C Box - Blue Heaven

“Yeah,” Gonzalez said, drying his wet hand on his pants, his anger receding. “But the bourbon used your mouth.”

They heard a chair being pushed back from the table inside. “Somebody’s coming,” Newkirk said.

“It better be Singer,” Gonzalez said, standing.

Singer stepped out onto the porch. “Did you solve our problem?” he asked Newkirk, all business.

“Solved,” Gonzalez said. “The pigs are happy.”

Singer’s face went dead as he listened. “You cut him up?”

Newkirk choked as he spoke. “Nah.”

“I told you to cut him up.”

“When I shot him, he fell back into the pen,” Newkirk lied. “The pigs were all over him. I didn’t want to go in there with him.”

Singer looked away, obviously angry. “What did you do with his car?”

Gonzalez said, “It’s in the garage for now, right next to the UPS truck. We can take it to the chop shop in Spokane later.”

“Was he any trouble?” Singer asked Newkirk.

“Nah, he drove right up here.”

“Anyone see you?”

“No,” Newkirk said. No need to complicate things further.

Singer narrowed his eyes at Newkirk. “What happened to your face?”

Newkirk reached up and rubbed his jaw. He could either tell Singer what had happened or pull his weapon and shoot Gonzalez right now in a preemptive strike. Or he could do neither, which is what he chose.

Gonzalez stepped back and threw an arm around Newkirk, crushing him into his hard barrel chest. “Emotions were running a little high, Lieutenant. We had a little scrap, but everything’s cool now, isn’t it, Newkirk?”

Newkirk nodded, lowered his eyes away from Singer’s fixed stare, and said, “Yup. We’re cool.”

Singer moved his eyes from Newkirk to Gonzalez, back to Newkirk. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“Okay, let’s meet,” Singer said, turning on his heel and going inside.

THE LIEUTENANT strode behind the kitchen table and turned toward them as they entered. Swann looked bad. Singer said, “He’s got a broken nose and cheekbone and a busted jaw. Somebody worked him over and took Monica Taylor.”

“Shit!” Gonzalez said, hard and fast.

Newkirk thought he knew who had done it.

“The sheriff’s in a panic,” Singer continued, his voice so calm it reminded Newkirk of the rhythm of a bedtime story. “He’s contacted the state DCI and the Feds. I tried to talk him out of it, but I was unsuccessful. The sheriff thinks he’s got a double kidnapping on his hands. The Feds will be here first thing tomorrow in a chopper.”

Newkirk tried to concentrate on what Singer was saying, tried to put it into context and think ahead.

“Who did it?” Gonzalez asked Swann.

Swann’s face was half-again its normal size. He had trouble talking but said, “Tall thin old guy, maybe sixty, sixty-five, wearing a cowboy hat. He had a lever-action rifle with him, that’s what he used on me.”

Newkirk thought, Yes, sounds like him.

“Why’d he take the woman?” Newkirk asked instead, which resulted in a laser-beam stare from Singer.

“I don’t know why he took the woman,” Singer said. “But I’ve got a pretty good guess. Have you been drinking, Newkirk?”

Newkirk felt his face get hot. “Some,” he said.

“Are you okay to work?”

“Yes,” Newkirk said, his voice thick.

“He’ll be fine,” Gonzalez said, trying to smooth things over between them in his brutish way. “He can follow orders and pop a cap in some old cowboy’s ass, if that’s what we need him to do.”

Again, Singer looked from Gonzalez to Newkirk. Analyzing them, dissecting them. Coming to some kind of conclusion that was inscrutable.

“You remember Fiona Pritzle?” Singer asked. Before they could answer, he continued. “She’s the one who gave the Taylor kids a ride to go fishing. She’s a gossip, a local busybody, but she showed up at the sheriff’s house earlier tonight with an interesting story. She said she saw a local rancher in the grocery store buying food that only kids eat, but the guy doesn’t have any kids. She says he lives up the valley, about eight miles from the Sand Creek campground. The sheriff knows the citizen, named Rawlins. Jess Rawlins, our cowboy. Anyway, Pritzle thinks Rawlins may have the kids. She thinks he’s an old pervert. The sheriff wasn’t buying it at the time. I’m sure he’ll tell the Feds about him, though.”

“Rawlins,” Gonzalez said, turning the name over in his mouth. “I ran into that old fucker today. He threw me off his ranch, said I couldn’t search it without a warrant. I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. We have issues.”

Newkirk kept quiet.

Singer was motionless for a moment, looking at something beyond Newkirk but not really looking at anything at all. Thinking, building a plan.

“He’s got them,” Singer said. “He’s got the kids, and he’s got Monica Taylor.”

He paused to let the fact sink in. “Obviously,” Singer said, in a tone as reasonable as it was icy, “we’ve got to get him before the Feds and the state cops come in. We’ve got to force a confrontation. What happens is the rancher gets killed, and the Taylors go down in the cross fire. The dead rancher later gets pinned with the whole thing: kidnapping, sex crimes, murder. We don’t hit the kids ourselves, we use the rancher’s gun to shoot them.”

“Jesus,” Gonzalez whispered.

Newkirk couldn’t say anything if he wanted to. He was too busy trying to stop the surge of sour whiskey from coming back up.

“What do we do when we’ve got a hostage situation?” Singer asked. Silence.

Then Singer slammed his palm down on the kitchen table so hard that glassware tinkled in the cupboards. “Gentlemen,” Singer said, his voice sharp and straight like a razor’s edge, “what do we do when we’ve got a hostage situation?”

Newkirk gagged, then stumbled to the kitchen sink and threw up. He felt their eyes on his back but didn’t turn around until he had gulped down two glasses of water. Finally, he said over his shoulder, “Cut off power and electricity. Try to force them out into the open.”

“Right,” Singer said, satisfied.

Newkirk turned around, leaned against the counter, wiped his mouth and eyes with his sleeve.

Singer leaned toward Gonzalez: “Do you recall when you were there earlier where the power lines are that lead to the ranch?”

“Yeah. They’re along the highway.”

“First things first, then,” Singer said. “Gonzo, go out into the garage with Swann and you two grab his toolbox, then get over to that rancher’s gate, fast. Use your vehicle to block the exit so they can’t get out and can’t get around you through the trees. Figure out where phone lines are-I’m sure they’re on the highway right-of-way with the power. Go now.”

“I’m out of here,” Gonzalez said, scrambling. Swann stumbled along behind him.

“We’ll meet you there,” Singer said, turning to Newkirk. “I want you to follow me in the UPS truck.”

Newkirk shook his head, puzzled. “Why?”

“We want it close,” Singer said. “Close enough to the ranch to take it down there when everything’s over. It’ll help us build the legacy of Jess Rawlins.”

ITHOUGHT for a minute you were going to let Newkirk shoot me,” Villatoro said.

“Nope,” Jess said. “It was a bluff.”

“It was a good bluff,” Villatoro said emphatically. “I believed you.”

“Mr. Villatoro, you’ll need to keep your voice down a little,” Jess said softly over his shoulder as he rode. “Sound carries out here. We don’t want them to hear us.”

“I’m sorry,” Villatoro whispered. “My nerves are jangling.”