Crystal Meth Cowboys (3 page)

Bell glanced over. "Suspect forced entry into victim's home. Victim declines prosecution."

Wes printed in the oblong box.

Bell slit his eyes and jutted out his teeth. "I-uh heer you spent rong time in Chief Shitamoko's office before-a shift," he said. "Vely rong time."

"He was very pleasant," said Wes, not looking up, printing. "He welcomed me to the force, said his number one priority was to provide support for his officers in the field, made all the usual noises."

Bell nodded, silent for once.

"And he said if I had any problems I should come to him directly. He was really very pleasant."

Bell continued to nod, turning south on M Street. They drove past a Hi-Time liquor store and the Launderland Laundromat. As they waited at the Sansome Road intersection Bell said, "He wants you to be a spy."

Bell pointed the LTD Crown Victoria west on Sansome and cruised alongside the railroad tracks. A locomotive trailing two boxcars idled loudly on a siding. Wes inhaled a nostalgic blend of diesel oil and creosote. "What is it they ship out of here?" he asked.

"Diatomaceous earth." Bell glanced in the rearview mirror and blanched. "DWO violation. We're doomed!"

Bell skidded the unit to the curb and flattened himself against the bench seat. Wes turned to see an Asian woman pass them in a white Honda. She was hunched forward, clutching the steering wheel for all she was worth. He looked down at Bell, whose head was almost in his lap. "Is she gone?" Wes nodded. Bell sat up and wiped his brow in an exaggerated gesture. "Whew!"

Wes looked out the window and smiled to himself. This was one very strange cop.

Bell flung a long arm out the window. "This was all ocean floor not so very long ago," he said. "And this little peckerneck algae called the diatom filled the ocean at that time. See them white gashes up there on the hillsides? Layers and layers of the fossilized shells of the diatom."

"Which is why they call it diatomaceous earth," said Wes.

Bell folded up his lips and studied Lyedecker for several seconds. "There is no puttin' one over on you, Braintree."

"So what's it used for?"

"Filtration systems mainly. The Department of Evil ships tons of the stuff."

"Frank 12"

Bell cadged up the mike in a wink. "This is Frank 12."

"Violent 51-50, at the Coach House. RP says room number 12."

"Roger."

Chapter 3

Bell wheeled the LTD into the driveway of a two story white colonial motel trimmed in red brick. The shingle read 'Coach House' above a Currier and Ives print. Cadillacs and Range Rovers were parked in the lot. Bell and Lyedecker winged open their doors and stepped out. Eyes peered out at them from cracked-open doors and from between drawn curtains. No other units had responded. A bleating pain-filled howl burst from a ground floor room. Bell and Lyedecker froze in mid-step, then crossed the asphalt to room #12.

The man sounded big. Bell wished Cyril Reese would come claim jumping like he usually did, save him the embarrassment of having to ask for help. The man's howl rasped down to a hacking cough. Bell bent to his lapel mike. "Frank 12. We're 10-97 at the Coach House. Request backup."

"Copy."

Bell and Lyedecker took a step back when they heard the groan. It was a loud groan from deep in the bowels, the groan of a man who has just sat down next to something horrid and is trying to push away. They heard the sound of shattering glass. Bell craned his long neck toward the parking lot. No squad cars squealed up, their light bars flashing.

"Police officers, open up," shouted Bell, hammering door #12 with the heel of his fist. The escalation from 'disturbance' to 'destruction of property' had forced his hand.

Wes squared his shoulders and clenched and unclenched his fists. He could see nothing but dim light through the heavy drapes. The man in room #12 quieted for a instant,
then roared pure incoherent window-rattling fury at the officers outside. The roar continued for longer than Wes thought humanly possible. Shuddering gasps of air followed.

Bell again bent to his lapel mike. "Frank 12. We're about to force entry to room number twelve. Subject extremely agitated." Bell looked up at the sound of furniture being smashed.

"Roger, 12."

Bell keyed on. "I repeat, we'll be inside."

Wes rested his hand on the butt of his department-issue nine millimeter. Bell pushed his nose to within six inches of Lyedecker's. "Here's the deal. If he won't cooperate we subdue him as quickly as possible. Stay behind me going in. Do NOT draw your weapon unless I'm dead." Bell pulled the steel alloy PR-24 baton from shiny ring on his gunbelt. Wes did likewise, feeling like a swashbuckling swordsman in an old black and white movie. "You got it?"

