Dead Float (26 page)

Chapter Fifty-four

El Cuchillo certainly didn't sound like a cartel hit man, and he didn't look like one either. He had sandy hair cut short, utterly nondescript facial features, and a lean body that was otherwise unremarkable and unmarked by tattoos. The Zetas' favorite north-of-the-border hitter might pass for an auto mechanic, a retail salesman, or the person who delivers your packages. But if you looked more closely, you would notice one distinguishing feature—his eyes. They were gray like smoke—the eyes of a wolf—and absolutely devoid of any trace of humanity.

My entire body tensed as if to deflect the high-caliber round I figured was about to tear through me. Claire, I said to myself, forgive me.

Instead of shooting me, Cuchillo turned to Andrew Streeter, who had just come up behind him. “I think we have all the players now.” He turned back to me. “You came alone, like a good boy, right?”

“Do you see anyone else?”

Streeter had a rifle trained on me, the thirty-aught-six from his gun rack, no doubt. He glanced over at his dog, an overweight Rottweiler that was still snarling and straining at its choke chain. There was a nice symmetry in his choice of breeds. Streeter and his dog had similar builds and equally ugly faces. “You're a good ol' boy, Tull,” he said to the dog. “You saved the day.” To me he twanged, “Mister Claxton, I'm a little surprised to see ya'll. You're a bit more resourceful than I gave you credit for.” His eyes narrowed down. “How'd you find us, anyway?”

I was desperate to keep him talking. “I was the one who broke into NanoTech. I didn't just search Hannon's office that night, I searched yours, too. You'd be surprised what I found, like Reynaldo's phone number and the password to your encrypted account, you know,
nemo me impune lacessit.
”

Streeter arched his unibrow above his grease-painted face. “So that was you.
Damn,
Claxton, you
are
the clever one, and figuring out my pass code, too—”

“Enough with the fucking chitchat,” Cuchillo cut in. “Go get the girl.”

Claire came out on her crutches. When she saw me, she said,
“Dad.”
Her eyes flickered with joy and just as quickly fell back to a mixture of fear and defiance. She had no allusions about the situation.

I desperately wanted to give her reason to hope, but all I could think to do was nod subtly to imply it was somehow going to be okay, that I had something up my sleeve. I said, “Stay strong, Claire.”

She nodded. “I will, Dad.”

I turned to face our captors. “You've got me now. Let her go. She knows absolutely nothing. Let her go, and I'll give you the letter you requested, money, anyth—”

“I'm not going without you, Dad,” Claire said, her face set in a look I knew all too well, her voice ringing with determination.

I shot her the most withering, shut-your-mouth look I could muster. “Don't listen to her.”

Cuchillo looked at Claire first, then me. He tilted his head slightly, as if he were considering what I'd just said. His face was placid, but his gray wolf eyes were flat and unyielding. “Look, Claxton, I'm sorry it has to go down this way, but this is business. I have my reputation, you know, and you've already embarrassed me enough.”

“That's for sure,” Streeter said, half to himself. “I should get a fucking refund.” Cuchillo shot him a look that Streeter should have paid attention to. The naïve bastard, I thought to myself.

Cuchillo said, “Let's all go for a walk.”

With both of them behind us, Claire and I were directed past the outhouse toward a small clearing at the base of the ridge, where a shovel leaned against a tree. Claire gasped when she saw it, and what blood was left in my head drained away.

“Ever dig a ditch, Claxton?” Cuchillo asked. “This'll be good for you. Good cardio.” Streeter laughed at this. The hatred I felt for these two men twisted in my gut like a mean snake. Cuchillo nodded at me. “Go on. Get to it.”

I turned back and locked onto Streeter's eyes. “You fool. He's going to kill you, too. You know too much.”

Streeter's forehead furrowed above his unibrow as he struggled to compute what I'd just said. He turned his head to look at Cuchillo, his rifle still pointing at me. With cat-like quickness, Cuchillo clipped him hard on the chin with the butt of his pistol. I heard teeth break.

