Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

“Hey, O’Brien,” Buddy shouted. “Get out here. The next one’s gonna-”

A police siren pierced the air. What the hell?

Buddy lowered the gun to his side, shaded his eyes, and peered out at the road in front of him. He continued to stare.

I took a quick look around. The guards had also stopped, and now glanced up the road. A fast-moving black and white cruiser, its red lights flashing, drifted over the hump trailing a thick cloud of dust. The car grew ominously larger as it sped closer to the works, the resounding wail of its siren reverberating in the valley. Buddy obviously knew who drove the vehicle. He stepped casually to the side of the road and waited. The police car zoomed right on past me and slammed to a stop next to him.

Burt Krause, chief of Barstow’s finest, leaned out of the driver’s side window and spoke to Buddy. I couldn’t hear what they talked about, but Buddy looked pissed. Sitting stoically in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, was Ben Moran.

A few seconds passed. The cop car pulled away and drove up to the front of the office. The men climbed out and rushed inside.

Buddy shouted and waved his arm, signaling for the two guards to return. They conferred with him for a few seconds before he stormed off in the direction of the office.

The guards glanced out at the scrub once more, then trailed in Buddy’s wake and took up a position in front of the door holding their rifles across their chests. No one seemed to be looking for me now. Why’d they stop?

I had no idea what was going on in the little building, but I grabbed at the chance to move. I jumped up, veered right, and made a beeline for one of the slag piles close to the rear of the office. I covered the distance in three seconds flat and hid behind the small mound.

Two more guards appeared, patrolling the area between me and the clapboard building. Turning, I glanced at the area behind me. I looked out beyond a five-foot-high stack of old wooden beams and a huge pile of rusting metal way out to a landing strip. I relaxed for a few beats. No one was watching. I turned back and peered around the slag pile. The guards moved cautiously, their weapons extended in front of them. When they came to the far edge of the office, they turned toward the front and disappeared around the corner. They’d be back soon.

I dashed to the rear of the building and flattened my body against the wall. Without looking down I fingered the automatic in my belt, a reassuring gesture, though not too reassuring with only one cartridge in the clip. I pulled the gun out. My hand trembled in fear-or maybe anger-as I chambered the round and tucked it back in my belt. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, I slid along the wall toward a dirty window in the center of the building next to a closed door.

Ducking down, I crossed under the window and put my hand on the rusty knob. I twisted it, and the door opened a crack. With every instinct in my body telling me to retreat, I ventured into the building. I stood in a dim utility room where I saw a door cut into the opposite wall. It was slightly ajar; a sliver of light spilled through and fanned out as it fell across the floor.

I tiptoed to the door and peered through the opening. My knees buckled. Rita sat there, tied to a chair at the far end of the vintage office. A strip of duct tape covered her mouth. It took all my willpower to stop from barging in and shooting Moran where he stood, but I only had one bullet and Krause wore two big revolvers on his hip. He’d shoot us both if I tried anything.

Krause and Buddy were talking at once. Moran, holding a large shoulder pouch, stood ramrod straight next to an old cabinet safe.

“Shut up, goddammit,” he bellowed. “It’s all over. O’Brien’s pal, that P.I. bastard Silverman, talked to Bickerton. Must’ve scared him good. The snake oil preacher told him everything.”

I froze at the mention of Sol’s name. What did he have to do with this?

“What could Bickerton tell him?” Buddy asked. “He don’t know shit about what we do out here.”

Krause jumped in. “That tax-exempt asshole told Silverman that Ben here gives him kickbacks to send his recruits, the druggies, to the rehab center at Rattlesnake Lake.”

“So what?” Buddy said. “Everybody gives kickbacks, even the legit drug centers.”

“Go ahead, might as well tell him the rest, Burt,” Moran said.

“That Jew bastard figured out Moran doesn’t have a state license to operate a rehabilitation center. Rattlesnake Lake’s cover has always been that it’s a gun club, right?”

Sol had told me he was working on something. But why was he worried about Moran’s damn licenses? God Almighty, they’re turning kids into slaves!

“That goddamned Silverman,” Moran said, “had his buddies, brass from the San Berdoo County Sheriff’s Department, raid the base. That son-of-a-bitch used that license bullshit as an excuse. He’s there now with the cops. They’re talking to the kids, for chrissakes. I was in the cafe when Burt got the call. He came in and got me and we rushed out here.”

“The FBI will be out there soon,” Krause added.

Oh, Sol! You lunatic. You wonderful crazy human being. Who’d think of taking down a group of hardened mad-dog killers with a simple license code violation? If you were here, I think I’d kiss you. I winced. Well, I’d say something nice.

“What about O’Brien?” Buddy asked. “He’s out there in the bushes.”

“Forget O’Brien. You idiot, it’s over. As soon as that damn plane gets here, I’m gone.”

“Wait a minute. You’re just gonna leave?” Buddy said.

“I knew it’d come to this one day. I’ve got my goods and I’m gonna haul ass. The plane will be here any minute.”

My mind swirled. Sol knew I was heading for the borax works; Joyce must have told him. He’d bring the cops here for sure. I just had to wait it out. Hang on without getting caught until they arrived. It wasn’t my job to capture Moran, so why take any risks now? I’d just have to play it cool. Moran would get away, but so what? Rita would be safe. And that’s what mattered. I shook my hands at my sides and did a couple of neck rolls, trying to loosen up.

I heard the drone of a small plane. It would touch down on the little runway at any moment. Then Moran would take off. Buddy and Krause would leave as well. They’d have to if they wanted to save their necks. I waited and listened.

“You’ve got what, ten, twelve million in uncut diamonds stashed in that pouch, Moran?” Buddy asked.

“Suppose you tell me what’s on your mind,” Moran said.

“Suppose I tell you I want my share!”

“Take it easy, Buddy,” Burt Krause said. “Ben’s taken good care of us-”

A gunshot exploded. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I spun around and peered in. My eyes swept the room. Rita, wide-eyed, squirmed in her chair, scared out of her wits but okay. Buddy was sprawled on the floor, blood oozing from a third eye in the center of his forehead. Moran stood in front of the open safe still holding the black pouch in one hand; in the other he held a smoking gun.

“Christ , Ben! I could’ve talked him out of it!” Krause exclaimed.

“He had it coming. You got a problem, too?”

“Hell no! You did fine by me. I’ve got plenty stashed. You’re right, he had it coming. But hey, I gotta get outta here too before the authorities show up.”

I ducked back and crossed the room. Glancing out, I saw the plane sitting on the runway. Damn, the pilot was headed this way, coming to get Moran. He’d walk in the door and spot me. I darted back, desperately looking for a place to hide. Nope, nowhere.

Moran’s voice came from the other room: “The plane should be here by now. So long, Burt.”