Wes nodded twice. Bell reared back, kicked out a long leg and smashed his calf-high black boot just above the lock hasp. Door #12 splintered open.

A shaft of light from the room enveloped Bell. He made a big target, thought Wes, as he queued up behind Bell's right shoulder and followed him inside.

Room #12 was actually a suite. They entered a living room containing a Tartan plaid couch and matching easy chair, a busted out 25" TV, two broken oak barstools and a naked white man with a gray Fu Manchu mustache and faded tatoos down to his wrists. Bell took two steps inside and stopped. Wes almost bumped into him when his slick-soled black oxfords slid on the plush royal blue carpeting. Wes moved to the right and clasped his baton with both hands.

The naked man - 5'10", 190, 40 to 45 - leaned on an oak barstool, regarding the intruders with surprise. His pupils were dilated, his chest hair matted and sweat dripped from his fingertips. His flesh was bright red. In the instant of appraisal Wes noted that the man seemed to
be pulsating, expanding and contracting so rapidly that he almost looked blurred. Though the man had broad shoulders and stingray lats, Wes was in kickass shape after the Academy. And 20 years younger. He didn't believe this guy was going to be a problem.

Bell held out his palm. When he said, "Sir, we are here to assist you…" the man heaved the barstool against the wall and lunged forward with a savage growl. He covered ten feet in a breath and fell upon Wes Lyedecker before he could raise his baton.

Wes toppled backward, dropping his baton. The naked man held him up effortlessly with one hand, the better to grab for his gun with the other. He smelled foul.

Bell advanced, his baton cocked back to strike an incapitating kidney jab. The naked man spun Wes around, shielding himself from Bell as he grappled for the gun that Wes jammed into his holster with both hands. Thus they danced a rondo in room #12 - the naked man reaching for the holstered gun, Wes backing away from his advances, Bell trailing, PR-24 poised.

"Move away," shouted Bell to Lyedecker. "Move away from the subject. Move away. Move away from the subject."

Wes heard his senior training officer, of course, but it was easier said than done. He would happily have removed himself from the stench and slime of the naked man were it not for the man's insistence on seizing his service weapon. Wes gathered himself and wheeled backward violently, careening into a brass standing lamp. This upset the choreography.

The man sprang after him like a satyr on wet hairy legs. Wes threw his arms back to brace himself in the corner. The naked man pounced, grabbing the butt of the Smith and Wesson, straining the leather strap that secured it in the holster. Wes pushed down, his hands skidding on wet flesh.

The naked man looked up at Wes, his face haloed in the yellow lamp light. His eyebrows were plastered flat, a vein in his forehead pounded four times a second and his nose gushed watery mucus all over Wes' brand new wool uniform shirt. He had a pleading look in his eyes.

Bell raised his baton over his head and, using all the leverage of a long arm on a tall body, RANG the crown of the naked man's skull like a ball peen hammer on a ten penny nail. The naked man spasmed, splashing sweat in all directions. Bell stepped back, pleased with his effort, waiting for its effect.

The naked man smiled at Bell, bellowed like a bull moose and yanked Wes Lyedecker's gun free, snapping the leather strap in two. Wes grabbed the man's wrist with both hands. It was slippery and very warm. The hammer gouged flesh as the man tore the gun through Wes Lyedecker's palms and, raising the pitch of his bellow to a shriek, pointed the gun at the ceiling.

Wes gained his feet. Bell screamed, "Drop the weapon!" and fired twice.

Wes was startled by the noise more than anything. He had only fired a gun at the Academy range, and then only while wearing hearing protection headgear. He was surprised when his eardrums went
whump whump
and stopped working. He noted that Bell had shot the naked man in the right ribcage and shoulder. He could smell burnt flesh beneath the cordite. His ears began to ring. The aluminum window frames were resonating at high frequency.

The naked man's shriek deflated like a cartoon tire. He took a step toward Bell, still holding the weapon high.

"Drop the weapon, drop the weapon," screamed Bell as Wes lept forward with both arms extended, intent on reclaiming his gun and saving the day. The slick sole of the stiff oxford on his plant foot slipped on the carpet and he fell to one knee.

"Move away! Move away from the subject," shouted Bell.

The subject took a prancing step toward Bell, his gun hand starting down.

