Point of Law (24 page)

“Having fun?” Kim asks with a tired smile.

I raise my beer to her and the two girls in the cockpit. “I wish Roberto could see the hell I’m enduring to get him out of jail.”

THIRTY-ONE

I
F
F
AST AND
Burgermeister had been a little smarter, they would have punctured the tires of my truck. That had been my greatest fear on the forty-minute boat ride back to the marina—it would have cost us hours. But my aged Land Cruiser is intact except for the rust holes above the fenders. Candy and Amber help us load Oso into the backseat while a throng of tourists gape from the docks. They appear more interested in the three straining women than in the wounded dog.

After we thank Oso’s new girlfriends, I get in the driver’s seat and start the engine with the Hide-A-Key. Kim sits in back with Oso’s big head cradled in her lap. We pass the boat rental office without a glance. Before we’re even out of town, I’m punching numbers into my cell phone.

“Tomichi County Sheriff’s Office. Can I help you?” The voice is that of the desk clerk I’d run past in my impulsive yet successful attempt to see the sheriff. I remember arguing with her over the speaker outside the lobby before she finally buzzed me in to supposedly leave my card. It’s hard for me to believe that it had just been two days before.

“My name is Special Agent Antonio Burns. I need to speak with Sheriff Munik immediately,” I say in an official tone, hoping she won’t remember my voice or my name.

There’s a long silence on the other end of the line.
Shit
.

“Please,” I try. Outside the car, I see that we’re dropping from a high plain down into a red canyon. Mesquite pines and chaparral flash green as we speed through the otherwise Martian landscape.

“You got me in a lot of trouble, mister, running past me like you did. I hope you app—”

“Listen, I’m very sorry. But this is an emergency and I need to talk to the sheriff right now!”

“Then call 911.” She hangs up on me.

“Fuck!”

Behind me I hear Oso growl in response to the shouted obscenity. I stab the redial button on the cell phone and then cut her off when she begins the same practiced greeting. The speedometer’s wand is steadily rising.

“I can’t call 911. I’m in Arizona. I swear, lady, this is an emergency!”

“Then you should call your local law enforcement agency. Have a nice day, Agent Burns.” She hangs up on me again.

My jaw is clenched hard enough to make my teeth ache. In my free hand I lift the phone, trying to decide whether to resist the urge to smash it on the dashboard. “Easy, Anton. Slow down,” Kim says from behind me. She reaches forward and plucks the phone from my hand.

This time, when the desk officer answers, Kim says sweetly, “Hi, Doris. This is Kim Walsh. Is Sheriff Munik in?” She hands the phone back to me while the call is being transferred. And she again reminds me that I’m driving way too fast.

When the sheriff comes on the line, I quickly explain that I’m with Kim Walsh in Arizona so that he too doesn’t hang up on me. Then I tell him what had happened during the night and about Sunny’s confirmation that David Fast and Alf Burgermeister were the killers. He listens in silence. It lasts even after I stop talking, long enough so that I start to wonder if the line has gone dead.

“Sheriff?”

“What have you been smoking, Burns?” he finally says.

I take the phone from my ear and stare at it for a second. I simply can’t believe what I’m hearing. The anger starts to bubble up in my chest like a pot boiling over. My throat swells with the need to let out the steam. It takes all the will I possess to keep from expressing it.

“What are you saying?” I ask, my voice sounding unnaturally calm.

The sheriff chuckles. “Your brother confessed this morning. I just heard about it myself from a jailhouse snitch we had in a cell with him. According to our man, your brother said something about ‘fucking up the kid for the girl.’ I suppose he meant that Sunny Hansen.”

“Bullshit!” There’s nothing calm about my voice now. The word comes out hot enough to scald the phone. In the backseat I hear Oso growl louder.

“Anton, slow down!” Kim shouts.

I turn the wheel hard around a corner. We’re winding our way through a desert canyon fast enough for the wheels to moan at each curve.

