Bluetick Revenge Page 14

  “It means you’re gay,” I joked. “Let’s get out of here before Skull and his Aryan friends find us.”

  We bought some coffee and doughnuts in Coeur d’Alene, then started south toward Boise. Buck and Prince rode in the back, but little Wheat rode up front with us. The state highway had been plowed, but patches of snow and ice remained. We listened to Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits and rolled along at fifty miles per hour.

  We’d been on the road twenty minutes when Scott said, “We’ve got company.” I checked my mirrors. A rust-colored Chevy pickup was coming hard at us. There were three men in the front seat.

  “Doesn’t look like Skull’s crowd,” I said. “These guys look pretty shaggy.”

  “Who else could it be?” Scott asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe just some drunk rednecks who want to pass us. Don’t jump to conclusions.” Scott studied the passenger side mirror as the vehicle closed in on us.

  “They’ve got guns and they’re on our ass,” he said. “As an empiricist, that’s good enough for me.” He started grabbing and checking the various firearms we had stored behind the front seats.

  Now the truck was right behind us, a rifle barrel sticking out of the passenger’s side window. I punched the gas, but the other truck kept pace. I was driving dangerously fast given the road conditions. A skid or spinout would have hurled us off the road and into one or more of the massive trees that lined the highway.

  “This is nuts,” I said. “I’m going to stop. If they stop behind me, I’ll slam it into reverse and ram ’em. That should give us a couple of seconds to get out of the truck.”

  I started braking and our truck began to slow. They tried to pass on my left and ram us, but I wouldn’t let them. I let my truck come to a stop. The other driver pulled up close to my truck and stopped within a few feet of it. Just as the men in it were about to open the doors to their truck, I shifted into reverse and hit the gas. I hit them hard and drove their truck back at least five yards; then I put it in park and rolled out my side of the truck with my Glock as Scott dove out of his side with a rifle and a handgun. I landed behind a bank of snow created by the snowplow. I couldn’t see Scott, but I knew he was probably behind a similar bank on the other side of the two-lane highway.

  A burly man exited from the Chevy’s passenger side with a pump-action shotgun. He wasn’t a skinhead and didn’t look like the men we had encountered at the Biggs compound. But he looked familiar.

  I heard two men exit from the driver’s side of the Chevy. I crawled on my belly, behind the snowbank, hoping to get behind the Chevy and behind the man on my side of it. “Y’all might as well come out!” one of the other men yelled. “You ain’t a-goin’ nowhere.” Later I got a laugh out of the fact that we’d been listening to Bob Dylan just seconds earlier, but at the time it didn’t seem funny.

  I heard one shot from the other side of the highway, then heard glass shatter. The three men turned in Scott’s direction, and I took that opportunity to scamper up into the trees. I found a spot behind a boulder, hidden by spruce trees. I caught my breath and thought for a minute. I knew Scott’s purpose had been to divert their attention and give me time to get into the trees, but I wondered why he had shot a window rather than a tire. Then I realized he didn’t want to disable their vehicle—he wanted them to get in it and drive the hell away. I aimed my Glock at the passenger window on my side of the Chevy and fired one round. I put a nice hole in it. I hoped my shot had given Scott a similar opportunity to find better cover.

  I was higher now and could see all three men. They all looked familiar. They were the three bikers Prince and I had encountered across from the park as they were leaving a burger joint in Coeur d’Alene on Saturday. One of them had specifically asked if Prince was a bluetick. Were they members of the Sons of Satan?

  The three were perplexed. We had them sandwiched. We could see them, but they couldn’t see us. We could have easily killed all three, but we kept still, remained silent, and watched.

  Finally, one of them took charge. “All right,” he said, “I’ll watch this side. Mike, you watch the other side. Pete, see what’s in their truck.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s in their truck,” Pete said. “Three loud fucking dogs. Can’t you hear ’em?”

  “See if one is a bluetick,” the leader said.

  Pete peered into the back window of the shell on my truck and jumped back when Buck’s muzzle banged against the inside of it with a ferocious growl. “Jesus, fuck!” Pete said. “One of ’em is a bluetick.”