Streeter dropped like a sack of rocks. His rifle fell out of reach, so I grabbed the shovel and whirled around to throw it. But instead of throwing it I lowered my arms and dropped it at my feet.

Cuchillo
smiled his approval as he stood calmly pointing his pistol at Claire's head.

“That wasn't very nice of you to spoil my surprise,” he said in an even voice. “Now get to work. And make it a triple.”

I began digging the first grave. The earth was damp and loamy. A rich, fecund smell bloomed up and touched something primal within me. I was overwhelmed with the desire to save Claire, to live. Thoughts of the time I'd wasted after Nan's death flashed through my head. I'd spent years as a shriveled, shrunken shadow of who I'd been before. Precious, beautiful time wasted. I looked over at Claire, and our eyes met. I remembered reading to her, teaching her to ride a bike, the first time she whipped me at Scrabble. My eyes must have registered sorrow and defeat, because she cast hers down, knowing that whatever plan I had had just failed. I struggled to keep my knees from buckling and tears from flooding my face.

“Pick it up, Claxton. Keep digging or I'll shoot her right in front of you,” Cuchillo said in his businesslike tone. “I've got a plane to catch.”

I finished two shallow graves and then feigned exhaustion before starting the third. Streeter was sitting up now, groaning, rubbing his bloody jaw and probing for missing teeth.
Philip
, I cried out silently,
where are you
?

I would start the third grave, I decided, then try to take Cuchillo in a suicide charge. It was the only action left to me. I would scream at Claire to run, although on crutches it would take a miracle for her to get away. Maybe Streeter would come to life, affording Claire a chance to escape.

I paused at two feet of depth into the third grave, my hands tightening on the shovel, every cell in my body focusing on a single, last task—
get to the bastard alive
. Cuchillo eyed me casually, tucked his pistol into his belt and brought Streeter's rifle up into firing position. The barrel swung from Streeter to me and back to Streeter again. I placed a foot on the shovel, but lightly, as Cuchillo's eyes strayed from me to Streeter. I brought the shovel up, extending it like a lance, and charged forward.
“Run, Claire!”

The bullet hit Cuchillo before I heard the crack of the rifle. It was a loud
smack,
like an angry fist striking a side of beef. He grunted and pitched forward. I dropped the shovel and jumped back involuntarily, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

Cuchillo fell face-first into the first grave. The pistol and rifle disappeared beneath him.

I looked back at Streeter and Claire behind me. Claire froze for a moment, then as Streeter got up, she dropped one crutch and grabbing the other with both hands, swung it hard at him. The blow caught him flush on the ear. He shrieked in pain as he spun around and started running, a hand clasped to his wounded ear.

At the same instant, a Paiute war hoop pierced the air as rocks and debris came crashing down the steep hillside. I looked up and saw Philip high up on the ridge, a scoped rifle in his hand. He was working his way down, but it was steep, the going slow.

Streeter was halfway to the cabin, moving in a half waddle, half run in his upmarket camo outfit. I looked at my daughter, uncertain what to do. She set her jaw in a stubborn line, her eyes burning with anger. “Go, Dad. I'm okay. Don't let him get away!”

I knelt next to the grave and probed under Cuchillo's limp body, digging out the rifle first, then the pistol. I handed Claire the pistol, then glanced up at Philip, who was halfway down the ridge. “If Cuchillo tries to get up, shoot him. Can you do that?”

“
Yes
, Dad. Don't worry. Go after that fat little shit.”

By the time I started after him, Streeter had disappeared around the cabin. A car engine roared to life, and through the trees and I saw a yellow blur flash by out on the road. “Damn it.” I'd forgotten about the Hummer.

I took a diagonal path up a small incline to the road, sprinting all the way. Dust was still hanging in the air, but the Hummer had already disappeared around a bend in the road. I started running after him and hadn't quite reached the bend when I heard a grinding crunch followed by the steady blaring of a car horn in the distance. I began to sprint again. When I rounded the bend I saw both Philip's big truck and Streeter's canary yellow Hummer. The truck was broadside in the road and the Hummer in the deep ditch at the side of the road, tilted at a forty-five degree angle.

