Body Guard (21 page)

He angled the Healey under the ragged shade of a hackberry tree that leaned out of the weedy drainage ditch, and killed the engine. Without the throaty hum of the pipes, the sounds of late afternoon drifted on a chill autumn breeze. It swept across the wide valley formed by the Front Range and the low ridges of limestone shelves stepping up to the prairie on the east. Somewhere beyond a weathered barn and across a white-fenced pasture, a cow moaned persistently. Her long, soft grunt rose to a squealing bellow and died away unanswered. In the hazy sky above the dark mountains, a small airplane droned and faded as it changed the pitch of its propeller. Behind him, at the turn from 105, Kirk saw Humphries’ Mercedes swing around the corner and come over the bobbing ridges of the narrow strip of road. Following it, less than a car’s length back, was Peterson’s gray Dodge—a rebuilt Highway Patrol cruiser. They flashed past, tires sizzling on the asphalt, leaving a taint of exhaust on the breeze. Kirk listened for any engines straining to catch the two automobiles. The cow. The dying buzz of the airplane. The cold, dry wind rustling the dark leaves of the hackberry. Then he heard it: a whining rattle that meant motorcycle. An instant later, the black visor of a helmeted rider glanced his way as a Yamaha leaned tightly through the turn and ran up the gears. Kirk pulled out after it, looking in the rearview mirror to see if anyone else was joining them.

The motorcycle, its sharp angles urging the driver forward like a jockey on a racehorse, dropped into high gear. Kirk speed-shifted the Healey and watched the tachometer bob up to the red line. Ahead, appearing and disappearing like bouncing balls, the two automobiles crested the series of ridges and flickered through the trunks of a line of bare Lombardies that marked a gentle curve in the road.

“Pete—motorcycle coming up fast.”

The radio crackled but no words came back.

Kirk waited until the gray Dodge was in sight again, pulling a long incline toward the next ridge. “Pete—motorcycle coming up fast. Read me?”

“Got you.”

The cars disappeared over the treeless crest, and a moment later, Kirk saw the motorcycle top the rise with a little hop and sink out of sight. He shoved the Healey’s gas pedal down to the floor. She answered with a surge that pressed him against the thinly padded seat back, and he blessed the old twin SU carburetors that poured fuel into the screaming cylinders. With a soaring glide, the Healey left the pavement and thumped back down to show the narrow road falling away into another arm of the valley. A string of bright-shirted bicyclists labored up the oncoming lane. Humphries and Peterson, close enough together to be car and trailer, whipped past them. A few seconds later, the Yamaha, slowly closing in on Peterson’s Dodge, rapped past the startled line of riders. Then Kirk—their faces angry ovals of unheard shouts. In front of him, the road empty again as it sliced across the grassy fields stretching east and west toward high ground on both sides.

The motorcycle was slowing now and the Healey pulled closer. Kirk got a glimpse of glaring brake lights as the three vehicles topped the next ridge and disappeared again. As Kirk came over the crest he saw the motorcycle pull out to pass Peterson. The Dodge slid even closer to Humphries’ bumper to prevent the two-wheeler from cutting between them. The Yamaha hovered a long moment as the road began another gentle climb toward the high ground where the gravel county road branched off toward Humphries’ home. Kirk was near enough now to see the rider’s arm reach out. The long streak of a weapon, like an accusing finger, aimed at Humphries’ car. A flash of smoke blew back from the muzzle. Peterson’s Dodge suddenly swung behind the motorcycle and leapt forward. The front bumper lunged for the Yamaha’s rear tire, and the motorcycle wobbled as the arm snatched back to grab for the handlebars. Then the motorcycle swerved again, wilder now, as the rider tried to pull it back under control. Humphries slammed on his brakes, to slide sideways into the gravel and tilt through the turn in an explosion of frantic dust. Peterson jammed his vehicle between Humphries and the skidding, bucking motorcycle that squealed past the turn. Kirk slewed the Healey onto the gravel road behind Humphries and rattled through the thick dust and flying stones to follow the fleeing man. In the rearview mirror, the dust closed over the road behind and Kirk saw only the yellow-gray of roiling cloud. A couple minutes later, Humphries turned sharply into his own driveway and twisted up through the pines to skid the Mercedes under the opening door of the garage. The door clattered down quickly over the still-gleaming brake lights and the splintered rear window. Kirk pulled the Healey to a halt behind Bunch’s Bronco. He hopped out and peered into the valley, searching for Peterson’s gray car.

