Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) (39 page)

“There are too many moving parts,” Morrison said. “I don’t like all of us meeting like this.”

“Things are getting simplified,” McAfee said, “right, Tyler?”

“Yup,” Timms said and stood. He slid the 9mm in his belt and said, “Come on, professor, eh. We’re going fishing.”

“What?” Reilly said.

“Fishing, Jerry,” McAfee said. “You’ve never fished? The poles and tackle boxes are in the shed, Tyler.”

“I know where everything I need is,” Timms said and nudged Jerry Reilly toward the front door.

Arms behind her, Peyton leaned forward uncomfortably. A fire was blazing in the large stone fireplace on the far wall. She tried to reach the pepper spray on her belt, but it was no use.

“Pam,” Peyton said, “what the hell are you doing? What do you mean, me for the baby?”

Morrison looked at her. For the first time since they had met, Peyton saw something close to anger in Morrison’s face.

“Alan had a buyer for her,” Morrison said. “I had to remind him why we’re all doing this—not for money, for the children. And I had to remind him that he promised Autumn to me. And now I want my baby.”

“I don’t need to be reminded of anything,” McAfee said.

“You took my baby, Peyton,” Morrison said. “I’ve been helping Alan for a year—all for a baby.” She looked at McAfee. “Then, when I wanted out, he asked me to bring you here. And now I’m
really
out of all this, Alan. Is Autumn en route?”

“Don’t ever accuse me of doing this for the money,” McAfee said. “You have no idea how many families we’ve helped. I screen these people probably more thoroughly than Social Services.”

“So why were you leaving Autumn in a field?” Morrison said.

“For the middle man,” McAfee said, “and only for ten to twenty minutes.”

“You trust Hurley as the middle man?” Morrison said.

Peyton was trying to piece it all together.

“It’s his child,” McAfee said. “Who would you trust? All he had to do was pick her up and bring her to me. Kenny did his part. He left her there, but …” McAfee looked at Peyton.

“But I found her first,” Peyton finished.

McAfee ignored her. “I know I promised her to you, Pam. But the offer was thirty-five thousand dollars. It’s called overhead. But I’ll honor my promise. As you said, we have a lot of pieces to this puzzle. And not all those pieces are as altruistic as I am.”

“Save the bullshit, Alan,” Morrison said, getting more agitated. “I was promised a baby. I’m not waiting any longer. You said you could get Autumn from Jonathan. Did you?”

McAfee nodded. “Of course. I’ve listened to his rants long enough for him to trust me. He thinks the baby’s still in New Brunswick, but she’s on her way to California.”

McAfee turned and looked out the window.

“Jonathan and Celia have been going to England,” Peyton said, “posing as he and my sister. They’ve been bringing back babies from the orphanage you and Morris Picard and Jerry Reilly are affiliated with. That’s why Jonathan went back to his house Saturday night, to get a folder that said
St. Joseph’s Orphanage.
Leaving it would have tied him to all of this.”

McAfee turned back to her.

“I’m genuinely impressed,” he said. “Everyone has a role. I bet you never knew Kenny Radke had duel citizenship.”

How hadn’t she known that?

“That’s why Jonathan and Celia flew to and from Canada,” Peyton said.

McAfee didn’t reply. He was looking out the porch window, presumably at Reilly and Timms. They’d been hiding the babies in Canada, using Radke to drive them across the border when a buyer had been found.

“Did you recruit Jonathan?” Peyton said.

“He taught my son, told me he was moving here,” McAfee said and shrugged. “I like the way he thinks.”

“Meaning you’re both right-wing nuts?” Peyton said and heard the boat’s motor burp and spit before roaring to life. “Let Jerry go. Keep me.”

“They’re just going fishing,” McAfee said. “Be terrible if an accident happened on the water, like a handgun with a silencer went off and a college professor with an anchor tied to his leg and a bullet hole in him fell overboard, though. That would be really unfortunate.”

“Don’t do it,” Peyton said. “What do you want?”

“To know what else Jerry told you.” He was looking at her now. “But if you know about St. Joseph’s, I guess I know what you know already. Kind of a shame to have to …” He didn’t finish.

The boat’s engine grew faint and then cut out.

“She was on the St. Joseph’s Orphanage website most of yesterday,” Morrison said, “and for an hour this morning.”

Peyton started to deny it, but then looked at Morrison, the station’s resident computer expert.