  “I knew it,” the leader said. “That’s Bugg’s dog. These are the guys that took Bugg’s dog and helped his old lady disappear. Bugg will pay top dollar if we pop these two.” I hadn’t helped Karlynn to disappear, but I had protected her, and it sounded as though Bugg was onto me.

  “Get the hound out of there,” the leader said.

  “You get him,” Pete said. “There’s another dog in there the size of a lion.”

  The leader stepped closer to the back of my pickup. Very quickly I had to engage in a form of moral calculus. Was I willing to kill these men to protect Prince and my dogs? Was I willing to kill them to protect the three hundred thousand dollars in the back of my truck? And, most important, if I did kill them, could I do it without going to prison? I had just about answered these three questions in the affirmative when Scott fired three rounds over their heads. Instinctively they hit the pavement and crawled under the two trucks.

  They spoke softly to each other, and I had difficulty hearing them. After several minutes the one named Pete crawled out from under their truck, got into the cab, and started the truck. The other two crawled out and entered from the passenger side. They drove around my truck and continued down the highway. A solid wood bumper protected the front of their truck, so I hadn’t done much damage to it when I had rammed it.

  When they were out of sight, I stood and walked back to my F-150. Scott did the same. The back of my truck didn’t look so good. There were large dents in the tailgate, and significant damage to the shell on the back.

  “Sounds like Bugg’s onto you,” Scott said.

  “He is,” I said. “Remember when we were in the park on Saturday and I had to chase Prince? Those three guys were coming out of a burger joint across the street, and one of them specifically asked if Prince was a bluetick coonhound.”

  “Every biker in the mountain time zone is going to be looking for this truck,” Scott said. I nodded.

  “Let’s get it off the road,” I said. “We’ll hide it in the trees. You stay here to protect the dogs and the money; I’ll thumb my way back to Coeur d’Alene and buy a new truck.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Scott said.

  I started my truck and turned down the first dirt road I could find. It was a Forest Service road that probably saw plenty of action in the summer but not much in the winter. A few hundred yards up it, I noticed a spot where I could park it in the trees so it wouldn’t be visible from the highway.

  Because of the damage to the back of the truck, I couldn’t get the window on the back of the shell to open properly. I had to pry it open with the claw end of a hammer. Then I let the dogs out to run around. They seemed okay.

  I reached into the back of the truck and pulled the box with the cash toward me. I counted out twenty thousand dollars and stuffed the bills in the inside pocket of my coat. I donned my Broncos hat and some warm gloves, then started walking down to the highway.

  23

  FIVE HOURS LATER I was driving a “pre-owned” F-150 up the Forest Service road. It was just like my old truck, only much newer. It had less then ten thousand miles on it. It was gold, not green, and had a matching shell on the back. It had the king cab, which is essential if you’re going to spend any time in a pickup. It had four-wheel drive and a V-8, which are essential if you live in the Colorado mountains. It had a high quality CD player, which is essential if you know who Jack Guthrie was. It even had a CB radio, which, due to the invention of
cell phones, is only essential if you are a fan of C.W.McCall. I happen to be one.

  “It was time for a new truck anyhow,” Scott said as I stepped out of the new vehicle. “I didn’t want to have to tell you, but that truck never really loved you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. The dogs were still running loose, enjoying the chance to frolic in the snow. I started removing all our belongings from the old truck and putting them into the new truck.

  “What do we do with the old truck?” Scott asked.

  “Ideally, we’d push it off a cliff and it would explode in a ball of fire, but since there are no cliffs to be seen, I guess we leave it here.”

  “The cops will find it sooner or later.”

  “Who cares?” I said. “They’ll tow it and send me a bill for the towing and storage. I’ll come up when things settle down, get it fixed, and sell it.”

  Scott followed my lead and began loading his guns and cold-weather gear into the new truck. I called the dogs and loaded them into the new truck, with Wheat up front and Buck and Prince in the back. When it appeared that we had transferred everything, I took one last look at the old truck and said, “We’ll always have Paris.”

