Nothing Short of Dying (3 page)

“You haven't heard of Mr. Lance Alvis?”

I said, “If I had, I wouldn't be asking dumb questions. Who is he?”

“You must
not
be a cop,” she said, nodding in approval. “Lance is the man when it comes to getting something to snort, shoot up, or smoke. In three states and growing, from what I hear. Story goes that the asshole used to run private security in Iraq, and when he came back he checked out what Brent was doing and decided to change professions. Lance has more talent for the business than his little brother. Some people say there's no bigger supplier.”

“You believe them?”

“From what I've seen, yeah. He has three or four of his friends with him everywhere he goes, and they're all mean,
hard-looking. Plenty of scars, and scary eyes like yours. They throw money around like it's candy at a parade. I'm pretty sure they roughed up someone in the office a month ago. The jukebox was loud, but I could make out the screams.”

I nodded. Brent started to move, then moan, then cry.

“I need a glass of water,” I said.

“What for?”

“To pour on Spike, get him to wake up. I need to ask him about his brother.”

Allie shook her head, swishing the ponytail across her shoulders. “Won't do any good. Lance keeps Brent in the dark on most things. He gives Brent just enough dope to keep the place running and put some extra cash in his pocket. And even then, the stuff is passed through a middle man. Lance is too smart to actually touch the drugs or the money. No one knows exactly what Lance does or where he goes, except maybe whatever woman he's screwing.”

I took out a hundred-dollar bill, pushed it across the bar. “Tip, then,” I said. “I'll be poking around town for a while, trying to get a lead on Jen. If you hear anything, or if Spike gets cranky when he wakes up and tries anything, give me a call.” I wrote my number on a coaster and stood up. “Want help closing?”

She looked at the men on the floor, some of them now slowly moving. Sighing, she pocketed the hundred and the coaster and shook her head. “Those guys are pretty bad. I'm going to have to call an ambulance.” She went back behind the bar, popped the till, took a couple twenties out, and shoved them in her jeans. “I'll wait five minutes after you leave before I do.”

I offered my hand, and she took it, surprising me with her workingwoman grip. “Clyde Barr,” I said.

“I heard. Five minutes.”

I pushed away from the bar, and she shoved the till closed, walked ahead, and opened the door for me, and then I was out in the dark and on the street. Driving back to the motel, I wondered about this girl's cool demeanor. I figured she'd seen her share of ugly people and events. When you've been to hell and back, watching a few tweakers get laid out by a big guy asking questions probably qualifies as just another day at the office.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he morning was rung in with church bells. Not the kind that clang out from deep inside mossy stone towers. Rather, loud speakers in fake steeples blasting tinny facsimiles. I tried pulling a pillow over my head, but it made me claustrophobic. Then I was conscious of my full bladder.
Damn.
I shuffled into the bathroom and took a long, glorious piss.

My hands were almost too swollen to button my pants. I'd learned years ago that you shouldn't hit with your fists if you make a living with your hands, so they were less sore than if I'd cracked a knuckle on a skull, but they still ached. My whole body did. Probably not as bad as Spike and his friends, but
everyone
gets hurt when they fight. The winner is the one who hurts less.

I carried my big bag out and threw it in the back of the truck, returned to the room, tossed the room key on the bed, and checked my little bag—a beat-up and scarred Duluth, all leather, with little straps that bit into my shoulders if it was packed too heavy. An old African hand had given it to me when I was young and working on a game reserve in Kenya. Along with the pack, this friend of mine, Cecil, had also given me crucial knowledge of who and what to avoid.

Inside the Duluth I carried my little notebook, my pistol and knife, ammo for my .375 Holland & Holland rifle, a plump first-aid kit, and a couple Nietzsche and Haggard paperbacks. The reassuring bulge of the bag's hidden pocket told me that all my cash was there. Thinking about the money made me suddenly cautious, so I took out the pistol, press checked it to make sure there was a round in the chamber, and placed it in my jacket pocket. I was about to throw my flip phone in the bag but decided to check my messages first. There was just one call—from Allie.

“Hey, Barr, remember me from last night? Brent's awake in St. Mary's and he's called me twice saying he's going to kill me. He thinks I helped you, that we had a master plan or something. What an idiot. He's calling his big brother for reinforcements. Let's talk.”

I rubbed my chin and stuffed the phone back in my pocket. Then I sat down on the bed, let out a sigh, and started cleaning my rifle. I didn't need to—I'd cleaned the gun after dressing out the buck on the mountain—but it gave me time to think.

I replayed the phone message in my head. This was another wrinkle in my plans—another person to worry about. But there was no denying that I was the guy who'd put Allie in jeopardy. This was a problem I had to fix.

I finished cleaning and put the supplies away, relishing the sharp smell of gun oil, then stared out the window. Those who needed help always managed to find me, no matter where I hid. They tracked me down and pleaded. And I never refused. Somehow, that always caused bigger problems.

