Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) (18 page)

But Miguel Jimenez, Garrett Station’s youngest agent, was drowning internally.

And there was a stick digging into his side.

Screw protocol. She raced to remove her own field coat and spread it on the ground near the bushes. Jimenez was barely five-foot-nine and weighed only 165 pounds, but that was four inches and 40 pounds more than Peyton. It took all her strength to carefully position him atop her coat.

“It’s going to be okay.” She cut a fresh strip of fabric, pressed it to the wound.

And waited.

Minutes later, the sound behind her was unmistakable: the sweep and crunch of boots scuffing the dirt floor. When the steps drew nearer, she heard labored breathing. Her flashlight swept over Jackman’s turnip-red face, and her pistol fell to her side. His flashlight’s beam crossed hers, shone onto Jimenez, and he froze.

“Oh, God! Peyton, you get a pulse?”

“Barely.”

“Oh, Jesus!” He knelt next to Jimenez. “Let me see the wound.”

A siren whined. Red lights flashed in the distance. Peyton waved her light in the directions of the speeding vehicles. Then she removed the balled shirt from Jimenez’s wound and realized the bleeding had slowed. Three balls of blood-soaked fabric lay discarded around her.

“Look quickly,” she said. “I want to keep pressure on the wound.”

Jackman nodded, leaned closer, face contorting, registering the severity of the wound. A tiny nod, then he straightened.

Peyton replaced the makeshift compression bandage, and they were silent. Jimenez, in shock, lay still, his breath rasping like sandpaper on flint. A ten-minute eternity had passed since she’d left the potato house.

The night air blew hard off the river.

Jackman stared down at Jimenez. “He’s just a kid. I shouldn’t have let him go alone.”

“He’s a man and a professional, Stan. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Jackman went on as if she’d not spoken, his eyes never leaving Jimenez.

“ … just a kid. And I knew he was having a hard time with the terrain.”

“Stop it.”

Jackman stood and coughed once, a deep, low sound. He spat and used the toe of his boot to cover the sputum.

“Don’t do that to yourself,” she said.

The siren grew louder.

Jackman sighed. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. He tried to say something about the potato house. But he’s too weak.” She reached over and patted Jimenez’s cheek lightly. “You stay awake, Miguel.”

Jimenez blinked. Then his eyes pinched as he squinted in pain.

“He’s lost a shitload of blood.” Jackman looked at the discarded makeshift bandages then coughed again. The low rumble grew to a half-minute hacking fit. When he stopped, he turned to Jimenez: “Keep fighting, Miguel. Hear me, kid? Keep fighting.”

This time, Jimenez didn’t blink.

Peyton panicked, slapped his cheek several times. The young agent’s eyes rolled toward her. She exhaled. “You’re going to be okay, Miguel.”

The siren was a shriek now; headlights bounced as the ambulance stopped near them.

Two paramedics leaped from the vehicle and took over. She watched as they quickly carried the gurney to the back of the ambulance and slid it inside. The ambulance left, traveling slowly over the rough terrain toward the road. Jackman started coughing again.

“You okay?”

“Sure, fine.”

“You ought to get looked at. Sounds like pneumonia.”

Jackman waved that off. “It’s called a smoker’s hack.”

“I’ll go write the report. You waiting for the state police? Crime-scene unit should be here soon.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ll stay. Go get a jacket and get warm. In ten minutes, this place’ll be a zoo.”

She knew as much and gladly headed to her truck. Where Jackman cursed and wore his emotions on his sleeve, Peyton, a female in a male-dominated profession, never felt allowed that luxury. For a male, an emotional display at a time of crisis relieved him of seeing a shrink for trauma stress. For her, it would play to every stereotype.

In front of Jackman, she’d kept the lid on her feelings. But walking toward the barn, she replayed Miguel Jimenez’s distant gaze, his eyes rolling toward her. The pool of inky blood on his chest, the merlot-colored flecks on his neck, his helpless thrashing when the twig had dug into him.

