Blue Heaven Part 32

Gonzalez said, "It's in the garage for now, right next to the UPS truck. We can take it to the chop shop in Spokane later."

"Was he any trouble?" Singer asked Newkirk.

"Nah, he drove right up here."

"Anyone see you?"

"No," Newkirk said. No need to complicate things further.

Singer narrowed his eyes at Newkirk. "What happened to your face?"

Newkirk reached up and rubbed his jaw. He could either tell Singer what had happened or pull his weapon and shoot Gonzalez right now in a preemptive strike. Or he could do neither, which is what he chose.

Gonzalez stepped back and threw an arm around Newkirk, crus.h.i.+ng him into his hard barrel chest. "Emotions were running a little high, Lieutenant. We had a little sc.r.a.p, but everything's cool now, isn't it, Newkirk?"

Newkirk nodded, lowered his eyes away from Singer's fixed stare, and said, "Yup. We're cool."

Singer moved his eyes from Newkirk to Gonzalez, back to Newkirk. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

"Okay, let's meet," Singer said, turning on his heel and going inside.

THE LIEUTENANT strode behind the kitchen table and turned toward them as they entered. Swann looked bad. Singer said, "He's got a broken nose and cheekbone and a busted jaw. Somebody worked him over and took Monica Taylor."

"s.h.i.+t!" Gonzalez said, hard and fast.

Newkirk thought he knew who had done it.

"The sheriff's in a panic," Singer continued, his voice so calm it reminded Newkirk of the rhythm of a bedtime story. "He's contacted the state DCI and the Feds. I tried to talk him out of it, but I was unsuccessful. The sheriff thinks he's got a double kidnapping on his hands. The Feds will be here first thing tomorrow in a chopper."

Newkirk tried to concentrate on what Singer was saying, tried to put it into context and think ahead.

"Who did it?" Gonzalez asked Swann.

Swann's face was half-again its normal size. He had trouble talking but said, "Tall thin old guy, maybe sixty, sixty-five, wearing a cowboy hat. He had a lever-action rifle with him, that's what he used on me."

Newkirk thought, Yes, sounds like him.

"Why'd he take the woman?" Newkirk asked instead, which resulted in a laser-beam stare from Singer.

"I don't know why he took the woman," Singer said. "But I've got a pretty good guess. Have you been drinking, Newkirk?"

Newkirk felt his face get hot. "Some," he said.

"Are you okay to work?"

"Yes," Newkirk said, his voice thick.

"He'll be fine," Gonzalez said, trying to smooth things over between them in his brutish way. "He can follow orders and pop a cap in some old cowboy's a.s.s, if that's what we need him to do."

Again, Singer looked from Gonzalez to Newkirk. a.n.a.lyzing them, dissecting them. Coming to some kind of conclusion that was inscrutable.

"You remember Fiona Pritzle?" Singer asked. Before they could answer, he continued. "She's the one who gave the Taylor kids a ride to go fis.h.i.+ng. She's a gossip, a local busybody, but she showed up at the sheriff's house earlier tonight with an interesting story. She said she saw a local rancher in the grocery store buying food that only kids eat, but the guy doesn't have any kids. She says he lives up the valley, about eight miles from the Sand Creek campground. The sheriff knows the citizen, named Rawlins. Jess Rawlins, our cowboy. Anyway, Pritzle thinks Rawlins may have the kids. She thinks he's an old pervert. The sheriff wasn't buying it at the time. I'm sure he'll tell the Feds about him, though."

"Rawlins," Gonzalez said, turning the name over in his mouth. "I ran into that old f.u.c.ker today. He threw me off his ranch, said I couldn't search it without a warrant. I wouldn't mind seeing him again. We have issues."

Newkirk kept quiet.

Singer was motionless for a moment, looking at something beyond Newkirk but not really looking at anything at all. Thinking, building a plan.

"He's got them," Singer said. "He's got the kids, and he's got Monica Taylor."

