Cold River Resurrection (9 page)

As they got to the reception area he saw movement in the waiting room. A man walked unsteadily toward the counter, a man in his thirties, his face flushed with alcohol. He weaved and lurched to the counter. Smokey could smell the alcohol from where he stood.

“Hey, buddy,” he slurred to Smokey. Smokey looked outside through the glass doors to his car. Two men, dressed in black, were standing outside, looking at the Suburban. Shit!

“Hey, buddy,” the drunk said. “I can’t seem to get any help here.” He started banging the bell on the counter, pounding on it with his fleshy hand.

Ding!Ding!Ding!Ding!

Smokey held up his hand. “Hey, you don’t want to be doing that.”

Smokey stopped, Jennifer bumping into him.

“We gotta go back,” he said.

“What, why?”

“People at my car. Let’s back up, slowly. He watched as one of the men left the Suburban and walked to the entrance of the ER.

We’re trapped!

The man continued to pound the bell as Smokey backed up toward the examining room
with Jennifer at his side.

They backed inside the open double doors to the room. He could hear the drunk yelling.

“Hey, cop. I need some fucking help here!” It came out as
fushing
help, but Smokey got the idea. And then, “You Madras cops never help me, what a buncha assholes.”

They reached the examining room and backed inside. The drunk continued to yell and pound.

Ding!Ding!Ding!Ding!

Maybe the saying was true, Smokey thought, that God helps drunks and little kids.

Ding!Ding!

A sudden burst of automatic weapons fire came from the front doors, and the bell clattered to the floor.

Well, I guess not drunks in this case.

We need a car.

C
hapter
21

Cold River Police Department

2330 hours

Chief Martin Andrews looked at the printout of Mohammed Kal-leed’s driver’s license. Guy has a heavy foot. Had. Several speeding tickets in the last year, all in the Portland area. A warning letter had been sent from the department of motor vehicles to his address in Lake Oswego. Expensive address. Mr. Kal-leed lived well.

The license plate on the vehicle came back to a Hummer.

Kal-leed had no identifiable criminal record. Martin was waiting for a call back from Detective Booker. Martin had called Booker at home and asked him to run Kal-leed through the federal computer system. Booker was retired F.B.I., now worked for the tribal police as a detective.

Martin looked up as a dispatcher stood in the doorway. He motioned for her to enter.

“Chief, Lieutenant Kukup is at the hospital in town. Says he needs for you to call in as many officers as you can find, says he has trouble like you in the school, says you would know what he meant.”

What the hell?

A few years ago, at a school in Portland, Martin had been in a shooting. A very deadly one. What the hell did Kukup get into?

“The hospital, was he visiting the woman from the SAR? Jennifer something?”

“He called and asked for her room number, and then said to tell you to call people.”

“Start calling, start with detectives, tell them it’s mandatory, then call the sergeants, and maybe we will know more by the time they get here. Oh, let me know immediately if Kukup calls or contacts you.”

She called back within a minute.

“Detective Booker on the phone for you.” Martin put his phone on speaker.

“Chief, what the hell did we get into?”

“What do you mean?”

“This guy, Mohammed Kal-leed, he’s on the federal terror watch list. Feds believe he is into laundering and finding money in the U.S. for terror projects here. Probably connected to meth as a fund raiser.”

Shit.

“This computer hit is gonna raise some eyebrows. Expect to get a call. Someone is going to be calling the Portland Supervisory Agent soon, if they haven’t already.”

“So we can expect the rez to be crawling with feds with their peckers up.”

“Yup, pretty much.”

“I want you to come in, tonight.”

“Uh, Chief, I have a date. A sleep-over date.”

“Let her sleep, I still need you.”

“Chief, do you know how many sleep-overs I get at my age?”

“No, and I don’t want to. I still need you. Bye.”

Martin broke the connection before Booker could whine again.

What the hell is Lieutenant Kukup getting into? What did we get into?

Before the night was over, Chief Martin Andrews, former Portland Police Bureau Homicide Detective, now a tribal chief of police for two years, had some answers.

Smokey, where are you?

C
hapter
22

Mountain View Hospital

Smokey stepped around Doctor Evans. Without the blood he might have been sleeping. Won’t be driving his big Mercedes around town too much after this night. He glanced back toward the open doors. Jennifer was right behind him, her eyes wide, clutching the bedspread around her with one hand, her doll in the other.

Car, we need a car.

