Scott Free (28 page)

“Um, ten. I think.”

The old man eased the hammer of the revolver down and gestured with his head toward a dark corner of the living room. “Check in that pile over there, and you should find some eleven and a half boots. Put 'em on and meet me outside.”

“Where are we going?”

“Outta here.”

 

E
VEN AT THREE-THIRTY
in the morning, Agent Sanders wore a suit and a crisply starched shirt. Every hair was in place. It was as if he'd never lain down. Barry Whitestone was lucky he didn't have his badge on upside down.

“We've confirmed that the Waco telephone number is, indeed, a Terrastar number,” Sanders said.

Whitestone turned to James Alexander. “I thought
we
did that.”

“Well, I've confirmed it. The number traces to a man named Cranston Burkhammer of Toledo, Ohio. We've got Toledo police rousting him right now.”

“In
Ohio?”
Brandon said. “He's not going to be the same guy.”

“You a detective in your spare time, Mr. O'Toole?” Sanders said. As if it were possible, he was even more condescending early in the morning.

“No, I'm a rocket scientist,” Brandon said. “But it doesn't take one of me to know that Burkhaldter, or whatever the hell his name is, can't be in Ohio if I just talked to Scott on his phone from Utah.”

“You're assuming that the call was made locally.”

“Scott said he walked to the cabin. He sure as hell didn't walk to Toledo.” Brandon looked over at Whitestone, who seemed to be enjoying the back-and-forth.

Sanders paused for a second, seemingly low on steam. Finally, he said, “When the president of the United States is involved, you cover every available base.”

“Does he know about all this?” Alexander asked. “The president, I mean?”

Sanders shook his head. “No, and I don't intend for him to. He doesn't consult me on foreign policy, and I don't burden him with the details of my job.” He turned to Brandon. “I'm terribly sorry for your loss,” he said, his voice leaden with forced sympathy.

Brandon shot a look to Whitestone.

“Uh, Sanders,” Barry said, “we're not ready to call that case closed yet. Just because a fruitcake says something doesn't mean it's true.”

Sanders nodded. “Of course. Well, I hope everything turns out perfectly for you all, then. What I need to know is, how sincere was your son when he talked about this assassination threat?”

Brandon could count on one hand the people in the world whom he genuinely disliked after only one meeting. Agent Sanders was one of them. “Well, he sounded damned serious about someone trying to kill
him,”
he said. “Neither of us had a whole lot of time to assess the seriousness of the threat to the president.”

Sanders stewed for a moment. “I don't understand how your son could still be alive—even when he spoke to you—if a professional killer was after him.”

“What a ghoul,” Sherry said, her first words since arriving at the police station. “You sound disappointed.”

Sanders scowled. “Hardly disappointed,” he said. “Just confused.”

“He's a resourceful boy,” Brandon said.

Whitestone added, “And damned lucky.”

Brandon was tired of talking about the president's problems. The president had all the power and authority of the most powerful nation on the planet to take care of him. For Scott, it was just a couple of exhausted small-town policemen.

“I've got a question,” James Alexander said. “What about the other kid? Cody Jamieson?”

All eyes turned to Brandon, who blushed and looked away. “I never thought to ask,” he said.

B
UT FOR THE RUST
, Pembroke's Ford pickup would have been a collection of steel panels. The engine roared like a tugboat, and from the way the lifters rattled, you'd have thought he put dice in there.

“It's about forty mile into town,” the old man yelled over the noise. “A little place called Eagle Feather.”

“Eagle Feather!” Scott exclaimed. “That's where I started out.”

“Well, I ain't takin' you all the way in. I don't want to be no part of this nohow, you understand?”

Yeah, he understood. “Where do I go when you drop me off?”

“Why don't you just go home?”

“We're staying up in SkyTop.”

Pembroke snorted out a laugh. “Well, I sure as hell ain't takin' you up there. If you just stick to Main Street, you'll see the police station up and on the left. Don't look like much, but trust me, they got jail cells you don't want no part of.”

That sounded like the voice of experience, but Scott didn't pursue it. “I don't suppose you could crank the heater up, could you?”

“This is all she wrote,” Pembroke yelled. “By the time we get to town, she should just about be warming up. I'm afraid it's a little tough on her, keeping up with all the breezes blow through here.”

When he didn't hear a response, the old man turned to see if his passenger was all right.

Scott was lost someplace in his head, staring at a spot in the dark that only he could see.

 

T
HE PUNCH TO HIS SHOULDER
nearly knocked him out the door.

“Hey, wake up!” Pembroke yelled. “We got trouble.”

