Devil's Run (10 page)

“That depends,” I said.
“You got a really big one?”

Soon we were knee deep
in cops and first responders. A fire engine and two ambulances arrived, accompanied
by two local patrol cars and a swarm of state police. Not long after, a coffee
truck arrived. Then the federal government made its presence felt in the
persons of Briggs and Stanton. Soon there were so many competing strobe lights
of different colors and rhythms I feared additional casualties from epileptic
seizures.

Initially, I was the
center of attention, but after I just kept giving them name, rank, and serial
number they handed me over to a gigantic, stone-faced Vermont State Police
corporal and the amiable looking Bedford police chief. They walked me down the
hill to where all the vehicles were parked and sat me down in the back of an
ambulance under the watchful eye of a young local cop. The paramedic, starved
for something to do, examined me for injuries.

An SUV with the logo of
the Bedford Press on the door arrived, driven by an elderly gentleman with a
Nikon and a steno pad. He ambled up the trail to the crash site, where firemen
and paramedics, starkly illuminated by emergency lights, were dragging one of
the bodies up on a rescue sled. The chugging of the little Honda generators,
the overlapping chatter from all the competing radios, and the frantic recovery
effort gave the scene an air of urgency it really didn't need. Those two guys weren't
going anywhere.

Neither, it appeared,
was I. The senior on scene representatives of each law enforcement group
trooped down from the cold of the crash site to the relative warmth near the
coffee truck. They did not look happy. From the staccato puffs of frozen
breath, and the occasional baleful glance thrown in my direction, it was a turf
war, with me as the prize. I couldn't hear what they were saying over all the
noise, but it certainly wasn't about who was giving me a ride to the airport.

The paramedic smoothed a
butterfly bandage across a cut on my forehead I hadn't noticed, no doubt the
result of one of my many tumbles off the snowmobile.

“You should come down to
the hospital,” he said, “that might need a stitch.”

“I'm a fast healer.
Don't worry about it.”

“Well, you should still
go in.” He peeled off his green latex gloves with a snapping sound. “You can’t
be too careful with head trauma. Might have a concussion. You should get your
head examined.”

“You have no idea how
often I hear that.”

The local police chief,
sixtyish and stocky, disengaged himself from the others and came over to the
ambulance. He moved slowly, but he didn’t look stupid.

“Give us a moment, Ted?”
The paramedic nodded and went over to the coffee wagon. The townie said, “Sure
thing, Chief” and followed him.

“I’m Chief McAllister.”
He was idly chewing a wad of gum. “I’d appreciate you coming down the station.
I understand you were an eyewitness.”

“Is that how the old man
with the Winchester described me? Eyewitness? You know, the guy who shot at
me?”

He glanced up, then
looked down at the ground, nodded, and chewed his gum some more.

“He doesn't say he saw
you shoot those two. Only that he heard shots, came out, found his employer
lying dead and you riding away.”

“And he shot at me...
why?”

“Heat of the moment.
Shock. George ain't so quick anymore, if you know what I mean. Eyesight's not
so good.”

“Lucky for me.”

“Look, I only want to
clear this up.”

I stood up. “And the
fastest way to clear this up is to pin it on me.”

He didn't bat an
eyebrow. “You don't know me, so I am not taking that personally.” He sighed.
“I'm a hunter, son. Get a deer every year. Since I was twelve.”

“So you're Natty Bumpo.
How does that help me?”

He was a patient man; I
had to give him that. A city cop would have smacked me by now. “I've been over
there to see Mr. Epstein and that other fella. I know when someone's been shot
with a high-powered rifle. And I can tell just by looking it wasn't done close
up.”

“I'm happy for you.
Problem is facts are often not as important as political expediency. I'm sure
your D.A. is planning to run for reelection someday. I'll wait for a lawyer, if
it's all the same to you.”

He nodded again,
unwilling to be hurried. “I figure, all things being equal, I should get first
crack at clearing this up. Our friends over there, however, all want you badly.
Those FBI fellas are particularly keen. They’re floating the idea you are some
kind of terrorist.”

“Allah be praised.”