Trying to regain control of both myself and the truck, I say, “Kim Walsh is with me. She can confirm everything I said. Your snitch is lying, Sheriff. And Sunny Hansen has been kidnapped and will be murdered soon, if she’s not dead already.”

Munik sighs. “Burns, it’s well known that Ms. Walsh has it out for David Fast. She’s been doing everything she can to put a stop to the development in Wild Fire Valley. The DA’s even thinking about charging her as an accessory to the arson. Everyone, including me, figures she must have had a hand in it. Maybe she even talked your brother into it. So excuse me for not believing the brother of a murderer and an arson suspect. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a roadblock to maintain. The Forest Service approved the land exchange yesterday afternoon, so I guess that land isn’t public anymore. The deeds will be passed over in a couple of days. And Dave called this morning and asked me to make sure no more of those damn hippies get up into the valley to do any more mischief. So you make sure I don’t catch
you
trying to sneak up there. I’ll be sure to keep my eye out for that girl, though. With her testimony the case against Roberto Burns will be bulletproof.” He chuckles again as he hangs up the phone.

“What happened?” Kim asks immediately.

I don’t answer right away. My hands grip the wheel hard enough that my rock-scarred knuckles flare white. My teeth feel like they’re about to explode in my mouth. My foot raises off the accelerator and I let the truck slow to a stop in the middle of the road. I try to concentrate on just breathing. The sun beats down on the roof, heating the truck, but I seem to lack the strength to turn on the air conditioner.

“Anton?”

I blow out a lungful of hot air and suck a new one in. “He doesn’t believe me. Us, I mean. He says my brother confessed to killing Cal this morning and that you’re now a suspect in the arson.”

“Bullshit!” Kim says immediately, duplicating my reaction.

“He also said the government approved the swap yesterday. The deeds will be formally exchanged in a couple of days.”

We sit in the middle of the road for several minutes. No other cars come by. A hundred feet ahead three ravens are picking at the fly-blown corpse of a coyote on the side of the road. I watch them jab at the meat with their sharp beaks and then glare at me. One of them caws in the direction of the truck. It sounds like an evil laugh.

“Give me the phone,” Kim demands.

I hand it back. “Who are you going to call?”

In the rearview mirror she looks once again like a rampaging pirate. She’s tied a blue bandana over her filthy hair. A few tendrils spill out over her face to partially mask the eye patch.

“The FBI.”

I say tiredly, “The valley’s no longer federal land, Kim. They don’t have jurisdiction anymore.”

“Kidnapping’s a federal crime, isn’t it?”

I shift through the gears as we start moving again. But it feels like we’re going nowhere. It takes Kim half the drive back just to speak to an actual agent, who then refers her to the local U.S. Attorney. She’s told that they’ll look into it after they speak with the sheriff. The federal prosecutor is all too aware that one of our alleged kidnappers is the son of a former United States senator. If they feel the need is justified, they’ll see about investigating further. In a skeptical tone he suggests we stay in touch.

“I guess it’s time to get serious,” I tell her as she hands me the phone. When I take it from her I notice that her hand is quivering, as if the night’s cold and terror has returned to hold her in its icy grip. “We’re going to have to take care of things ourselves.” The law’s not going to work for us. The anger has washed out of my system. Replacing it is a strange sense of calm. I feel like the rope’s run out and there’s no ledge on which to set up a belay. No safety. All that’s left to do is to untie the knot and let the rope drop away.

Her face is now hidden from me—she’s buried it in Oso’s fur. Even though I can’t see her expression, I know the pirate is gone now. The scared little girl is back.

I reach under the dashboard and take out the backup gun I keep hidden there. It’s a flat little Beretta loaded with hollow-point .22 caliber bullets. Despite its size, it feels light and lethal in my hand. I lay it on the empty passenger seat.

“How?” comes the muffled reply.

“I’m going to unleash the dogs,” I tell her, thinking of my mother’s term for Roberto’s lack of restraint.
Destraillado.

 

THEY SOWED THE WIND,

AND THEY SHALL REAP

THE WHIRLWIND.

