Neil McMahon - Lone Creek

As for Balcomb, we had disposed of him, on Reuben's suggestion, at an old homesteader's cabin about two miles back into the mountains. There was nothing left of the structure except a rock-and-mortar foundation. But there also was a crumbling cistern dug into a hillside, which collected from a spring. I'd known the place was there, but not about the cistern-probably the only other living person besides Reuben who did know was Elmer. It was covered by brush and partly filled by erosion, but about two feet of murky scum-covered water remained on the bottom, fed by the still trickling spring. We'd weighted Balcomb down with rocks, kicked dirt in from the hillside to fill the cistern the rest of the way, and rearranged the brush for cover. It was almost as secure an entombment as Kirk's.

Then we'd gone back to the golf driving range to tidy up there.

"I know there's blood on these diamonds," Reuben had said, picking up the box, "but I guess I'm too much of a hard-ass old prick to think letting them stay buried here would wash it off. I'll liquidate them quietly and put the money where it'll do some good, if you boys are amenable." Madbird and I were. We covered up the safe, drove the cart back in over it, and went home.

And right now, all I cared about was the sight of my pickup truck, turning the corner and coming my way.

When it pulled up to the curb, I was taken aback to see that Gary himself was driving, with his elbow perched jauntily on the windowsill. He patted the dash, apparently admiring the truck again.

"This is some rig," he said. "Runs smooth and handles real tight."

"I had the steering gear replaced not long ago."

"I miss those old days. You had a ride like this, a girl, and a six-pack, that was as close to heaven as it got."

"I still can't think of much better," I said.

He shifted position experimentally, like he was getting used to the seat. He didn't seem in any hurry to climb out.

"You know, I'm kind of sticking my neck out, doing this," he said.

"I do know that, Gary. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

"Well, if you'd answer just one question, it might clear up something that's been bothering me a long time."

Everything in me stopped.

"It don't have anything to do with this, directly, anyway," he said. "I guarantee I won't hold it against you or breathe a word about it."

That didn't reassure me much.

"I'll try," I said.

"Did Pete kill her?"

I shoved my hands into my pockets and took a couple of steps, gazing up at the mountains.

If we want something from Gary, we better give him something, too.

I turned back to him. "Yeah."

That might have helped satisfy his curiosity, but it sure didn't please him.

"I didn't lie to you back then, Gary," I said quickly, trying to head off his wrath. "I didn't know."

"So how is it you know now?"

"You said just one question."

His eyes went hard as stone and his forefinger rose to point at my chest.

"I'm the goddamn sheriff of Lewis and Clark County, son, and I'll ask as many goddamn questions as I want."

I waited, braced for an ass-chewing that would take me out at the knees.

But then he lowered his hand and sat back again, his expression turning wry.

"All right, a deal's a deal," he said. "I can pretty well fill in the blanks from there, anyway."

We were both quiet for another half minute. He still didn't get out of the truck.

"When's the last time you went to confession, really?" he said. "You know, in a church?"

My unease swept back in. I didn't think I was imagining an element of sarcasm about my story of a cathedral in the woods.

"Not for years," I said. "Mass, either."

"I go every Sunday. But the difference between that and what I see every day-" His mouth twisted in the same grimacing way it had earlier. "It's kind of like this situation. On the one hand, I'm all for letting people solve their problems on their own, especially if they do it clean and decent, and double especially if it's no bother to me. On the other hand, that ain't necessarily how the law's supposed to work."

"I'm not sure I follow you," I said, although I did, all too well.

"Reuben's bullshitting. You and me both know it, and so does he. If Kirk and Balcomb were dealing with somebody that serious, Kirk's dead. Maybe Balcomb was slick enough to get out. Maybe not."

He swung his head toward me and skewered me with those slaty eyes.

"Maybe it was something else entirely," he said.

I kept my mouth shut once more.

"There ain't many bodies buried around here that I don't know where," Gary said. "It's something I kind of pride myself on. What do you suppose the odds are I'll run across another one someday?"

"I wouldn't want to bet against you on much of anything, Gary."

"You better give Bill LaTray a call. He's got a way of dislocating a skip's shoulder before they start chatting."

He finally opened the truck's door, got out, and handed me the keys.

"Be seeing you, Hugh," he said.

Sitting behind the wheel of my good old pickup again was a pure joy. I started home. But I hadn't gone more than a few goddamned blocks when I heard a pop outside the window, then felt the drag in the right rear that meant a blown tire.

"Son of a bitch," I said. I had a good spare and jack-I just couldn't believe I was going to have to fuck around with something like that right now.

I was on Ewing, a narrow street with cars parked almost solid, and of course there was somebody right on my ass. I turned down the next side street, found a place to ease over to the curb, and got out to take a look at the damage.

The vehicle behind me also turned-a big four-door Chevy pickup truck of a generic white color, so new it didn't yet have license plates, just a temporary tag. As it pulled up beside me, I got a glimpse of a logo that read Grenfell Chevrolet, Great Falls, Montana. The windows were smoked so I couldn't see in, until the rear one closest to me rolled down. There were two men, one driving and the other in back. I assumed they were going to offer me a ride to a gas station, and I started to say thanks, but I had it covered.

Then I realized that the man in back was resting a pistol barrel on the windowsill. It ended in a vented cylinder the size of a roll of quarters-a sound suppressor.

"Get in, please," he said. The words were clear but had a crisp accent. He pushed open the door and slid back across the seat, with the gun still pointed at my chest.

Balcomb had been quick about hiring new killers, all right. He must have set this up before we'd gotten to him last night.

There wasn't another human being anywhere in view. My body felt completely drained of power, like a bag of hair. With the sick hopeless certainty that this was it, I got in.

The interior's pleasant new-vehicle smell was almost overcome by cologne that reminded me of a bad air freshener, with a heavy admixture of garlic. The man in the back with me had a wiry athletic build and a handsome, sharp-featured face. Together with his accent, his looks suggested northern Europe. The driver was older, heavier-set and darker-complexioned, with black hair and a thick mustache-maybe Latino or Mediterranean. By and large, they were almost as ordinary-looking as John Doe.

Except that both were decked out in full cowboy regalia, from Stetsons and shirts with mother-of-pearl snaps down to pointy-toed boots, all as new as the truck. It would have been laughable, except that there was nothing funny about these two. John Doe had only been scary. They were at ease.

"Wesley Balcomb's gone," I said, in the feeble hope of canceling their mission. "He disappeared last night. Maybe hiding out. Maybe dead."

The man in back with me nodded calmly.