He paused to let the fact sink in. "Obviously," Singer said, in a tone as reasonable as it was icy, "we've got to get him before the Feds and the state cops come in. We've got to force a confrontation. What happens is the rancher gets killed, and the Taylors go down in the cross fire. The dead rancher later gets pinned with the whole thing: kidnapping, s.e.x crimes, murder. We don't hit the kids ourselves, we use the rancher's gun to shoot them."

"Jesus," Gonzalez whispered.

Newkirk couldn't say anything if he wanted to. He was too busy trying to stop the surge of sour whiskey from coming back up.

"What do we do when we've got a hostage situation?" Singer asked. Silence.

Then Singer slammed his palm down on the kitchen table so hard that gla.s.sware tinkled in the cupboards. "Gentlemen," Singer said, his voice sharp and straight like a razor's edge, "what do we do when we've got a hostage situation?"

Newkirk gagged, then stumbled to the kitchen sink and threw up. He felt their eyes on his back but didn't turn around until he had gulped down two gla.s.ses of water. Finally, he said over his shoulder, "Cut off power and electricity. Try to force them out into the open."

"Right," Singer said, satisfied.

Newkirk turned around, leaned against the counter, wiped his mouth and eyes with his sleeve.

Singer leaned toward Gonzalez: "Do you recall when you were there earlier where the power lines are that lead to the ranch?"

"Yeah. They're along the highway."

"First things first, then," Singer said. "Gonzo, go out into the garage with Swann and you two grab his toolbox, then get over to that rancher's gate, fast. Use your vehicle to block the exit so they can't get out and can't get around you through the trees. Figure out where phone lines are-I'm sure they're on the highway right-of-way with the power. Go now."

"I'm out of here," Gonzalez said, scrambling. Swann stumbled along behind him.

"We'll meet you there," Singer said, turning to Newkirk. "I want you to follow me in the UPS truck."

Newkirk shook his head, puzzled. "Why?"

"We want it close," Singer said. "Close enough to the ranch to take it down there when everything's over. It'll help us build the legacy of Jess Rawlins."

Sunday, 11:17 P.M.

I THOUGHT for a minute you were going to let Newkirk shoot me," Villatoro said.

"Nope," Jess said. "It was a bluff."

"It was a good bluff," Villatoro said emphatically. "I believed you."

"Mr. Villatoro, you'll need to keep your voice down a little," Jess said softly over his shoulder as he rode. "Sound carries out here. We don't want them to hear us."

"I'm sorry," Villatoro whispered. "My nerves are jangling."

"Mine, too."

They were deep in the timber, the mare picking her way over downed logs and between crowded stands of dripping trees. More than once, Jess had to duck and caution Villatoro to do the same as they pa.s.sed under overhanging branches. They were on his ranch now, he could feel the comfort of it. His pa.s.senger clutched him so tightly around his ribs that at times he had trouble breathing and had to ask Villatoro to ease up. The Winchester lay across the pommel of the saddle. Although the moon was still behind clouds, the sky was clearing, and muted shafts of moonlight shone through the branches and blued the barrel of the rifle.

Villatoro whispered, "Will your horse carry both of us all the way back?"

"Hope so."

"I still can't believe I'm on a horse."

"Kind of uncomfortable, isn't it?"

"I hope I don't fall off."

"Me too."

Villatoro sighed, as if everything that had happened was settling in, exhausting him suddenly. "Jesus," he moaned. "What a night. All those years in the department, and nothing ever happened like that. I feel foolish for not fighting back, but what could I have done?"

"Not much," Jess said over his shoulder. "I've been thinking. Hearne's right. As soon as we get back let's pack everybody into his car and my truck and get the h.e.l.l to Kootenai Bay. We'll get through this. We'll go straight to the sheriff and the media and try to make our case. I'd rather those kids were there than here tonight."

Villatoro took a cautious breath before asking, "What kids?"

Jess explained.

All Villatoro could say was, "My G.o.d."

JESS COULD feel Chile getting tired, slowing down, stumbling where earlier she was surefooted. But she didn't protest with a crow-hop, or try to shrug them off. She's a gamer, he thought. He admired her character.

"Let's dismount and lead her for a while so she can catch her breath," Jess said, pulling her to a stop.

"I'd guess the both of us are pretty heavy."