“You’re not real computer savvy, Peyton,” Morrison said. “Took about three minutes to access your computer remotely.”

“You hacked into my computer?”

“I imagine it’s covered under the Patriot Act,” Morrison said.

Through the window over the kitchen sink, Peyton saw a car stop in the driveway next to the Silverado. Morris Picard climbed out.

“Gang’s all here,” McAfee said.

In the distance, the boat’s motor fired up again and grew louder as it approached.

Picard walked in the front door. “What’s going on? I don’t like being called out of school.”

“Something has come up, Morris.” McAfee pointed to Peyton. “She seems to have befriended our weak Englishman.”

“Where’s Hurley?” Picard said. “He’s the loose cannon in all this. And there’s a black truck parked along the side of the road about a quarter-mile from here. Is that Tyler’s?”

“Too many damned loose cannons, if you ask me,” Pam Morrison said.

“Jonathan!” McAfee shouted.

Jonathan Hurley came in from the screened-in porch.

“You still have Peyton’s gun?”

Hurley held it up.

“Okay, stay on the porch.”

“What are we doing?” Hurley said.

“You’re staying on the porch for a while. Maybe you’ll shoot another agent.”

Peyton thought of Miguel Jimenez. On Sunday, he’d been upgraded to Stable condition.

“That was an accident,” Hurley said.

“Really?” McAfee said. “That’s what you call it?”

“I didn’t want to do it,” Hurley said. “I thought he saw Celia. What’s going on, Alan?”

“You tell me,” McAfee said.

Hurley looked uneasy. “Tell you what I think’s going on?”

“Yes. I’d love to hear it.”

“All I know is that my wife won’t adopt because she’s a dyke, so I’m leaving her.” He looked at his sister-in-law. “I really did love Elise. None of this would have happened if she’d just adopt. I had it all worked out. We could’ve had Celia’s baby. Then Elise said no. Alan said she’d go to a good family. I said okay, but then I couldn’t—I couldn’t let her go. I went to the field to get her, but I guess you beat me to her.”

Peyton turned to McAfee. “So you promised Jonathan and Celia’s baby to Pam, but then had an offer for thirty-five grand, so you wanted to sell her instead.”

Jonathan looked confused.

“That’s enough,” McAfee said.

“So I took her back,” Jonathan said. “Now she’s waiting for me across the border in Youngsville.”

“You’re crazy,” Peyton said. “You know that?”

“You’ll never understand,” Hurley said.

“
Understand
how you can cheat on my sister, knock up a student, and then think you could trick Elise into adopting your own baby?” Peyton said. “You’re right. I won’t ever understand how you thought that could work.”

“It’s not like that,” he said.

“Go back to the porch,” McAfee said. After a few long moments, Hurley left.

Morrison glanced at McAfee.

“You did get the baby from that lunatic, right?” Morrison said.

“I already told you I did,” McAfee said.

“And I already told you I’ve been waiting for a year, Alan.”

The front door opened again, and Timms entered the cabin, went to the fridge, and took out a bottle of beer.

“Didn’t catch nothing, eh,” Timms said.

“Jesus Christ,” Peyton said. “You didn’t. Tyler, you sonofabitch.”

“I need to get out of here,” Morrison said. “My resignation is in. Autumn is supposed to be with my cousin in Los Angeles tomorrow.”

“She’ll be there tomorrow afternoon,” McAfee said.

“How do I know that for sure?” Pam Morrison said.

“Because I said she will be. You’re forgetting that you have as much on me as anyone. I want you to have that baby. It gives me something on you.”

Morrison looked at him, considering. Then she nodded once.

“I’m going now. You have Peyton. I’m out of this forever.”

Peyton watched Morrison move toward the front door, but she heard a chair scrape on the back porch and Hurley say, “No. Don’t.”

The first shotgun blast sounded like an explosion.

Peyton didn’t need to see Hurley to know he was dead. She heard a sound like a sandbag dropping and saw her .40 skitter across the floor.

Timms had ducked behind the kitchen counter, his beer bottle overturned. McAfee was across the room from Peyton, back pressed against the wall and fumbling in his jacket pocket. He retrieved a .357. Morris Picard was on the floor cowering. The front door swung shut behind Pam Morrison, who dashed outside.

No one moved. The cabin was silent.

Then Peyton heard a floorboard creak on the back porch. The shooter had entered the cabin.