Though cognizant of her job’s dangers, she’d returned to Garrett because of Tommy, because Garrett Station offered a slower pace and a safer work environment. Garrett had seemed a place where she could finally be both a single mother and an agent. The shooting of Miguel Jimenez had shattered that perception.

Would there ever be a place where she could safely manage her dual roles?

She reached her truck ten minutes later and put the heater on High. As she slid the gearshift into reverse, the radio sounded.

“This is Houlton Sector.”

She took the receiver.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“Your motion sensor got a hit less than a minute ago.”

Peyton jammed the truck into Park and was out the door before signing off.

Peyton was sprinting back to the place where her evening had started. She didn’t use the flashlight; its beam would have been flashing blue lights to a fleeing suspect. Night-vision goggles only now.

She tried to move swiftly but was slowed by the uneven ground, which was becoming slick. Slipping on a rock, her sore ankle burned. She ignored the pain. For the first time since arriving in Garrett, she was close enough to a tripped sensor to utilize the damned thing. Score one for Hewitt.

A hundred yards from the device, something moved.

Her Smith & Wesson was immediately unholstered, the unlit flashlight in her other hand. She slowed to assure she wouldn’t fall.

The dark figure treaded slowly across the field.

Thirty yards away, she removed her goggles, clicked on the flashlight, and yelled, “Freeze!”

“What? Who’s that?”

“Stop where you are,” she said. “Put your hands up.”

She moved in. The man was tall and thin, wearing a black leather jacket over a black turtleneck and black jeans.

His jacket still had dirt on the sleeve.

TWENTY
-
TWO

S
TANDING RAMROD STRAIGHT,
J
ONATHAN
Hurley seemed to go lax at the recognition of her voice. His thin almond-skinned face broke into a smile.

“Peyton, it’s just you. You frightened me there for a moment.”

“Yeah, it’s just me, Jonathan. What are you doing here?”

“Seriously, what’s with the gun? Put that thing away.”

He smiled like he’d lucked out. She kept the pistol drawn.

“I mean,” he said, “you really scared me there for a minute.” He reached inside his coat casually.

She leveled the .40 at his chest.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she said.

His empty hand came out of the leather jacket. He held both hands out to show her.

“I was getting a smoke,” he said. “Don’t point your weapon at me.”

“What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

“Huh? I’m taking a walk.” He stepped forward as if to go around her. “Your tone is accusatory.”

She moved in front of him.

Probable cause could be a bitch—they were a half-mile from where she’d found Jimenez—and an arrest couldn’t be made without it. A half-mile away didn’t exactly place Jonathan Hurley at the scene of the crime. On the other hand, he’d had plenty of time to walk to where they now stood. So Hurley was a suspect who required questioning.

“There’s been a shooting here tonight,” she said, knowing
here
was vague, checking for his reaction.

“Really?” He looked away. “Hunters? Poachers?”

“You hear the shot?”

“I’ve never fired a gun,” he said. “I did hear something like a firecracker, though.”

He didn’t seem curious as to who had been shot. What interested her most was why he wouldn’t look her in the eye. For years, she’d watched him glare at Elise until her sister caved, regardless of the issue—eye contact had always been essential in those situations, but now the roles had been reversed. Ex-cons often felt stress around uniformed law-enforcement officers. However, Hurley knew her personally. So what led to the aversion of his eyes?

“Look at me, Jonathan.”

He turned from the river to face her, squinting into the light. His narrow face no longer seemed eased by her voice. His cheekbones were clenched.

“When did you arrive at this field?”

“I need to get home, Peyton.”

If he didn’t wish to be interviewed, she had two choices: let him walk or bring him in for questioning. The latter required probable cause. When she had discovered him, he’d been coming from the east, the direction where Jimenez had lain fighting for his life.

Professor Jerry Reilly had implicated Jonathan in the Tuesday-night poker game at Mann’s Garage. She had some questions for him on that front, too. The only BC Bud found to date had been inside the back seat of a Dodge Neon, but she’d also found a lost or abandoned infant. And now an agent had been shot.

Something was going on near the river.

“What’s with the gun, Peyton? Please put it away. And get that light out of my face.”

She pointed the beam and her .40 toward the ground.