“Did you see that?” Humphries, hair disheveled and eyes wild, stood in the open front door and pointed toward the highway. “Did you see him? He tried to shoot me! He had a pistol and he shot at me! Look at my car!”

A large arm wrapped around Humphries’ chest and half lifted him away from the doorway. “Anybody hurt, Dev?” Bunch’s face replaced Humphries’.

On the county road that glided down the hillside into the valley, a single plume of dust moved rapidly and Kirk could see the glint of Peterson’s Dodge. “I don’t think so. Here comes Pete—he looks okay.”

“He tried to kill me! I told you he was here—it was him— he shot at me!”

B
Y THE TIME
Peterson’s car coasted to a stop on the circle of driveway, a wide-eyed Mitsuko had convinced Humphries to disappear into the back. The hot tub was there, she reminded him, and she would make him a drink and he could tell her all about it. Clucking in Spanish, Mrs. Lucero and her husband opened the garage door to stare at the shattered rear window of the Mercedes. “He got away,” said Peterson. “I couldn’t keep up with that two-wheeler.”

“What the hell was he shooting?” asked Devlin.

“Machine pistol. Looked like a Bushmaster. You know that heavy sleeve they have at the end of the barrel? Thirty-round magazine.”

“Little sucker like that can do some damage,” said Bunch.

“On full automatic, it can.”

Lucero, straw hat in his hands, edged toward Bunch. “This is very bad.”

“It ain’t good, Elias.” He asked Peterson, “You get a look at the rider?”

“Not with that helmet on. Could have been Darth Vader for all I saw.”

“He must have been waiting at the 105 junction,” said Kirk.

“It had to happen sometime,” said Peterson. “We always go through there sooner or later.”

“This man, this killer,” asked Lucero, “he will come to the house now?”

Bunch looked at the lean man who stood bowlegged and frowning. “I can’t say he won’t, Elias. But I don’t think so.”

Lucero considered that. “I think it’s too damn dangerous for my wife to work here no more.” He put his hat squarely on his head. “I think we get the hell out now.”

They watched the two figures close together and walk quickly around a wing of the house. A few seconds later, their rusty pickup truck rattled down the driveway.

Bunch stared after the dust. “I wonder if Mitsi can cook?”

The electric sensors had been turned on and the three men sat in the dark living room. The setting sun turned pink and gray through clouds above the serrated outline of the horizon. In another wing of the house, they heard the occasional thump of heels as Mitsuko walked back and forth busy at something.

“Must be running up and down Humphries’ spine in her bare feet,” said Bunch. “Give him a little Oriental massage after his hot tub.”

“That, on top of an Oriental message,” said Kirk.

Peterson squeaked air between two of his front teeth, tongue busy as something stuck there. “He’s tested the defenses. Next time he’ll be more careful. And maybe aim better.”

Kirk nodded. He didn’t think the assailant would return tonight. But a wrong guess would spoil everybody’s weekend. “You want to stay here?” he asked Bunch.

“Hell no. But I guess I better. Humphries might die of a heart attack, if somebody doesn’t kill him first.”

They settled on a rotation that would give Humphries and Mitsuko protection around the clock, at least for the next few days. The three made one last patrol of the grounds before Peterson and Kirk left, and they switched on the warning systems. Bunch leaned into the dim glow of the Healey’s dash lights as Devlin started his engine.

“We’re going to have to do more than just sit and make targets of ourselves, Dev. That bastard means business. I mean a goddamn Bushmaster, after all …”

Kirk agreed. “Any ideas?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, let’s put our minds to it, partner. A couple geniuses like us should come up with something.”

Bunch grunted and slapped a hand on the cockpit’s rail. “Don’t forget to run that tap on Minz’s phone tonight. Probably nothing there, but we should clear the tape.”

When Kirk got home, he listened to that and to his own answering tape. The only thing on either that held any importance was a brief call from Reznick telling Kirk to telephone him first thing in the morning. Devlin did.

“Kirk? I called Stewart. He thinks you should go to the Pensacola plant as soon as possible and clean up that end of it, too.”