THE DOOR TO MY ROOM
clicked shut, and a minute later I was in the lobby. The bored teenage boy at the desk looked at me,
carrying the rifle, and at my face, and quickly shifted from bored to nervous. His pimply face trembled and his shaking hand reached for the phone on the desk.

“Don't, kid,” I said. “I'm only here to check out. Room 104.”

“Oh.” Instant relief. He looked at the computer, told me I was good to go, and then asked, “So, you going on safari or something?” His gaze shifted from the rifle to my head. I wore a battered and brown felt hat, with a big crown and old bloodstains speckled on the large dusty brim. A raven feather stuck out of the leather band.

“Or something,” I said, then walked out of the motel and got into my truck.

As I drove east, I brooded more on Allie. I had to call her back soon, but I needed to get away from the motel and out of Clifton. It sounded like she did, too. But if we were to meet again it had to be somewhere I chose, somewhere out in the open where I could watch for the people who'd be pursuing us.

The drive was pretty, in the way irrigated land can be. Closed fruit stands, old Victorian houses, peach orchards, and massive leafy vineyards. The road widened, signaling the town proper, and I turned right and drove back down toward the river to a big sprawling park with wide sidewalks, lush green grass, and tall, tough tamarisk that blocked my view of the river.

Next to the main parking lot was a cleared dirt area surrounded by trees with a better view of the river, used occasionally as overflow parking. I drove in and backed the truck into a shady space between two cottonwoods, well away from the main lot. I sat in the cab and returned Allie's call.

She answered on the first ring. “Barr? Where
are
you?”

“In my truck. Have you seen any of them yet?”

“No. I've been in my car, driving all around town, waiting for you to call.”

“Okay,” I said. There was a firmness in her voice, a sense of resoluteness in the face of fear. All in all, she seemed to be handling it pretty well. It was the second time she'd impressed me.

“I want you to head to Palisade, Riverbend Park, and pull into the main lot on the west side. I'll come get you. What type of car you driving?”

“A white Ford Escort. I should be there in . . . let's see, twenty minutes.”

“Good.”

“Hey, Barr . . .”

“Yeah.”

“When Brent was threatening me he said something weird about your sister. Something about her being ‘disposable.' I think maybe you'd better find her fast.”

Allie's words scared me, but as soon as an image of what Jen might be facing appeared in front of my eyes, I willed it away. I'd been in enough scrapes over the years to know that you have to solve one problem at a time.

I walked to the paved parking lot to make sure my truck wasn't visible. It wasn't. Then I checked the park. Just one little red sedan parked close to the gazebo. An elderly overweight man with red suspenders, shorts, and long white socks sat on the bench in the gazebo reading a paperback.

No threats yet. Allie wouldn't be arriving for another fifteen minutes, so I walked over to the river's edge.

The Colorado wasn't at its peak, not yet, but it was well on its way. Most of the bank was submerged, and the level of the milk-chocolate-colored water would rise every day. The standing waves built and crashed but appeared to move
neither up- nor downstream. The actual water never stopped though, just pushed and slammed its way toward the Pacific without thinking. That's what I loved most about the river—its constant motion.

It would be nice, after this was over, to take a long raft trip. Maybe Jen and I could paddle through Westwater and its ass-clenching rapids, then lounge on the banks in Moab for a week or two. That would be heaven: a raft trip with a beer in my hand instead of a rifle.

I heard flapping and looked up. A heron drifted down from one of the tallest trees and settled onto a muddy flat by the shore, shook, then extended its little head up on its long neck. It stuck its thin beak into the air, looked left and right, then suddenly flapped immense wings, sucking both feet out of the mud, and headed west.

Someone was coming.

I drifted back to the truck and leaned on the hood, watching the parking lot and the single road leading to it. A white Escort zipped down the road and made the hard right turn, sending up a spray of gravel as it came to an abrupt stop at the edge of the parking lot. Allie got out, cell phone in hand, and I felt my phone buzz. I didn't answer it.

She walked around the car, looking anxiously at the phone and around the park. My phone buzzed again. I watched the road. No one right behind her, no one parking equidistant to me and the town, playing the same game as me. I continued watching Allie to see how she functioned under fire. She paced furiously around the car, walked toward the park, turned around and headed toward the trees, then returned to the car and sank down, her butt in the dirt and her back to the door. She held her phone now in both hands and stared at the screen.

Today she wore shorts and a tank top. It was obvious that she'd never been on the junk. Her body was toned, athletic. I watched her for a little while longer, then surveyed the park. The old man was getting into his car and leaving, so, seeing no new threats, I decided to let Allie off the hook. I pulled out my phone.

“Allie.”

“Jesus, Barr, where the hell are you? This doesn't feel—”

“Relax. I'm here. You got a bag in the car?”

She hesitated. “Yeah, but—”

“Get it. Walk west, away from the park and into the trees. I'll be there. And hurry. I'd bet good money you were tailed.”