I was breathing hard, but I picked the pace up, unsure of what the hell had happened. Is that somebody standing in the road between the truck and the Hummer? I ran faster, my lungs nearly bursting, the rifle I was carrying starting to feel like a lead brick.

Is…that…Streeter…or…Daina?…it's…
Daina!

As I got closer, I saw she was in a wide stance, pointing a long-barreled revolver at the Hummer with both arms extended like a seasoned cop. I drew up next to her and leaned on Streeter's rifle to catch my breath. She turned her head to look at me, her face filled with concern and streaked with tears. “Oh, Cal. Thank God. I heard a shot and thought the worst. Is Claire safe?”

“She's perfect,” I gasped. “Everybody is, except Cuchillo
.
”

By this time Streeter had managed to shut the ignition off, which killed the horn, and was crawling out of the Hummer. He looked like he'd just gone fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson. His nose was bent at a new angle, he had a cherry red abrasion on his forehead, both eyes were nearly swollen shut, and appropriately enough, his right ear was a tangle of bloody flesh.

Without lowering the revolver, Daina said, “Philip gave me this cannon and showed me how to use it.” She allowed herself a smile. “I was going to blow his head off if he tried to run.”

I surveyed the scene. The grill and front fender of Philip's truck were smashed in. The Hummer had taken a much more damaging hit on its left fender and driver's side door. “Looks like you played bumper cars with him.” I laughed. “Philip's going to be pissed. He loves this truck.”

She smiled again and shook her head, a look of utter disbelief on her face. “Philip told me to drive down here where the road narrows and block it, so I did. When I heard the shot, I dialed 9-1-1. I had a single signal bar and the call went through.”

“The cops are on the way?”

“Yes. I saw the Hummer coming and knew it was Andrew's. I didn't know what to think or what to do, but I felt like I was in an armored tank. I started the truck up and when I saw who was driving the Hummer, I just flew into a rage, you know? Streeter tried to go around me, so I floored it and rammed him. The air bag caught him full in the face, I think.”

Streeter groaned as he cleared the wreckage. “Y'all should've buckled up,” I told him. “Those air bags can be hell on a person.”

I herded Streeter into the back of Philip's truck and got in with him. Daina drove us back to the cabin. El Cuchillo was still alive. Claire and Philip had pulled him out of the grave and they were using strips of bedsheets to staunch the bleeding in his lower back. Philip looked up at me. “I didn't go for a head shot. Too risky at that distance. I figured you wanted him alive, anyway.”

Daina and Claire shared a long, joyous hug, and after Daina explained again how she'd captured Streeter, Philip pointed a finger at him and said, “You're gonna get the bill for my truck, too.”

We heard sirens in the distance.

I hugged my daughter again. “It's over, sweetheart,” I told her, “It's finally over.”

She looked up at me and smiled, but her beautiful eyes were clouded with concern. “Dad, Archie—”

“I know, Claire. We found him.”

“Is, is he okay?”

“I don't know, but he's with the best vet on the planet.”

Chapter Fifty-five

There's no better time to fish in Oregon than autumn, which follows summer like a good glass of brandy follows a fine meal. It's a time when the deciduous trees, which float like small islands in a sea of evergreens, burst into flames of yellow, gold, and crimson, and the trout, fat with a summer's growth, are restless with the knowledge that winter's coming on.

It was early October, and I stood belly-deep in the Deschutes, the current pushing at me like a playful friend. The sun warmed the back of my neck, and a light breeze swept what few cares I had downstream. Swarms of caddisflies swirled above the water like thin wisps of smoke as I managed to coax the occasional redside up from the soft bottom grass waving in the clear current. Archie followed my progress from the bank with intense interest. It had been touch-and-go for a week, but he'd made a full recovery, thanks to Hiram Pritchard. A jagged scar at the base of his right ear was the only visual evidence of his ordeal. Each time I brought a fish to the surface he would bark wildly, spin in circles and threaten to come to my aid. I smiled and thought to myself, some folks have hunting dogs, but I have a fishing dog.