Bell stood stock still. He did not seek cover, did not take evasive action as the Academy preached. He didn't even turn sideways to make a smaller target, just stood with his feet splayed out, right shoulder slightly hunched to sight down the barrel, the gun in one hand. No TV-cop, two-handed grip-and-crouch for Officer Bell. "Move
away
!" he yelled.

Lyedecker scrambled to his feet and backed up against the window.

The naked man bounded toward Bell, the automatic now level, pointed out. Wes was surprised the man could hold it at all with a slug in his shoulder. But he wouldn't have the grip strength to click off the safety with one hand, a move that had taken Wes days to master. Bell wouldn't have to shoot the naked man again.

Bell fired twice, drilling two holes above and below the naked man's heart. Right in the X-ring.

The man faltered and broke stride. He stopped and sucked air, perforated lungs collapsing, the nine millimeter dangling listlessly at his side. He tottered on one leg.

Wes could have sworn he saw two small jets of steam rising from the sucking wounds in the naked man's sweat-soaked torso. He shoved himself away from window sill. This had gone far enough.

"Move away," said Bell, "Move away from the subject."

Wes halted, extending his arms to balance his skid on the carpet.

The naked man grinned at Bell. He started forward. The nine millimeter started up. The air he expelled from his chest wounds made him whistle like a Shepherd's flute.

Bell looked almost bored. He fired twice at point blank range. The first round removed the man's right ear. The second round entered his right cheek, scattering molars. The naked man crumpled to the floor, pumping dark,
arterial blood on the plush carpeting, turning the royal blue purple.

"Guard the scene," said Bell. "I'll see if he's got any friends."

Bell flattened himself against the wall next to the closed bedroom door, his gun pointed down. No TV cop, gun barrel pointed at your mostrils room entry for Officer Bell.

There were lights on in the adjoining bedroom. Wes saw the glint on Bell's badge when he threw open the door. Bell poked his nose into the room, then slipped inside. Wes looked around for his gun. It lay approximately three feet from the outstretched hand that Wes could have sworn was still twitching.

Wes looked away and looked back. The fingers no longer appeared to twitch. Wes was relieved. Mouth to mouth resuscitation would not be necessary. Wes stepped over the body to go stand by the gun. The naked man groaned beneath his legs. Wes froze. He looked down. The man burbled pink froth from his mouth. Smeary blood coagulated in his Fu Manchu mustache. He moved his lips.

Wes bent to one knee and bent down. "What? What is it?"

The man's eyes were open, vacant, staring. Wes lowered his ear to the man's mouth. He waited. The man gurgled, his mouth full of blood. Wes heard him swallow.

"Puh…puh…," said the naked man, expelling air through his ravaged cheek. Wes felt a fine spray of moisture on his neck.

"I'm listening," said Wes to the man's remaining ear.

"Puh…puh…"

"Go on. I'm listening."

"Puh…puh…"

"I hear ya."

The man drew a torturous, rattling breath, then whispered "Perlina" in Wes Lyedecker's ear.

Wes pulled back to face him, to show him that he'd heard. But the naked man had passed away. Only then did Wes hear the distended hi-lo pulse of approaching sirens. A door slammed in the adjoining bedroom. Bell had gone out to greet the troops.

Wes got up and crossed the three paces to his gun. He bent down to inspect the hijacked weapon. The safety was off.

The door flew open and a German Shepherd the size of a Bengal tiger burst into the room and lept, growling, for the dead bloody naked man.

Chapter 4

Bell's '74 Pontiac Firebird fishtailed wildly as it cut a hard left on the switchback and climbed up the dark mountain road at a speed far in excess of the posted limit. Wes placed his hand protectively atop his head. The car had no headliner. Wes noted that the right headlight was out of alignment, illuminating the rock-strewn right shoulder more than the road ahead. Bell seemed to have an aversion to high beams.

Bell and Lyedecker had spent an hour in the report writing room after shift. The factual particulars took about five minutes to note in the apportioned spaces on form 5863-F. But the Narrative Supplement, the complete sequence of events from first contact to final apprehension, covered the better part of five pages. They had collaborated on the report. Bell dictated. Wes typed.

After submitting the report to Sgt. Harrick, Wes had been dismissed and Bell had stayed behind in the Sergeant's office. About an hour later Bell called Wes at home and told him to 'put on your pukin' clothes' for a trip to the Deer Lick Inn.