Mercedes.

“Jennifer, go to the desk. Look for car keys, Mercedes keys.” He pointed.

She hesitated, and then moved to the small office and held up a key ring, clutching her doll and bedspread in one hand. To Smokey, she looked like a little girl, eager to please her teacher. She held up a cell phone, and Smokey nodded. Good.

He walked to the open bay doors to the hallway, and risked a glance out. Two men, dressed in dark clothes like the others, were standing by the reception counter, both armed. They appeared to be arguing. One pointed down toward the ER examining room, and started down the hallway.

Smokey poked the barrel of his Glock around the corner and fired three times, fast, and ran back into the examining room.

Jennifer screamed.

“Jennifer, with me, now. We’re going out the back.”

He checked behind him, hoping the shots in the hallway would freeze the men in black for a few more seconds. He hit the bar on the door and ran for the Mercedes that was backed into the carport just in front of them. The lights on the Mercedes flashed. Jennifer ran for the passenger side, her blanket slipping, and Smokey ran for the driver’s door. He grabbed the door handle and slid inside as Jennifer jumped into the passenger seat, her blanket now coming off, her gown up around her waist.

Smokey looked over at her. Jennifer held the keys up and glanced behind them.

“Keep your eyes to yourself, Mister,” she said, and then added, “drive.”

Smokey started the car, hit the gas and put it in gear all in one motion, the car lurching out of the carport, tires squealing. The right side mirror exploded as they turned into the parking lot.

Jennifer screamed, and then yelled, “Drive faster, you moron!”

They hit the street and the Mercedes bottomed out in a shower of sparks, and then they were flying down Tenth Street, Smokey keeping his foot on the floor as the T intersection at ‘B’ Street came flashing toward them.

Moron?

“They’re coming after us!” Jennifer was turned in her seat, looking back. Smokey caught the headlights as a car slid out of the parking lot, two blocks behind. He slammed on the brakes, throwing Jennifer forward. They slid around the corner to the right, Jennifer sliding into him, and then they were around the corner and accelerating downhill, the big car going fast now, sixty, seventy, eighty, a red light on the highway three blocks down. Jennifer looked up, grabbed her seatbelt and pulled it around her.

“Gimme your seatbelt,” she said, reaching over Smokey, and then, “corner!”

Smokey slammed on the brakes, thinking of how well the German engineers did their jobs as they slid through the corner, taking both lanes and the parking lane. Then they were rocketing up Highway 26, past Les Schwab Tires, Safeway a blur on the right, and up on the plains. The headlights behind them were dropping back, but stayed in his rearview mirror.

Jennifer arranged her blanket. She looked over at Smokey and gave him a little smile.

“I guess I should ask you, where are you taking me?”

“The rez.” They were now in the country, the roadside a blur, passing the Oregon State University Agricultural Research Center, the speedometer passing one hundred forty.

“The rez?”

“Indian Reservation. Where you were hiking.”

“I’d rather go someplace with electricity. Running water. Showers. No dead people. And no large hairy animals.”

“Very funny. Whaddya mean, calling me a moron? This moron thinks he saved your life.”

Jennifer didn’t answer. She sat huddled in the seat, and finally asked, “Who are those men? What do they want with me?”

“I don’t know,” Smokey said, “but I would guess it has something to do with what you found up there on the mountain.”

But I’m gonna find out. This is my country. And someone killed my friend.

Smokey slowed the big car as they approached the sweeping corner to the left, the road dropping down a long grade to the Deschutes River. Four miles, four sweeping corners, and then three miles along the river to the bridge and onto the reservation.

“Sit tight, they’re gonna catch us here.”

Jennifer held onto the shoulder harness with her right hand, Nanna in her left hand and swung her head around.

“They’re right behind us!” 

Smokey went into the corner at over a hundred miles an hour, the car wanting to leave the road, and then he accelerated downhill, flying toward the next corner.

Sure hope nobody’s coming.

He used all of the road in the next corner, swinging wide into the oncoming lanes. There were no headlights coming at them, and as he reached the corner he jammed the accelerator to the floor. Jennifer screamed as the car drifted across the road and touched the guardrail with a spray of sparks.
Sorry about your car, Doc.

“Jennifer, get the cell phone,” Smokey said as they raced for the next corner, accelerating once again, downhill. Their pursuers swerved behind them.

Jennifer placed her doll in her lap and picked up the phone.

“Now what?”

