Kick Start: Dangerous Ground 5 (7 page)

He dialed the California Department of Motor Vehicles in Ventura and asked for Ms. Euphonia Jones. He was still on hold when Cousin Dennis ran out onto the deck.

“Someone’s coming!” Cousin Dennis looked pale and wild-eyed.

Taylor disconnected. “Okay. Well —”

“A white pickup is coming down the road!”

The dogs barking from the front of the house seemed to confirm this intelligence.

Taylor swore inwardly, and led the way back inside. How the hell was Cousin Dennis suddenly
his
problem? “Is this the first vehicle that’s shown up since you arrived?”

“No. You showed up.”

Taylor drew a long breath and mentally counted to…three. “Who is it you think is coming after you?”

Cousin Dennis stared at him, silent and stricken.

“Hell.” Taylor went to the window and gazed out. A white pickup was indeed traveling at a fair clip down the dirt road, bouncing over potholes and rivulets.

No way would Bill Brandt have left Cousin Dennis here on his own if he’d thought there was a chance in hell of anyone coming after him.

On the other hand, Cousin Dennis was in WITSEC for a reason.

“Is there a cellar or a basement in this house?”

“A cellar. Yeah. They use it as a safe room.”

“Get down there and lock yourself in.” Taylor brushed past Cousin Dennis on his way to Will’s bedroom. He dug his SIG Sauer out of his bag and returned to the front room where Cousin Dennis was still standing paralyzed.

Taylor jostled his arm. “Hey. Snap out of it.”

Cousin Dennis blinked at him.

“I don’t know what your story is, but I can tell you that nobody is sending a hit squad after you in the form of a couple of yahoos in a beat-up pickup truck. All the same, get your ass in that cellar and don’t come out until I give you the all clear.”

Cousin Dennis seemed to have to work to unstick first one foot then the other, but at last he pulled free of his inertia and disappeared down the hall. Taylor jammed his pistol in the back band of his jeans and strolled out onto the front deck watching as the white pickup jounced to a stop on the hillside below. Riley and Roxie trotted up the steps to stand beside him. They had stopped barking and were watching the pickup truck with evident anticipation.

Three guys, who looked like extras from
Duck Dynasty
, were crammed in the cab of the rumbling truck, apparently getting the lay of the land. Blake Shelton’s “Mine Would Be You” blasted off the surrounding mountains, and several empty beer bottles, rolling around in the bed of the truck, clinked cheerfully.

“Wow,” muttered Taylor, and Riley wagged his tail as though in agreement.

Taylor lifted a hand in greeting.

One of the yahoos, dressed in woodland camo — complete with matching bandana — crawled out of the truck window and jumped to the ground.

“Is Brandt here?” he yelled. He was a big man. Some of it was muscle, some of it was flab, a lot of it was hair. Long black hair and long black beard. Altogether, it amounted to a sizeable and sturdy form.

Taylor relaxed. Not that he had really thought this was some country cousin branch of the mob come hunting Cousin Dennis, but life could be weird.

He called back, “Nope. Anything I can do for you?”

“Who are you?”

“Who wants to know?”

The guy said impatiently, “
I
want to know.”

I’m Larry; this is my brother Darryl, and this is my other brother Darryl.
Taylor bit back an inappropriate smile. First rule of visiting the in-laws: No laughing at the local wild life.

“And you are —?”

“Going to kick your ass if you don’t tell me what I want to know!” The big man drew himself up as though readying for battle.

Really? Taylor sighed. The weary sound carried in the sharp, crystalline air and Larry looked a little discomfited.

He recovered though, cheered on by the other two in the cab who were calling instructions to him, though unintelligible over the music and the truck engine. He bristled. “You a cop?”

“Something like that.” Actually, that was no longer true, and Taylor was startled to realize it.

But it was certainly true in spirit, and Larry bought it. He deflated a little, glancing back at the truck and his snarling kinfolk. Whatever messages of hope and comfort they were delivering seemed to inspire him. He yelled, “You tell Brandt that the Dooleys are looking for him.”

Taylor put a hand to his ear. “Sorry. I missed that. Who?”

“The Dooleys.”

“The…?”