“When did you arrive here?” she said.

“Not long ago.”

“What time did you hear the loud bang?”

“What time is it now?”

This was progress; he was participatory.

“Midnight.”

“Maybe a half-hour ago, maybe a little longer,” he said.

“Where were you when you heard the sound?”

“Over there.” He pointed east.

“At the potato house?”

“Near it.”

“Doing what?”

“Just walking.”

“See anyone?”

“No.”

“Hear anything other than the loud bang?”

He shook his head.

“See anyone else out here tonight?”

“Not in the field,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“I saw a couple guys in kayaks paddling downriver.”

“Together or separately?”

“Two different kayaks, but they were together.”

“Did they stop?”

“No. But they were close to the river bank, heading east.”

The border was northwest of where they stood. The paddlers could have come from Canada.

“When they saw me, they shined a light in my face.” He paused and raised his brows. “Not unlike what you did.”

She ignored that. “They say anything?”

Another headshake.

“They have anything with them? Anything you saw?”

“No,” he said. “Well, actually, one guy wore a tall backpack.”

“What color?”

“Too dark to tell.”

“What shape was the pack?”

He looked at her.

“Anything to indicate its contents?” she said.

“No. Look, I need to get home.”

“What brought you here tonight, Jonathan?”

“I like to take walks, look at the stars.”

“Never knew you were interested in astronomy. You teaching that?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I thought you taught history and Spanish.”

“I do. It’s the social sciences department, Peyton.”

After manning hundreds of checkpoints in Texas and Arizona, she’d learned to spot a lie. Usually, a person’s mannerisms gave them away. Jonathan had yet to make eye contact, and his face was still a clenched fist. A reaction due to his time in lockup? Or was he hiding something?

“I’ve got a few more questions,” she said, “and it’s cold out here. Let’s go to the station, drink some coffee, talk there.”

“Fine. I have nothing to hide.”

“Peyton.” It was Jackman. “I heard the call.” He, too, had his gun drawn, pointing toward the ground. He looked at Hurley.

“This is Jonathan Hurley. He was out taking a walk and heard a loud bang. We were just talking. We’re headed back to the station to talk a little more.”

“I’ll need to get home fairly soon, Peyton.”

“You two know each other?”

“He’s my brother-in-law, Stan.”

Jackman’s brows rose and fell.

“I already told you everything I know,” Hurley said.

“Just a few more questions,” she said. “Or, if you want to wait, the state police will probably be taking over this investigation.”

She knew he’d probably end up sitting across from a state cop eventually but kept that to herself. Jackman was quiet. Behind her, two Border Patrol trucks and a state police cruiser approached the crime scene, headlights cutting the darkness. The night air was cold.

Jonathan Hurley looked at the vehicles. Then he sighed.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?” she said.

“Put the ex-con in a room with the cops. Watch them break him down. Once a convict, always a convict, right?”

“Can’t undo the past, Jonathan. Me or them?” she said.

“This is bullshit. I was taking a walk.”

“Me or them?”

He cursed under his breath. “You,” he said.

“ ‘Taking a walk’?” Patrol Agent in Charge Mike Hewitt said. “That’s his story?”

Peyton was seated across the breakroom table from Hewitt, having just briefed him on finding Jimenez shot and Jonathan Hurley nearby. Hewitt was scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad.

The breakroom was like the others she’d sat in over the years—the coffeepot had a permanent stain, sugar granules dotted the tabletop, and a stirring spoon was stuck to the table.

Still writing, Hewitt said, “Hurley told you he did time for dealing Oxy, so you thought he might have something to do with the would-be BC Bud shipment?”

“No and yes,” she said. “I was coming to that. There’s something you probably need to know, Mike. There might be a conflict of interest. Hurley’s my brother-in-law.”

“Your brother-in-law?”

“That’s right. He was caught near a high school with a huge amount of Oxy almost ten years ago. He did the course work for a Ph.D. and teaches history at the high school, but he wants to stay home and think great thoughts all day. He’s always trying to get my sister to support him.”

“How’d he end up here? We only have one university. Why not stay in Boston?”