—HOSEA 8:7
EIGHTH CENTURY B.C.

THIRTY-TWO

“I
’
VE BAILED HIM
out, Dad. I could use your help riding herd.”

There’s silence at the other end of the line. I can picture my father at some gleaming steel desk in the Pentagon. On the car radio on the long drive back to Tomichi, I’d heard more about trouble involving United States soldiers in the Balkans. Then there was a report about American tourists being gunned down in the desert outside Cairo. And more of the usual trouble in Iraq. I imagine him surrounded by ringing phones and frantic aides. I picture him with his eyes closed, maybe leaning back in some futuristic executive chair before multiple blinking computer screens, as amid the chaos he contemplates the fact that I’ve risked my inheritance, my brother’s freedom, and possibly his life by springing Roberto from jail.

Instead of angrily assailing me with all the arguments of why I should not be doing what I’m doing, he quietly says, “I can’t do it right now, son. Things are going to hell here. Twelve UN soldiers were shot down in Bosnia. I may have to coordinate a rescue.”

I feel a fresh rush of disappointment and betrayal. All those family loyalty lectures over the years were just so much bullshit. His career’s not going anywhere—what better time to bag it than now, when Roberto and I need his help?

“Perhaps I should send your mother,” he says quietly.

Suddenly the emotion is gone and I can’t help but laugh. I picture my mother, the spicy Latin princess, facing up to Fast and Burgermeister and the sheriff and the Tomichi County DA. When aroused, she uses her tongue like a whip. And the Spanish she uses at such times is like a barb at its tip. I have no doubt that Mom could do some serious damage here in southwestern Colorado. But now’s not the time. Having her around would only make Roberto more protective, unstable, and dangerous.

“Negative, Colonel. I’ll take care of it.” I’m anxious to get off the phone with him before I say something just to hurt him.

When I walk back into the coffee shop, I see that Roberto has finally managed to coax a laugh out of Kim. A waitress stands by the table, laughing too, and staring at my brother with big doe-eyes as he tells some story.

After the waitress takes our orders and walks away, Kim says, still smiling, “Roberto was telling me about the time you guys were climbing in the ‘Towers of Pain’?” She looks at Roberto to see if she’s gotten the name right.

My brother says, “Close enough. Accurate, too.” She means Torres del Paine in Patagonia, not far from our grandfather’s ranch.

“And you guys were on the top of some pinnacle in a storm when you knocked over the stove and burned down the tent?”

“It didn’t seem so funny at the time,” I respond grumpily.

I’m amazed at the transformation that has taken place in Roberto’s face and attitude. When I’d met him inside the jail an hour earlier, his skin was sallow and his jaw muscles were bunched tight at the corners of his face. He looked years older. A scowl hung from his bright blue eyes like a physical weight. The orange jail uniform seemed to somehow dim their color. But the moment we stepped outside, the moment the late summer sun laid its high-altitude warmth on him, all that dropped away. He stood in the fresh air on the courthouse grass and sucked deep breaths. He looked right again in his motorcycle boots, his heavy brown jeans, and the tight black T-shirt. Grinning, he crouched and dug his fingers into the dirt. He turned to me, looking like a phoenix raised from the ashes.

With that amazing quickness he’d always had, he seized my face in his dirty hands and kissed me on the mouth. “Thanks, bro,” he said while I feigned violent nausea.

His energy has infused Kim, too. On the long, high-speed drive back to Tomichi she’d sat in back the whole way, cradling Oso’s massive head in her lap. Her brief moment of fire, when she’d taken the phone from me and called the FBI, quickly flared out when the Feds made clear their reluctance and disbelief. After that she barely spoke. And she never met my eyes in the rearview mirror. I was on the cell phone every minute I could get a signal, feeling a new sense of purpose. I arranged a wire transfer of a half million dollars from Argentina to a Tomichi bank as bail for Roberto. Then I spent more than an hour trying to keep from driving off the road as I waited on hold for my father. And I called the animal hospital and asked Kim’s friend to prepare to perform surgery on my gunshot dog.