“DOOLEYS,” roared Larry.

“Right. Got it.” Taylor leaned comfortably on the railing, smiling down at Larry who looked more and more baffled. “I’ll let ‘em know.”

Larry stared at him a moment longer and then climbed awkwardly, heavily back through the truck window. He was not built for climbing in and out of truck windows, and the endeavor revealed more glimpses of fish-white anatomy than Taylor wanted to see before breakfast.

When Larry was once more packed inside the sardine can, the truck pulled away in a wide arc, sending stones and beer bottles flying.

Blake Shelton’s voice faded mournfully into the distance.

“I need a lot more coffee if this is the way the day is going,” Taylor told the dogs. He went back into the house.

It took him about half a minute to find the cellar and less than a second to ascertain that Cousin Dennis was not in it.

“Dennis?” Taylor called.

No reply.

“Yo, Dennis. The coast is clear.”

Nothing. The dogs looked at him with interest. Riley cocking his head, Roxie flicking her ears and looking around helpfully.

“What the hell?” His voice sounded loud in the silence.

Dogs on his heels, Taylor conducted a swift but thorough search, striding from room to room, checking showers, bathtubs, closets, looking under beds. Cousin Dennis was nowhere in the house.

“No. Fucking. Way.”

But yes. Way. Cousin Dennis was gone.

Movement outside the small square window to his left had Taylor crossing the loft and staring out at the green meadow and a tiny figure in jeans and a plaid shirt making for the treeline of the forest of pines carpeting the mountains.

“
Why
? Why would you do that, you dumbass?”

It was a rhetorical question seeing that Cousin Dennis was too far away to hear — and getting farther by the minute.

Taylor pushed away from the window and tore downstairs, managing to avoid falling over the dogs who thought this was the start of a terrific new game.

Near the bottom of the stairs, he grabbed the railing and vaulted, landing lightly and running for the back of the house. He banged out through the door and jumped down from the deck to the soft, damp earth below.

Dennis was now a speck in the distance. Where did he think he was going? Did he have a plan or was he just running blind? Taylor whistled, the high, sharp sound cutting through the cool November air, but if Dennis heard, he gave no sign. The dogs began to circle Taylor, thrilled at whatever this was.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

If it was a joke, the joke was on him. Taylor took off after Dennis, the dogs loping alongside. His feet pounded the soft earth, the air was sweet and clear. Also thinner than he was used to and he had to work a little harder to get up to full speed. Dennis had a good head start, but Taylor wasn’t worried. He figured he was in a hell of a lot better shape. He set his pace and quickly closed the distance between them, but not in time to keep Dennis from reaching the trees and vanishing in the green and blue shadows.

Oh no you don’t, you bastard
. Taylor slowed, stopped and reached for Riley, grabbing his collar and looking into Riley’s golden-brown eyes. “Find him, Riley. Go get him. Go get him, Riley!”

Riley was no police dog, but this was a game Will and Taylor played with him, and he gave Taylor a happy, hopeful look and darted ahead after Dennis.

Roxie followed, tongue lolling, as though she was laughing at them both.

Of course Riley was probably looking for Will, but maybe he would stumble over Dennis while he was at it.

Taylor, bringing up the rear, ducked under the pine branches, and stopped. He braced his hands on his thighs, catching his breath and listening. He straightened, wiped his damp face on his flannel sleeve and listened harder. The trees seemed to swallow all sound.

No. Not all sound. A couple of yards ahead, he could hear the dogs crashing through the undergrowth — and beyond that, something that sounded like a moose charging through the brush. Of course, maybe it
was
a moose. Did they have moose in Oregon?

Hopefully not. He’d seen moose in museums and those suckers were huge. He
really
did not want to run into a moose.

Or a bear.

Taylor began to move again, this time angling to the east of where he estimated Dennis was headed.

“Dennis, it’s MacAllister,” he called. “Stop running. It’s all clear.”

The thrashing sounds stopped.

“Dennis? You hear me? It’s okay. You can come back to the house.”

Taylor kept working his way forward, clambering over a fallen tree, avoiding a patch of something that looked suspiciously like poison ivy. Somewhere to his distant right he could hear the dogs. Whatever they were chasing now it wasn’t Dennis.