He looked at the toe of
his right boot, with which he was gently pushing around a piece of wood.

“I detect,” he said, in
a reasonable tone, “that you are one hell of a funny guy. But, you see, I’ve
got four dead bodies, all within my jurisdiction. I got Feds and state police
and the mayor, all exploring my alimentary canal. And pretty soon I figure I'll
hear from the governor, too. It's shaping up to be just that kind of a night.”
He looked up at me. “And on top of all that, I got you. Near as I can tell, you
have been in town less than one day and in that brief span of time about a
hundred forty years of peace and quiet have become a distant memory. My little
corner of the world, where I had hoped to spend my twilight years issuing
parking tickets and sobering up the town drunk, is starting to look like the
Ice Follies version of Fallujah. Now, I have no problem, no problem whatsoever,
locking you up as a material witness for as long as it takes until I get some
answers. So, what do you say, can I get your cooperation? Can we modify the
attitude and stop your Improv act for a few hours? If I find no reason to hold
you, you can be on your way tomorrow morning. How’s that sound?”

I smiled brightly. “I’m
your man, Chief.”

“Thank you. I'll have
Gordy run you down to the station.” He waved over the young cop who had been guarding
me.

A flash of headlights
distracted him. A black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows squeezed through
the emergency vehicles and passed right by where we stood, continuing just into
the darkness beyond. The brake lights glowed for a moment. There was a brief
rectangle of light, followed by the sound of a car door. Moments later, a tall,
slim man materialized out of the night.

“Holy fucking shit,” I
said, softly.

“What is it?” said
McAllister.

“An asshole in a Cossack
hat.”

Richard Imperatrice, the
aforementioned asshole, approached my fan club and introduced himself. Rich had
always loved the winter, because it gave him a chance to wear his Burberry
scarf, and that frigging Cossack hat. I had to admit he did stand out amongst
the polyester uniform coats and off the rack suits. From this distance, the
aquiline features of that matinee idol face appeared unchanged from the last
time I'd seen him. His expression was still a placid look of suave
self-confidence that made women want him, and men want to kick him in the nuts.

“I take it you know each
other,” said McAllister.

“He used to be my boss.
A long time ago.”

Briggs, Stanton, and the
state police captain paused in their discussion to speak briefly with
Imperatrice. He nodded and stepped away. As the arguing resumed, Imperatrice
looked over at me. No hint of surprise, no flash of recognition disturbed his
calm facade. He strolled over to where I was standing.

“Hello, Nick,” he said,
extending a hand, “been a long time.” We shook hands, briefly. He was wearing a
pigskin glove, so I wasn't worried about catching anything.

“You don't seem
surprised to see me, Dick” I said.

“Richard,” he said,

“To me you’ll always be
a Dick.”

He gestured with his
thumb back towards the limo. “Your name came up on the police radio.”

“On the other hand,
imagine my surprise. What the fuck are you doing here?”

He ignored my question
and turned to McAllister. They shook hands. “Hi, Chief. Richard Imperatrice. We
met at a reception a year ago.”

“I remember,” said
McAllister. “I assume you're here about your snow machine.”

“Yes. As you probably
know, we reported it stolen today.”

“We?” I said.

“Mr. Imperatrice is head
of security for Ranger Ridge.”

“Actually, for all of
Verdugo,” said Imperatrice, who, as he had already reminded me, liked
correcting people. “And please, Chief. Call me Richard.”

The Chief nodded. “Gordy
told me about the report your people called in. Any idea who might have taken
it? Or when?”

Imperatrice shook his
head. “No. It's one of about two dozen. They're kept in a yard, of course, with
the Cats and other equipment.”

“Surveillance tapes?” I
said.

He smiled the way you
smile at a small child who ventures into an adult conversation unbidden. “No,
Nick. It really doesn't warrant that kind of security.”

“Hello!” I said, in my
best valley girl voice.

He smiled again and
turned back to McAllister.

“So,” said the Chief,
“you're not even sure when it was stolen.”

“No. We don't use all
the snow machines every day, so it's impossible to say when this one went missing.
We've never had anything like this happen before. And to be involved in
something like this, well, it's just a tragedy.”