She wasted little time popping the hatch and grabbing her little day backpack. No big suitcase, no duffel bag. Instead, something she could run with. She even put both straps on before marching in my direction. She'd barely made it into the trees—had just spotted me and my truck—when they finally showed up.

CHAPTER FIVE

A
sleek blue sports sedan with tinted windows appeared, moving too fast toward the park. I stepped out of the shadows and motioned to Allie, who started running toward me. “Get in the truck and stay there,” I said quietly. “I'll be back in a minute.”

She hesitated for a moment before opening the passenger door. Her look asked for an explanation.

“We have visitors,” I said.

“Barr, we should just
go
.”

“If we leave now,” I said, “they'll be on our ass the whole time. I'm going to make sure we get a little head start.”

“They probably have guns.”

“So do I,” I said.

AS I SLALOMED MY WAY
through the brush toward the parking lot, I checked the pistol in my pocket and considered how I might use it. I decided to try stealth instead. At a point about ten feet from Allie's car, I went to one knee and crouched behind a leafy cottonweed tree. At my feet lay a long branch. I snatched it up and waited for the right moment.

The blue sedan slowly pulled alongside Allie's car and crunched to a stop. Three men got out—two from the back and then the driver. All three were late twenties. The driver, a short man with slicked-back hair and a very full mustache, barked orders. The other two strutted over to Allie's car, one on either side, and peered through the windows. They both had their hands free but kept checking the back of their belts. The driver turned around slowly, carefully looking at the whole park. He kept touching his belt buckle. So he was armed, too. But he carried it in a spot I never really understood.
Better hope that pistol doesn't accidentally fire.

Eventually he turned back toward the car and started yelling in Spanish at his buddies, telling them to look around, to go search the park. They jogged away, the driver's gaze following them. His back was toward me, and both his buddies were soon out of sight.

I leaped up and ran at the driver, already swinging the branch. He was quick and wary and had turned and pulled his gun halfway out of his pants when the wood connected solidly with his neck. He crumpled to his knees and tried to get his gun up, but I swung the stick down on his arm. The gun fell from his limp fingers and he turned, looking for his friends. I hit him in the ear with the branch, swinging with both hands and putting my hips into it, driving with my legs. There was a crunch and he fell over on his face.

The two buddies had heard our little scuffle and were racing back toward me, as I'd hoped. I ran toward the river and dove into the brush, crawling on my belly to a spot next to a deer trail that led to water. I heard their footsteps, then their accented yelling.

“Where'd he go, man?”

“To the river, I think.”

“He got Fernando good, man. That fool is mine.”

A starling exploded out of the brush beside the trail.

“That him?”

“I don't know, didn't see nothing.”

They entered the path in front of me with their guns out, black poly pistols in the low-ready position. They walked to the river's edge, scanning the shoreline, the surrounding willows, and the weedy brush, then came to a stop on a small cutbank about four feet above the water. They were shoulder to shoulder, guns held in both hands, when I rushed them.

Holding the stick two-handed at chest level, flat in front of me, I crashed into them, sending both of them sprawling into the foamy brown water. Their heads came up within seconds of each other, arms flailing, already fifty feet downstream. I heard them sputter, then swear, and watched as the roaring river carried the two bobbing heads around a bend and out of sight.

I quickly hurried back to Allie's car. The driver was still motionless, lying facedown in the dirt. I picked him up in a fireman's carry and, staggering forward under the man's weight, made it back to the river, where I set him down by the water's edge. I cupped both hands into the water and threw it on his face. Nothing. I did it again, then
again
, and he finally came to.

“You!” he said, his eyes focusing. “I'm gonna kill you. Where is she?”

“Allie? She's long gone now. How about you tell me where Lance is?”

“I ain't gonna tell you nothing, man.” He tried to spit at me but only managed to eject a small bit of spittle over his lip that slowly ran down his chin. He put one hand on his head and moaned. “Where is Diego and Jorge? How come you ain't already—”

I cut him off. “They're on their way to Mexico. Want to go, too?”

He squinted at me, thinking about what I'd said. “You bastard.”

“That's not very nice, Fernando. Let's try again. Where's Lance? He has a girl named Jen with him, right?” I stepped left, keeping my eyes on him, and grabbed a large, round cobblestone. He watched me closely and his eyes widened.

“What are you gonna do with the rock, man? Come on . . .” I took a step closer and raised the rock. It was light and smooth, a nice chunk of water-worn sandstone. He rocked left and right trying to get up, hands still holding his head. I jumped at him, rock raised, and watched a dark stain spread across the front of his jeans. Then I threw the rock in the river. He wasn't going to tell me anything, so I grabbed him by his slick hair, ignored his screams, and dragged him to the bank. I asked him one last time, “Do you know where Lance is?”

He didn't answer, just broke down in gasping, cracking sobs and shook his head.

Oh well, I
tried
.

I grabbed him under both shoulders and slid him into the moving water. He attempted to swim to shore, despite the head injury, but I didn't see whether or not he made it before the current took him thrashing around the bend. I walked back to my truck.