
Well, no, Larry, I don’t. Scott stayed here last night, and Duane was by to pick him up this morning. I’d think they’d be back any time. Tom should be . . . well, you know Tom.
Tom found Scott’s eyes. “Please trust me.”
Scott didn’t want to, but it was already too late to do otherwise.
Abby gave a pleasant laugh and apologized again. In a minute, the front door closed. In another minute, Duane brought her back into the room.
She’d been amazing. It had taken something vital out of her. Somewhere between the door and here, her eyes had acquired a flat desperation Tom had never seen in Abby. Not anywhere. Not ever.
Foster patted her shoulder. “Gold star, everybody. Good job.”
Outside, an engine turned over. A reverse gear whined. The engine revved, then faded slowly, down the driveway. Gone.
Duane looked at Scott. “Call Trevor. And use your cell so the asshole answers for once. Dial and hand it to me.”
“If he hurts her—” Scott started, but Foster cut him off.
“Take it easy, tough turf. I was bluffing. You think I’d hurt a little kid?”
Abby closed her eyes. Her shoulders sagged. Scott glanced at Tom. Tom felt something loosen in his gut. Relief came in such a flood that he realized he’d doubted his own judgment almost as much as Scott had.
“I heard you guys say she was at Granny’s house when you came in. No worries.”
“You fucking asshole,” Scott said.
“Kept your ass put, didn’t it?” Duane waggled the gun. “Here’s your worries.”
Tom couldn’t be absolutely sure from his distance, but he was almost positive Duane was holding the Browning Abby had taken from the Landing. He must have been through the place, looking for anything useful he could find. That goddamned gun was really starting to make the rounds.
Rounds.
Tom tried to remember how many he’d put into the clip the last time he’d handled the gun. He had no idea. The rest of the ammo was still back in the closet at the Landing, as far as he knew.
When he spoke, he tried to edit what he knew very carefully.
“Is this about Severs and that dope?”
Duane chuckled. “Just like your gramps, I swear. Always off in your own little world.”
“For Christ’s sake, quit waving the gun around,” Tom said. “Let’s figure this out.”
“I’m gonna accidentally start shooting if Lip here doesn’t dig that phone out of his pocket and start dialing in the next five seconds.”
“Honey, call Trev,” Abby said. “Just do what he says.”
“Yeah, honey. Do what I say.”
For a moment, Tom didn’t know if Scott was going to play along or let his temper get the best of him.
But he finally shoved his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulled out the phone, flipped it open, pressed one button. Speed dial.
“Slide it over.”
Scott stooped and sent the phone across the floor.
Duane winced as he bent to pick it up. His gauze pad wrinkled, and blood dripped onto the floor. He straightened slowly, sucking in a breath. He put the phone to his ear.
Abby slipped around him and hustled over. Foster tracked her with the gun.
He brightened. “It’s me, numbnuts. Hang up and I’ll pop a cap in your little partner in crime over here.”
Abby touched Scott’s face and hugged him. He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t pull away. She reached out, found Tom’s hand. Tom imagined Farmer and his boys crowded around Trevor Wheeler and his cell phone.
Foster held the phone out and said, “Everybody say hello to Trev.”
Nobody said anything.
Foster scowled. “Guess you’ll have to trust me.”
In a low voice, Tom said, “What did Terry say?”
Abby leaned in. “‘If you see Tom, tell him he just lost his best customer. I’m cutting bait.’ ”
Tom nodded.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Duane’s about to screw himself.” He looked at Scott. “All we have to do is play along. Are you cool?”
Scott clenched his teeth, nodded.
Duane said, “Now what are you doing in North Platte with Daddy’s medicine? Get your dumb ass back here.”
He paused.
“Make it two. We’ll do it at that one place. The first one you showed me.”
He paused again.
“No, penis, not the place we used. The first one. The old whatever.”
Pause.
“Yeah. Two hours. Don’t get pulled over. And do not fuck with me, kid. I’ve had a shitty day, I promise you. I’m in no mood.”
With that, Foster folded the phone. “Okeydoke.”
He gave an underhanded toss. Scott caught the phone in the air, fumbled it, dropped it. The phone hit the hardwood floor with a crunch.
“Asshole.”
“Butterfingers.”
“Hey.” Tom pointed, rubbed his own ribs. “What happened there?”
Duane gave him a tight smile. “You could say Harlan got in touch.”
“How bad is it?” Abby said. “Do you need a doctor?”
“Hell, yeah, I need a doctor.” He probed gingerly around the edges of the gauze, drawing air in through his teeth. The ends of the tape peeled up almost as soon as he pressed them down. “I need about a million stitches and an airplane, too. What’s your point?”