The words sliced through Scott's guts like a hot knife. He shook his head and blinked his eyes to wake up his brain. “What?” But Scott already saw it in the beam of light from the mirror that exposed the terror in Pembroke's eyes. Scott whirled in his seat to see the vehicle behind them, racing to catch up.

“Thirty seconds ago, he wasn't even there,” the old man said.

Now he was only a hundred yards away and closing fast.

“Speed up!” Scott yelled.

“I got it on the floor as it is!”

“Maybe it's not him,” Scott offered, and even without looking, he could sense the old man's glare. He felt something tap his thigh, and he looked down to see Pembroke's horse pistol, turned backward, butt facing him.

“Take it,” Pembroke shouted. “Slow him down.”

“Shoot
him?”

“That, or throw it at him. I thought you said he was gonna kill you.”

“Yeah, but…” Actually, he didn't have an argument. Behind them, the racing vehicle already had nearly halved the distance.

“That window there opens,” Pembroke said, indicating the sliding panel in the middle of the rear windshield. “Open it up and pop off a shot. See if it don't get him to back off.”

“Suppose I hit him?”

“Then I guess we all drive slower. Ever shoot a pistol before?”

“No. Well, a flare gun. Killed a wolf with it.”

Pembroke craned his neck to look at Scott, flashed a yellow smile. “You'll have to tell me about that someday,” he said. “Well, that bastard's gonna kick like a mad mule, so hang on tight. Pull the hammer all the way back.”

That much, Scott knew. He thumbed the hammer back.

“All the way,” the old man said. “Four clicks.”

Scott was one shy. He pulled it all the way.

“Now stick it out the window and shoot it.”

With the back window open, the temperature in the cab instantly dropped to unbearable. The approaching vehicle was only fifty yards back now, probably less. With the high beams in his eyes, all he could see was light. He held the gun with both hands, just as he'd seen on television cop shows, but the weapon was completely lost in the glare.

“Shoot!” Pembroke yelled.

“The light is blinding me!”

“Well, shoot the light, then! Jesus, shoot something!”

Scott hesitated. “But what if—”

Before he could form the question, a burst of automatic weapons fire ripped through the flatbed of the pickup. No gunshots, just the
tink tink tink
of bullets finding their mark.

Pembroke initiated a series of S-turns, taking up the entire roadway as they topped the crest of a hill. “Goddammit, boy, shoot! He's trying to drive and shoot at the same time. He won't be able to hit nothing.”

Scott pulled the trigger. The blast and the muzzle flash were more what he would have expected from a cannon. He felt the recoil all the way into his shoulders. Isaac's vehicle slowed and swerved. Scott cocked and fired again. And again. Each time, the distance between the vehicles grew.

“Take it easy, Sundance!” Pembroke yelled. “After six, we're outta business, and he knows it. Settle into your seat for a bit and let me drive.”

The shootout was more relaxing. Running downhill now, at speeds that made the whole truck vibrate, the S-curves of the road seemed somehow to be at odds with the S-curves Pembroke was driving. Scott watched him for a moment, amazed by the old man's athleticism as he yanked the steering wheel violently from one side to the next.

“He's not right on our tail anymore,” Scott offered. “I can't even see him. I don't think you have to take the whole road anymore.”

“I'm not trying to take the whole road,” Pembroke barked. “I'm tryin' to settle her down. The steering linkage ain't as tight as it used to be.”

What, in 1960?
Scott didn't say. He just settled into his seat, the pistol gripped in his right hand, and his left braced against the dashboard. Funny, after surviving a plane crash, a twenty-four-hour hike in a blizzard, an attack by wolves and a couple of shootouts, it never occurred to him that he might die by sailing off the side of a mountain in a truck.

“How much further?” Scott asked.

“Five, ten mile, I'd guess. I figure by the time we get to the outskirts, if Clavan is the killer you say, he won't want to risk getting caught in town and he'll break off the chase.” Pembroke's dim headlights revealed a hairpin turn up ahead, doubling around, and heading back uphill.

Scott saw in an instant that they were going too fast. “You see that?” he shouted.

Pembroke kicked out the clutch and downshifted. The ancient truck lurched and the engine screamed, but with a hundred yards to go, they were still way too fast.

“Slow down!” Scott yelled. “We're gonna wreck!”

The old man stood on the brake and cranked the wheel as if he were turning an aircraft carrier. The tires skidded and the back end fishtailed, first into a snowbank and then, on the rebound, into the side of the mountain. The left rear fender sent out a spray of sparks as it dragged along the rocks. But Old Man Pembroke hung on, never losing his concentration or his grip as the truck stayed on the road to complete the curve.

Scott couldn't believe it. He whipped around in his seat, surveying the damage—or the lack of it—and let out a war whoop. “You did it! Holy shit, I thought for sure we were gonna go flying, but you did it! All right, Mr. Pembroke!”