“I can, of course. But I should have a better idea of what I’m looking for before I go.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means we don’t yet have any idea who in the Pensacola plant is shipping the stuff. Or even what division it’s coming from. We might be able to get that information after we intercept the next load.”

“But won’t that alarm the people at the other end? They’ll take off!”

“There is that risk. But I don’t think it’s a big one. I think if we move knowledgeably and fast, we might get away with it.”

Kirk could picture Reznick on the other end of the line, thick eyebrows pulling together in a frown. “Kirk, I don’t mind telling you, Stewart was damned upset to find out about this. And he wants something done yesterday.”

“If we catch Martin and Atencio with their hands dirty, we’ll have some leverage. They might make a deal: information for dropping the charges.”

“Dropping them! I’ll be damned—”

“Or for filing lesser charges. And while they’re in custody, we have seventy-two hours to trace out the Pensacola end of the operation before any charges have to be brought.”

“That cuts things pretty thin.”

“If I go down there knowing who to look for, I can be a lot more effective.”

“Yeah. I see that.” Silence. “Do you have any word yet about the next delivery?”

“Only what we know already: sometime this week.”

Reznick thought. “Well, I can explain that to Stew.” And the lean, gray-faced man would probably nod his head with his usual stiffness and tell Reznick to do what Kirk suggested. After all, he had unbent enough to tell Reznick he was doing a good job so far on this thing. “A few days more isn’t too long to wait, I guess. But you hear this, Kirk: You by God keep me informed. You have my office number and my home phone, and you call me the instant anything breaks.” Because Stewart, in his understated, WASP way, had made it clear that he expected to hear immediately if not sooner about any developments. “I’ve told my secretary to put you through no matter what. Hear me?”

Kirk heard him. Vinny, when he called that afternoon and found out what Reznick said, hoped no one else heard the man tell his secretary that.

“I mean, shit, Kirk, all some goddamn secretary has to do is whisper about it and my ass is grass!”

“Not even Reznick knows who you are, Vinny.”

“He knows I’m the fucking new man in the warehouse crew. How many goddamn new men are there in the warehouse crew?”

“The secretary doesn’t know that. And nobody in the front office talks to people on the floor. You know that. Relax.”

“Relax? Yeah, relax. I’m out here my balls swinging in the breeze and you tell me relax.”

“All right, don’t relax. What do you have for me?”

“I got the word to clean out my locker by Thursday.”

“Scotty Martin said this?”

“Who else? Christ sake, somebody else knows about it, clue me in!”

“Who’s sending the stuff?”

“Don’t know. Not asking.”

“What are you supposed to look for?”

“Didn’t tell me that, either. I mean, Scotty’s got a few smarts, you know? I’ve been carrying one of these little back packs in and out of the plant so the security people get used to seeing it. That’s all he told me to do until now.”

“So what’s your gig Thursday?”

“He ain’t told me yet. Not all of it. What I do, I wait for Scotty to give the high sign so me and Johnny can walk the stuff into the locker room and stash it.”

“How do you do that?”

“Under our shirts. Scotty wants us to wear work shirts Thursday. Not just T-shirts.”

“Then what?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know whether we leave it in the lockers or take it out. He hasn’t said nothing about that yet.”

“If it gets taken out, do you meet to divvy it then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Insist on it.”

“What?”

“Insist on getting your share that afternoon. You don’t know Scotty. He might take the whole stash and run. You make goddamn sure that if the load goes out of the plant, you ride with it to the divvy.”

“Yeah. All right.”

“Any idea how much is coming in?”

“No. I figure a lot of kilos, though. We split ten percent of whatever comes through, and Scotty’s acting like we’re going to be fucking millionaires or something. And he gave me and Johnny some of these plastic garbage bags to wrap the stuff in when we handle it. Big bags. I figure it’s a big shipment.”

Kirk figured so too. It would probably include everything that had been in the pipeline since they closed down operations so many weeks ago. “What time?”

“I don’t know, Kirk. Look, Scotty’s not going to tell me what’s going down. He’ll tell me where to be and when and that’s it. I mean, it’s not like he’s dealing in grapes and bananas, you know?”

Devlin knew, and he wasn’t surprised at Vinny’s lack of information. Martin would tell the other two only what was necessary, not just for security reasons but also because information was leverage. “Has Martin met with anybody lately?”