She knew more shots would be coming and leaned forward, knelt, and shuffled to the side of the sofa, trying to wedge herself between the sofa and the wall.

When he leapt across the porch doorway, she recognized the color—forest green—before she recognized the man. Scott Smith was crouched at the window along the back wall of the cabin. He fired once, and the glass in front of him shattered.

Smith saw Timms duck beneath the counter.

Peyton didn’t expect what Smith did next.

He leveled the 12-gauge at the base of the counter and fired three times—first at the right side, then at the center, and finally at the left. Plywood shards flew, and the structure’s two-by-four framing posts were exposed. Shotgun pellets clanged and ricocheted, but there was another sound like a long sigh.

Then Timms stood. Dazed, he staggered into the middle of the cabin, bleeding badly from his stomach. He raised his 9mm, but Smith’s shotgun blast knocked him off his feet.

Picard was whimpering on the floor.

McAfee, along the far wall, fired toward the window, but he had no angle.

Peyton knew McAfee had to move into the doorway and face Smith head-on or move to the center of the cabin.

He did the smart thing, and now they were looking at a hostage situation.

“Come out where I can see you,” McAfee said, squatting behind Picard.

She heard Smith reload the 12-gauge.

McAfee pulled Picard up to a seated position by his hair and used him as a shield.

Smith didn’t move.

“Okay, you sonofabitch,” McAfee said, “we’ll do it another way. Peyton, get over here.”

She was ten feet to McAfee’s right. Her hands were pinned behind her. She leaned back against the wall and used the wall to force her right arm closer to the pouch on her belt.

“You trying to squeeze behind the sofa? Get over here. Now!”

A board creaked outside on the back steps.

She pushed away from the wall and shuffled on her knees toward McAfee. When she was close enough, she lunged forward and pressed the top of the pepper-spray canister. She felt it soaking her hair but knew at least some had gotten airborne.

Picard whined and McAfee, blinking, pointed his .357 at Peyton just as the shotgun boomed again. McAfee spun to his left, as if pushed, and lay motionless on the floor.

But the rumble of the shotgun had been immediately followed by the snap of a .40-caliber handgun, and Scott Smith was down.

“Jesus Christ,” Pam Morrison said.

Peyton lay flat on the floor and saw her in the doorway.

“Jesus Christ,” she said again. “Scott, I didn’t want to do that. Think. Slow down. Think. Okay.”

Moving to the center of the cabin, Morrison took her cell phone from a cargo-pants pocket, dialed, and gave her location.

“Shots fired,” she said. “Two agents down. EMTs needed.”

She hung up, slid the phone back into her pocket, and stood over Peyton, her .40 hanging loosely at her side.

“I really didn’t want it to come to this, for either of you. Morris, you know that, right? And, Peyton, you, too? You’re a good mother. I meant it when I said that. I just wanted what you have. That’s all. Alan let the operation get too big. And this just got out of hand. And now …”

She raised the .40.

Instinct took over, and Peyton turned her face away from the .40’s barrel, and she tried to crawl away on her stomach.

Then one final shotgun blast echoed throughout the cabin.

FORTY
-
SEVEN

“
I
OUGHT TO BE
giving Kevlar vests out as Christmas presents,” Mike Hewitt said and held up Scott Smith’s, which had a dime-sized hole high on the left side. “You guys probably have matching chest bruises.”

“We haven’t compared,” Peyton said, smiling.

“That vest saved my life,” Smith said. “I’ve worn one every day for years, and today was the day.”

“She wasn’t a good shot,” Hewitt said. “Probably didn’t want to risk a head shot.”

“I was lucky she didn’t follow it up.”

“Pam Morrison didn’t have it in her,” Peyton said. “She was a pre-K teacher before joining. Probably had her eyes closed when she pulled the trigger.”

“She was no Tyler Timms, that’s for sure,” Smith said. “That bastard would kick you to death if he had to.”

“Either way,” Hewitt said. “You were very lucky.”

“And brave as hell,” Peyton said. “I wouldn’t be going home to my little boy if it wasn’t for you, Scott. Thank you.”

He just nodded.

It had taken all afternoon to process the shooting scene. Peyton had seen four body bags leave in a stream of ambulances, none of which had lights flashing, the moments of urgency long gone. A dive team had yet to find Jerry Reilly and would return at dawn.