  I started up the truck and unfolded the Idaho map so that both Scott and I could see it. “Looks like we can take the state highways back to Boise and pick up the interstate or head east into Montana and drop down into Wyoming.”

  “I think we’ve worn out our welcome in Idaho,” Scott said.

  It was already early afternoon. “All right,” I said, “we’ll see if we can make Bozeman or Billings tonight.”

  I guided the truck back down to the highway, then headed east across northern Idaho. It was beautiful country, and aside from the fact that too many neo-Nazis and white supremacists had chosen to call it home, my only complaint about the area was that just about everything was named after Lewis and Clark. Bridges, schools, parks—they were all named after the two men Jefferson had dispatched to explore the American West two centuries ago. There was even a Lewis and Clark Laundromat in one town.

  “That must have been some trip,” I said. “Imagine seeing all this in its natural state.”

  “Imagine paddling a canoe all day, eating an elk steak cooked over an open fire, then crawling into the tent with Sacagawea. I wonder how two junior officers managed that assignment.”

  “Clark was already out of the army when they began their journey,” I said. “Lewis asked him to tag along because he wanted company and needed someone to handle the paperwork. Sort of like my relationship with you.”

  Scott smiled and we continued east. After a while I picked up my Lewis and Clark cell phone and dialed the number for the gas station in Blanca, Colorado.

  “Who you calling?” Scott said.

  “Uncle Ray,” I said.

  “Crazy Uncle Ray?”

  “Yeah. I figure it might be wise to have a little extra firepower while Jayne is visiting.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” he said.

  “I thought of that,” I said, “but then Jayne would know this is serious, and I don’t want her worrying about me.”

  A woman at the gas station answered, and I asked her to take a message for Ray and give it to him if he happened to pass through town. My mother’s youngest brother lives in a plywood shack on five acres of cactus-covered land outside Blanca. A former merchant seaman, Ray was a drunk for much of his life, but he found Jesus several years ago at age fifty-six and now lives in an impressive eight-by-twelve shack that he built in southern Colorado. He has no phone, no electricity, and no running water, but he’s happy. And he’s good with a rifle. My mom grew up dirt poor in rural Alabama, and everyone in her family is good with a rifle, including my mom.

  Next I called the Nederland Police Department. Phyllis answered on the first ring. “Hi, Phyllis,” I said, “this is Pepper Keane. Is Glen in? I really need to speak with him.”

  “Just a sec,” she said. She put me on hold. Glen is Nederland’s chief of police. He runs the four-man department. The lanky runner had been a cop in Houston for thirty years before taking the job in Nederland a few years back. Though he is soft-spoken, he’s been a controversial figure because he actually enforces the drug laws. Well, most of them. Some of the hippies in Nederland don’t like him, but the town seems to have reached a homeostasis in which everyone understands that the discreet use of marijuana by adults is acceptable, but other drugs won’t be tolerated.

  Glen’s voice came on the line. “Pepper,” he said, “I’ve been hearing rumors about you.”

  “Is one of them that Thad Bugg wants me dead?”

  “Yeah, that’s one. Another one is that the feds think you helped Bugg’s girlfriend disappear.”

  “That one is bullshit,” I said. “Hell, I was trying to find her and convince her that the Witness Protection Program was a good deal. We tracked her to Boise, but then the trail went cold and we got involved in some other things.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d sure appreciate it if you guys could keep a close eye on my house. Jayne’s coming home this week, and it would be nice if my house is still standing when she arrives. I’m afraid Bugg will try to torch it.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why on Earth did you steal Bugg’s dog?” Glen asked.

  “Why climb the highest mountain? Why fly the Atlantic? Why does Rice play Texas?”

  “I remember that speech,” he said. “I was in Houston when Kennedy gave it. It was nineteen sixty-two. You would have been four or five years old.”