“Hamlet's a tragedy,” I
said. “This is a clusterfuck.”

He smiled, displaying
perfect teeth whiter than new snow. “Nice to know you haven't changed, Nick.”
Then he turned back to McAllister. “Anything we can do to help clear this up. I
just feel horrible.” To me he didn't look all that broken up, but then he never
did.

“I'll let you know,”
said McAllister.

“Chief!” It was Briggs, calling
over from the huddle. He held up a cell phone and gestured McAllister over.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Imperatrice and I stood
in silence for a moment. Finally, he said, “I never got a chance to tell you
how sorry I was to hear about your wife. She was a fine woman.”

“She thought you were a
prick.”

“I'm sure you're
exaggerating.”

“Nope, that was the
word. Prick. Dick the prick.”

“If only I'd known she
was in there that day,” he said, as if I hadn't spoken. Nothing fazed the guy.
“I'd have done whatever I could to make sure she got out safely.”

“Got yourself out PDQ, I
heard.”

He nodded, a solemn look
on his face. “I wasn't taking any chances.” His expression changed to one of
mild curiosity. “I was surprised to learn you weren't there that day. That was
lucky for you.”

“If you say so.”

“I hope you’ve found
peace, Nick.” His expression became reflective. “I know I did, thanks to
Jesus.”

“Say what?”

“Yes, I was born again,
Nick.”

“I’m still upset about
the first time.”

He smiled. “That anger.
The Lord can help you with that.”

“How has he helped you?”

“Well, for one thing,”
he said, looking directly at me, the lotus eater smile fading, his voice taking
on an edge, “I know whatever I do I’ll be forgiven.”

The smile came back and
he turned away. I looked over where McAllister was having an exchange with
Stanton. McAllister shook his head. Briggs was a little off to the side, with
the State Police captain, who was on a cell phone. He finished and handed the
phone to Briggs. Briggs passed the phone to McAllister, who looked at it as if
it might bite him.

“So,” I said to
Imperatrice, “civilian life seems to be treating you well.”

“I can't complain,” he
said.

“Verdugo, huh?” He
nodded. “What do they do?”

“High end resorts,
construction.”

“Sweet.”

He brushed a snowflake
off his lapel. “It's a living.”

“Until they find out
what an incompetent bastard you are.”

He gave me a weird
smile. “We’ll just have to hope that doesn’t happen.”

McAllister handed the phone
back to Briggs, who said his good-byes and snapped it shut. McAllister started
strolling unhurriedly back to me. Briggs and Stanton made to follow, but the
Chief stopped and held up his hand. When the two halted, he turned and
continued over to me.

“Excuse us, Mr.
Imperatrice.”

“Certainly. And again,
Chief McAllister, please call me Richard.” He patted McAllister lightly on the
shoulder as he walked away. McAllister watched him go.

“That young man seems a
mite slippery.”

“He comes by it
naturally. His father was a snake.”

“Yeah, well anyway.” He
shuffled his feet. “I've been outranked, son.”

“Who was that on the
phone?”

“The governor, just as I
predicted. Seems you're to go with the FBI.”

“Oh, goody.”

“You don't know the half
of it. The governor mentioned the Patriot Act.”

“Oy vey.”

“Yeah.” He shook his
head. “Seems like they use that thing for whatever they please.” He sighed.
“Look, someday, assuming you are ever heard from again, can you let me know
what this was all about?”

“Sure,” I said, “but, in
case I don't get mail privileges in Uzbekistan, the rifle is up along the power
line, under the third tower from the tracks. They rented a car at Albany
airport. Hertz. And one of them spoke German to me before he died. They struck
me as ex-military.”

“Thanks,” he said, “I
appreciate that.”

I leaned in closer. “One
of them had a cell phone. It’s in the trees on the opposite side.”

“You like to play things
cute, don’t you?”

“It’s a good time to be
cute. If you choose to push this investigation, Chief, be quiet and careful.
Might be safest to just leave it alone.”

He nodded and we shook
hands. I started towards Briggs and Stanton. As I approached, Stanton pulled
out his handcuffs