The old man tried to look annoyed by the outburst, but smiled in spite of himself. “Before you get too carried away, start looking through that window again.” Ahead of them stretched a long, narrow bridge.

“Why, do you see him?” Scott spun in the seat.

“No, not yet, but he'll be there. After we get to the other side of this bridge, it's almost all uphill.”

The engine screamed from the effort. For ten full minutes, which seemed like five full hours, the ancient pickup lumbered up the hillside, barely able to get out of its own way.

“See that sign up there?” Pembroke called, pointing to a rectangular plaque that read S
CENIC
O
VERLOOK
1/2 M
ILE
. “That's the halfway point on this hill.”

Scott nodded, relieved. “Well, I still don't see any sign of Isaac's truck.”

 

I
SAAC
D
E
H
AVEN
, a.k.a. Kevin Clavan, had broken off his chase nearly twenty minutes ago. That was stupid, driving at fatal speeds while shooting and being shot at, left-handed, no less. Amateur stuff; movie stuff. You never let your target have a level playing field, let alone let him have the advantage, but that's exactly what he had done. Surprised the shit out of him, too, when the kid took a shot at him. All things considered, given the mistakes he'd made back there, Isaac was lucky to be alive. He tried to tell himself it was because he was pissed, but that didn't make it any better. He was a professional, for God's sake. He couldn't afford to get pissed.

That was then; this was now, and finally, he had his advantage. As in all hunting, the secret to Isaac's line of work was to know two things very, very well: your prey and your terrain, and in this case, he was preparing for a turkey shoot.

The road to Eagle Feather traced the outline of the Arroyo Gorge, some geological formation in which Isaac had exactly zero interest, beyond the fact that on busy tourist days, traffic would back up for miles as cars pulled in and out of the scenic overlooks that faced each other on opposite sides. The view was indeed spectacular on a clear day, but at this hour, it was just a black stain against the night. Knowing that Pembroke would have to drive past the wide-open overlook, Isaac had set up shop in the pullover on the near side.

On a good day, with clean roads, the circuit from overlook to overlook would take fifteen minutes. With conditions the way they were, and given the condition of Pembroke's rattletrap piece of shit, he figured a minimum of twenty-five. At the fifteen-minute mark, just to be on the safe side, Isaac took his night goggles and his rifle and walked to the far side of his Suburban, there to wait for his prey to cross into the open.

He left the MP5 on the front seat and unlimbered the latest addition to his arsenal—a Heckler & Koch PSG-1, the most accurate semiautomatic sniper rifle in the world. At nearly eighteen pounds, it was heavier than his previous long-range guns, but the trade-off in performance was more than worth the compromise. The shot he'd have to make here would be a bitch, well over a thousand yards, but the road on the opposite side was very steep, and the opening fairly wide, so Isaac figured he'd have a solid ten to fifteen seconds to pump in as many rounds as it would take.

After twenty-five minutes, he was having a hard time keeping warm. He stomped his feet and marched in place to keep the blood circulating.

Headlights approaching from behind startled him. It was three in the morning, for Christ's sake, too late for tourists and too early for truckers to be making their rounds. He saw it from less than a quarter mile away, and he barely had time to sweep the goggles off his head and stash the rifle behind the right front tire before the approaching car's headlights swept over him. Isaac winced against the glare, concerned that the car seemed to be slowing.

His concern deepened when the blue-and-white light bar jumped to life on the vehicle's roof.

 

S
COTT DIDN'T UNDERSTAND
why Pembroke had pulled the truck to a stop. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Any signs of him yet?”

“Nothing but empty road,” Scott said. “Come on, let's go.”

Pembroke shook his head and wiped his nose with the palm of his hand. “I don't like it,” he said.

Scott couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Don't like what? Jesus, let's go!”

“I don't think so.”

A new fear gripped Scott's insides. Maybe Pembroke was changing his mind. Maybe he wasn't going to help him out after all.

“There's a big clearing up here,” the old man said, scowling into the night. “We go through that, and we'll be wide open for a good long time. Fifteen, twenty seconds, maybe more.”

“So?” Scott's voice strained with incredulity. “Isaac's nowhere to be seen.”

Pembroke pointed at the boy with a gnarled forefinger. “That, young man,
is
the problem. Where the hell is he? He's had plenty of time to catch up. So, I'm thinkin' he's not behind us at all no more. I'm thinkin' he's on the other side of the Arroyo Gorge waiting for us to cross so he can take us out.”

“Is there another way?”

Pembroke's whole face pinched together as it folded into a hard scowl. “Nope. 'Fraid not.” He opened his door.

“Where are you going?”

“The overlook's just up there a bit. I'm gonna go take me a look.”