“Dial 541-555-2396, talk to Chief Andrews.”

“Indian chief?” She asked as she punched the numbers in. She looked impressed.

“No, police chief.” Smokey wiped his hand on his leg, concentrating on the corner flying toward them, going downhill at over one forty.

Ain’t gonna make this one.

“Tell the chief we’re coming, and we’ve got company, same people who shot at us in the hospital. We need help at the border.”

Jennifer relayed the information.

“Tell him we’re three minutes out, or less, we’re in a white Mercedes.”

Well, not so white now.

Smokey touched the brakes, the car swerving to the left, saw the oncoming headlights as he came into the corner. Can’t use all the road this time. A semi was coming up the hill in the far lane; the bad guys’ car was right behind them.

They drifted into the oncoming lane, the headlights of the semi moving sideways, the big truck swerving to give them room, and then they were past. Smokey glanced to the side and then forward. He didn’t have time to reflect on the fact that they missed the semi’s wheels by inches at over a hundred miles an hour. They swept down through the last corner and flew along the Deschutes River, flat out now, the car up close behind them.

The rear window of the Mercedes exploded and Jennifer screamed. The glass sucked inward as the bullets struck the car.

“They’re shooting at us!”

Jennifer screamed into the phone. Smokey swerved the big car and took up all three lanes. The dark waters of the Deschutes raced by on their left side as they reached the last corner before entering the reservation and safety. The last corner was a sharp left turn onto the Deschutes River Bridge.

If I miss this one, we’ll be in the swift water, and from that there’s no return. Su
re hope Martin has the officers get out of the way, we’re coming through, should be able to see us now.

Up ahead, across the bridge to the left, Smokey could see the flashing lights of Cold River Tribal Police cars. He was on the brakes, heavy, the pursuers’ car coming up on his left as the Rainbow Market swept by on the right, the parking lot dark, deserted.

Gotta get them on my right side or we’re toast.

If they’re on the left, Smokey thought, we won’t make it, they’ll push us into the guardrail and over it and into the river, and we won’t escape. Smokey hit the gas and jumped in front of the car as the bridge came up, the move saving their lives as the Mercedes was raked with automatic weapons fire, the bullets striking behind them, into the backseat area and trunk. The rear side windows exploded, and wind swirled into the car.

The other vehicle dropped back, just off their bumper. Smokey swerved to the left and tapped the brakes, forcing the pursuing vehicle up on their right, the bumper even with Jennifer’s door. They swept onto the bridge, Jennifer screaming a constant shriek, her white face streaked with pain. Smokey swung his wheel to the right, smashed into the fender of the other car, the heavy Mercedes forcing the other car up onto the cement guardrail at the start of the bridge. The car flew up into the air and over the rail and hung there, suspended.

Smokey glanced at the driver, his face blackened, eyes wide, and then the nose of the car hit the water at ninety miles an hour, flipped over in a shower of
spray, and sank.

Smokey stomped on the brakes as
the Mercedes flashed over the bridge and past the patrol cars.

Chief Martin Andrews stood beside the road with his arms crossed, looking on as they flew by.

Smokey came to a stop in the parking lot of the Crossing Restaurant, and turned off the engine. The dashboard clock said they left the hospital in Madras seven minutes ago. He looked over at Jennifer.

“You okay?”

She smiled, a small uplifting of the corners of her mouth, but a smile just the same. She nodded her head. “Beats editing, most of the time,” she said in a small voice, “but I’m okay, yeah.” She looked at Smokey.

“You always treat people to this ride on the way to the reservation?”

“If I can.” He put his hand on the top of hers, covering the bandage, bloody where the IV had ripped out. For what she had been through in the past few days, and then this deadly hospital stay, Jennifer needed a safe place to recuperate. To just be. He made a decision.

“Look, Jennifer, I’m going to take you to my mother’s home, you’ll be safe there, not many people know how to find it, and I promise you I will protect you. No matter what.”

Jennifer looked at her hands, and pulled the blanket up. “I believe you will do that.” She sat there for a few seconds, and then added, “I guess this means I can’t go home just yet, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what it means, you can’t go home.” Smokey looked around at what was left of the car.

Sorry about your car, Doc.

He watched as Chief Martin Andrews and Sergeant Nathan Green walked toward the car.

Now it’s time for some answers.

Now it’s time for us to go to war.

And I’m good at it.

The smell of sage was so strong he almost wept.