  “Then let me finish,” I said. “I chose to steal that dog. I chose to steal that dog in this decade, not because it was easy, but because it was hard. Because the goal of screwing with Bugg will serve to organize and measure the best of my energies and skills, but that challenge is one I am willing to accept, one I am unwilling to postpone, and one which I intend to win.”

  He laughed a little. “Let me know when you get back into town,” he said.

  “I will,” I said. “By the way, I invited my uncle Ray to come visit until this thing with Bugg plays itself out. He’ll be driving an old pickup with a big camper on the back.”

  “I think I met him once. He’s the guy who thinks everyone is either a devil worshipper or a drug dealer, right?”

  “In a nutshell,” I said.

  “He may be onto something,” Glen said.

  The sun went down, darkness came, and we found a nice restaurant in Bozeman. While we were waiting for the waitress to take our order, I looked across at Scott and said, “This has to rank right up there with the worst days of my life. We got the skinheads after us. We’ve got the Sons of Satan after us. The feds think we helped a critical witness disappear. We’ve been shot at and we’ve shot at people. I had to hitchhike to Coeur d’Alene in the snow. I spent twenty thousand dollars in drug money that isn’t even mine on a new truck. And I just invited Uncle Ray to my house for the holidays. It’s hard to imagine how it could get much worse.”

  The waitress arrived and asked if we wanted drinks. Scott ordered a cold beer. I asked for a diet Coke.

  “Is Pepsi okay?” the waitress asked.

  24

  JAYNE’S FLIGHT ARRIVED at Denver International Airport just after nine on Saturday morning. I met her in the baggage claim. Even after a twelve-hour flight she looked beautiful and refreshed. We embraced and she gave me a luscious kiss. She’s not much for makeup, but she almost always wears pink lipstick. Her brand has a wonderfully erotic scent.

  “It’s not fair for you to look so damn good right at the airport,” I said. “I don’t know if I can keep my hands off you during the drive back to Ned.”

  “I didn’t ask you to,” she said.

  Luggage began to appear on the conveyor belt and to drop down onto the carousel. She pointed out her two bags and I snagged them. “Do you have a coat in one of these?” I asked. “You’re going to need it.”

 
She found a coat in one of her bags and put it on. I started to carry her bags, but she pointed out that both of them had wheels, and suggested that we each pull one. Then we walked out into the cold and onto the fifth and top level of the parking garage. Because it is the top level, there is no roof above it. Most people avoid it for that reason, but I favor it because I know it is directly across from the baggage claim and won’t require me to wait for an elevator.

  The dogs started barking as we approached my truck. “You bought a new truck?” she said.

  “Figured it was time,” I said.

  I opened the door on the back of the shell and placed her bags in the back of the truck. Buck stuck his head through and she caressed his massive face. “I missed you, big fella,” she said. His tail was wagging in overdrive.

  “That’s Prince,” I said, though it was rather obvious. She motioned for him to come, but he backed up, raised his muzzle, and let out a loud, melodic howl.

  “He’s handsome,” she said.

  I opened the passenger door, and little Wheat poked his black head out. She let him kiss her, then squeezed in beside him.

  “You guys are my family,” she said as I started the truck. “I’m so lucky.”

  “I’m the lucky one,” I said. I squeezed her hand.

  I paid the parking attendant and aimed the truck in the direction of the airport exit. “I might as well tell you now,” I said. “My uncle Ray is going to be staying with us for a few days.”

  “Oh, I’ve always wanted to meet him,” she said. “He sounds like a real character.”

  “He’s all that and more,” I said. “The good news is, he’ll probably spend most of his time in his camper, so he’ll be more or less invisible.”

  Jayne fell asleep on the drive back to Nederland. I was glad to have her home, but I had a lot of other things on my mind—Karlynn, Bugg, and Skull to name just a few.

  I had provided the recording of Skull’s voice to a female detective at the Denver Police Department as soon as Scott and I had returned, but I hadn’t heard back from her yet. Her name was Michelle Simmons. In the course of our conversation we discovered we had attended the same suburban high school and graduated together. But I had been a jock and she had been active in the theater, so we had never gotten to know each other.