When we arrived at the veterinarian’s office, we were met with a rolling crash cart. It almost brought tears to my eyes that finally someone was doing something to help us. The confident woman doctor there assured me that Oso would be okay, but she would need to knock him out so that she could open up his leg and dig out any remaining pellets and hopefully reattach any damaged tendons. She had me stay with the beast until he was sedated.

“So how we gonna clear my good name,
che
?” Roberto asks now.

“Good name my ass.” I take a sip of hot coffee. “We have to find Sunny—she’s the only one who can truly clear you.”

“Blonde chick, right? Hot-looking, with dreads? You know where she’s at?”

“Not exactly.” I explain our finding her on Lake Powell, then losing her. About Oso getting shot.

“I’d like to find the guys that did that.” One thing Roberto doesn’t tolerate is the mistreatment of women, children, or dogs.

“So would I,” Kim chimes in. The ferocity is coming back. Roberto’s self-assurance is infecting us both.

Roberto cocks a thumb at Kim, then says to me, “I dig this girl.”

“So do I,” I say pointedly, which makes him smile and nod in understanding. He even winks. “Kim and I think they’re taking her back to the valley. To lead Fast and his friend to the cave so they can dynamite it or something. Then they’ll probably kill her.”

Roberto’s smile fades. “That’s going to be a problem,
che.
A deputy I made friends with in the pound told me that Fast has gotten the pigs—no offense, Ant—to set a roadblock up there. They’re going to arrest anyone going in there for trespassing. And believe me, bro, you don’t want to be in that jail.”

“Because he’s a cop?” Kim asks. Everyone knows that convicts aren’t especially kind to jailed police officers.

Roberto shakes his head. “No, ’cause last night a bunch of Burgermeister’s redneck buddies got themselves arrested for drunkenness or some shit. Word I heard from my friend was that they refused to sign a PR bond.” He means a Personal Recognizance bond, which is a type of bail for minor offenses that only requires a signature and a promise to appear or pay a fine. No cash. A PR bond is like a “get out of jail free” card. No one refuses to sign a PR bond. “My friend heard these boys were looking to stick a shank in me. Ant got me out of there just in time, before I had to seriously fuck them up.”

That explains the confession Roberto supposedly made. Fast and Burgermeister had some of their men get themselves arrested. It would be so easy for one of them to claim he’d heard Roberto confess to killing Cal. After that, once the sheriff and the DA had no further doubt as to my brother’s guilt, the men could kill him in a jailhouse fight. The case of Cal’s murder would be forever closed.

I think about it for a minute and realize how the plan would be even better for the developers if Kim and I were to get arrested, too, going up into the valley to rescue Sunny. It’s a pretty good plan for a meathead like Burgermeister and a newly baptized criminal like Fast to have come up with. I remind myself not to underestimate them.

“Is there another way into the valley?” I ask Kim. We could hike out of sight through the dense woods, but the meadow beneath Cal’s red cliff is almost twenty miles up the Forest Service road. It would take at least a day. Maybe two. Sunny will be very dead by then, if she’s not already.

Kim slouches in the booth and stares at the table. After a moment she looks up with a determined expression. “Yes, there is. A narrow-gauge train, an old mining relic, is used all summer to give sightseeing tours up a gorge just east of Wild Fire Peak. If we can get the conductor to stop and let us off, then maybe we can hike up the peak’s back side and drop into the valley that way. I imagine it’s a tough hike, though. The west face of the mountain is much more rugged than the east. I don’t know if anyone’s ever climbed it from that side.”

“Let’s do it,” I say. Conquering the mountain should be the easy part.

Roberto’s not concerned about the climb either. If it were all that hard, he would have heard of it and already soloed it.

“Cool. A train,” my brother says instead. “I fucking love it. Just like
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
.” To Kim he says, “You can be Etta,” and then to me, “I guess that makes me Butch, right, Sundance? The odd man out.”

“Odd is right, Roberto.”