Philip was downstream, where an archipelago of grassy hummocks harbored some of the biggest fish in the river. No doubt he was taking fish after fish, the desert redband trout coming up for his flies like snakes for a snake charmer. Phillip's fishing guide business was back. He'd received a lot of favorable publicity for saving Claire's and my life, which had translated into a sharp uptick in his fall business.

The shooting had left El Cuchillo a paraplegic. Although it was ruled justifiable, this hadn't gone down well with Philip, who had a sensitive side to him that very few people were aware of. It had taken my friend many visits to the family sweat lodge with his father and the tribal elders before he began to put what he had done behind him.

The dramatic rescue at the cabin made the national news, and the Oregon media feasted on the story for months. A two-part article in
The Oregonian
described my role in solving the murders of Hal Bruckner, Henry Barnes, and CJ Manion, and bringing the hitman, El Cuchillo, to justice. This didn't hurt my law practice one bit. Clients were coming back and new ones calling, and for the first time in a long time, Gertrude Johnson wasn't complaining about my billable hours.

I told the press I'd gotten a lot of help from Philip, Hernando Mendoza, and even Detective Vincent Escalante, who, in truth, had probably saved my life that night in the storage locker. Which brings me to Detective William “Bull” Dorn. He didn't figure much in the press coverage. Shortly after the shootout on the Zigzag, he was relieved of his duties. Turns out he'd badly beaten a young man after stopping him and his fiancée outside Madras on suspicion of something or other. Dorn didn't realize the victim's fiancée had captured the entire assault on her cell phone camera. The video found its way onto YouTube, where it became an overnight viral sensation and precipitated a citizens' march on the sheriff's department.

Dorn's trial was set to begin the following day. Philip and I planned to get to the courthouse early for a front-row seat. Oh, and by the way, Murray Felding had managed to get the assault charges against me dropped, but he kept the five-thousand dollar retainer.

El Cuchillo, whose real name turned out to be Timothy Atwater, had been indicted on three aggravated murder charges bolstered by the testimony of Andrew Streeter. Streeter had sung like a canary to save himself from the death penalty. He'll get life in prison instead of the big IPO payoff he'd hoped for.

In all the excitement I'd almost forgotten about the files taken from Bruckner's study, the ones I'd promised myself to return. As I was sorting through them, I noticed a piece of paper folded into one of the technical reports. It looked like it had been put there to save the place for a reader, presumably Bruckner. I unfolded it and realized it was Bruckner's copy of the long lost security agreement between him and Duane Pitman. When I showed it to Alexis, her response surprised me. Instead of using it to sue Pitman, who'd just announced his plans to jump ship for the French firm, TM-E, she instructed Mitch Hannon to lure him back with the promise of a full equity share. This put the NanoTech IPO back on track. I made a mental note to buy some NanoTech stock.

I also gave Alexis the gold bracelet belonging to Hal Bruckner. She broke into tears and hugged me. I guess she really did love the guy, after all.

Claire, shorn of her cast, had gone back to her graduate studies at Berkeley. It was a wrenching separation for both of us, but we managed it. When I asked her whether she'd feel safe back at Berkeley, she gave me an exasperated look. “Dad, I got kidnapped
twice
this summer. What else could happen to me?” The night before she left the Aerie I promised that when peace returned to Darfur I would take her back to seek out Mustafa and give him the thanks he deserved.

Daina Zikaris, previously known as Svetlana Tetrovia, had gone back to Seattle after installing world-class security and management systems at NanoTech. She was worried sick about the publicity she might receive for her part in the rescue, but we managed to downplay her role and avoid even a single photograph in the newspapers. Her secret was safe with me, of course. I still loved the law, but I'd learned that sometimes there are greater considerations. Digging your own grave at the wrong end of a gun gives even a lawyer like me a broader perspective on what's important in life.

Daina and I are going up to British Columbia next week for some steelhead fishing. We're roughing it with backpacks, a tent, and a propane stove. Both the fishing and the company promise to be excellent.