It wasn’t Dennis because Dennis was close by. Taylor could sense him, even if he couldn’t see him yet. He stopped walking, scanning the gloom.

“Dennis?”

What the hell was this guy so afraid of?

A bird suddenly burst out of the brush, wings flapping, twittering its distress call. Taylor jumped. There was movement to his left. He half turned and something swung out of the darkness and slammed into his head.

Gusts of dog breath and a rough, warm tongue frantically licking his face…

Taylor opened his eyes and pushed away Riley, who ducked under his arm and resumed efforts at resuscitation.

Taylor swore thickly. “Okay, Riley. I’m okay…”

Mostly. His face hurt like hell. His nose felt like it had exploded and there was warm, coppery, salty sludge slipping down the back of his throat. He gagged at the taste of his own blood, rolling onto his side and spitting it out into the pine needles. “God
damn
it.”

He cautiously felt his nose. Was it broken? His lip was definitely split. He looked at his hand, focusing blearily on the red smearing his fingers. “Jesus. That’s just great.”

How long had he been out? Not more than a minute or two, surely? Plenty of time for Cousin Dennis to make himself scarce. And what the hell was the guy’s problem? Even if he hadn’t recognized Taylor before he swung at him, he had to know after he knocked him down.

Taylor spread his palms and pushed up onto his knees. He reached for the nearest tree trunk and hauled himself to his feet. Roxie sat a few feet away, watching him curiously. Riley was much more agitated about recent events and kept dancing in front of Taylor like he was trying to encourage him to take action.

The only action Taylor was taking was going back to the house to call Will to let him know his father’s asshole charge had flipped out and made a run for the hills.

Not. His. Problem.

He wiped his sleeve against his still trickling nose, studied the gory results grimly, and started walking back to the house.

The sun felt good. He was cold from lying on the damp ground, cold from the shock of getting knocked out. Not that he was unused to physical punishment. Taylor knew he wasn’t badly hurt — although he was going to be seriously pissed off if his nose
was
broken — but his head thumped unpleasantly, his face throbbed, his heart was racketing around in his chest in a sick mix of shock and pain and adrenaline. It was not a good start to his day off.

And, as he crossed the meadow and drew close to the Brandt house, his day got abruptly worse.

Will’s SUV was gone.

He broke into a slow and painful jog, although he wasn’t sure why he was running. The Land Cruiser was not there. It wasn’t a trick of the light or a problem with his eyes. The Toyota was missing.

He came to a stop where it had been parked, breathing hard, staring stupidly at the tracks in the drying soil.

“I don’t believe it.”

But he did. As much as he’d have liked to tell himself he was dreaming, the drops of blood landing on the ground next to his boots seemed to indicate otherwise. He wiped his nose again, turned away and continued up the hill, up the stairs, and let himself into the house.

Inside, it was hushed and quiet. Empty.

Taylor walked back to Will’s bedroom. Will’s keys were no longer lying on top of the bureau.

He was finishing his phone call to the Sheriff’s Department when the Brandts returned, noisily trooping in, flushed with sun and wind, smelling of fish and river water, talking at the top of their voices and sending the jagged pain behind his eyes spiking.

“Hey, you’re here,” Will greeted him in evident surprise. “I thought you’d gone into t —” He stopped, took a closer look. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Your Cousin Dennis.”

“What are you talking about? What happened?” Will dropped his knapsack and went to Taylor. He put his hands on either side of Taylor’s face, tilting his head back. “He
punched
you?”

“Not exactly.”

“
What
exactly?”

Bill Brandt said in a hard voice, “Where is Dennis?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”
He got it from all three of them at the same time. They could have started their own barber shop quartet. Well, trio.

Taylor focused his ire on Grant, who was looking at him like he’d crawled out from under a bush. Technically, he
had
, but that expression didn’t exactly warm him to Will’s kid brother. Under the heat of his return glare, Grant reddened.

Taylor said, “Yes. Gone. Long story short. He’s on the run.”

Of course, no way were the Brandts going to accept the
Reader’s Digest
version, and Taylor had to go back and give the whole embarrassing play by play.