Jess agreed and nodded in the dark and felt Villatoro slide clumsily off Chile's back. When he was clear, Jess swung out of the saddle and shoved his hand between the horse's flank and the saddle blanket, where it was hot and moist with sweat.

"Soon as she cools down, we can ride her in," Jess said in a low whisper, leading her by the reins. Villatoro walked alongside with a hand on the saddle because Chile and Jess knew where they were headed, and he didn't.

Above them, in the trees, was a sweep of light.

"What was that?" Villatoro asked.

Jess put a gloved finger against his lips and shushed him. "Headlights," Jess whispered.

They stopped and listened. Far above them and to the east, Jess could hear a motor and the crunching of gravel under tires. There was the squeak of brakes being applied, a surge of the engine, then another squeak before the motor was killed.

"They blocked the gate," Jess said.

In a swath of moonlight, he could see Villatoro bury his face in his hands in despair.

Sunday, 11:59 P.M.

VILLATORO AND HEARNE sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee. The shotgun was on the table as well, along with a box of sh.e.l.ls. In hushed tones, Villatoro was telling Hearne about the encounter in the trees at Swann's place, and Hearne kept shooting glances at Jess while he did it. Jess sipped his coffee with his back to the kitchen counter and half listened.

Annie and William were asleep on the couch in the living room under the same blanket. Monica rifled through Jess's refrigerator and cupboards looking for ingredients so she could make lasagna, but she couldn't find noodles or cheese and gave up. She said she wanted to cook something because she was too nervous to sleep.

"So it's all coming together," Hearne said, sitting back as if he were in a loan officers' meeting. "They robbed Santa Anita, all five of them, and moved up here. Then Rodale screwed up, and they executed him for it, but Annie and William happened to be witnesses. That set everything in motion."

Monica had settled on baking a cake, and Jess watched her as she looked again and again at the directions on the back of the cake mix box. He could tell she was distracted, that she was doing something just to be doing it. Who would want to eat cake?

Villatoro turned to Jess. "What are we going to do? Those men are killers."

Hearne said, "The sheriff told me he called the FBI. They'll be here tomorrow morning. Like Jess said, all we can do is wait it out until we can tell our story. But the ex-cops have probably figured out where you are and who is here," he said, gesturing with his head toward the sleeping children. "They'll want to silence them-and us-before we talk."

Villatoro looked at his wrist.w.a.tch. "I wish there was someone we could call." Celeste should be home and could get the ball rolling urging local law enforcement to contact the FBI or Idaho authorities. Then he thought of Donna, waking her up, telling her what was going on. She would go hysterical. Plus, there was nothing she could do to help. But it was important, he thought, to tell her he loved her. That he always had.

Jess said, "I wish I knew the names of those ex-cops, the ones who got turned away when they tried to volunteer. I would guess they'd want to help us out. There are plenty of good ones up here, I think. They'd be pretty p.i.s.sed off if they knew what these guys were doing."

While they talked, Jess noticed that Monica kept looking at him as well as Hearne, as if measuring something besides cake mix.

"Do you have an idea?" Jess asked her.

She shook her head. "Not about that." Then she looked hard at him. "Jess, I'd like to talk with you."

Jess felt uncomfortable that she was calling him away from Villatoro and Hearne.

Hearne felt it, too, and said, "Excuse me, I'm going to call my wife. I want her to know I'm safe."

"That's a good idea," Villatoro said, rising from the table. "You call, then I'll call Celeste and then my wife." He said it with a tone that barely disguised what he meant, which was, in case we never see them again.

"We can step outside," Jess said to Monica.

As she started for the mudroom and the door, Hearne turned around with the receiver in his hand. "There's no dial tone."

Jess froze. He knew what that meant.

Villatoro said, "They've cut the line."

Jess said to Hearne, "Try your cell phone."

"It's gone," Hearne said, gesturing with empty hands. "I lost it at Swann's."

"What about you?" Jess asked Villatoro.

He shrugged. "Mine never worked up here in the first place. Wrong company."

"So we're blocked in, and we can't communicate," Jess said flatly. "I've had better days."