Scott Free (29 page)

Scott opened his door, too. “I'm coming with you.”

“Stay put,” the old man said, waving him off. “Keep them feet warm while you can. And keep an eye out the back window in case I'm wrong.”

Before Scott could object, Pembroke was off, disappearing into the darkness beyond the headlights.

 

“H
OWDY,” SAID THE COP
, as he stepped around the front of his cruiser.

“Evening, officer,” Isaac said. He moved quickly to meet the cop before he had a chance to see the rifle he'd stashed. He extended his hand. “Kevin Clavan,” he said.

The cop eyed him suspiciously, then gave in and shook hands. “Officer Tingle,” he said. “Something wrong with your vehicle?” he asked.

Isaac seemed surprised by the question. “What? Oh, no. Only with my bladder. Too small for my own good. When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

He didn't like the look the cop gave him when he said, “Uh-huh. Could I see your license and your registration, please?”

“Um, yeah, sure,” Isaac said, reaching for his wallet. As he tossed a look over his shoulder, he noted that the clearing was still empty.

 

S
COTT THOUGHT FOR A MOMENT
that Pembroke was dancing a jig as he reappeared in the wash of the headlights, then he realized that the old man was merely jogging back to the truck.

“He got pulled over by a cop!” the old man announced as he pulled open his door and climbed in. “Sure enough, he's over there, but I see flashing lights on the other side.” He laughed, but the sound was more of a high-pitched wheeze. “Well, that'll sure as hell put him on edge.”

“So, what do we do now?”

Pembroke ground the transmission into first gear and popped the clutch. “We wave at him as we drive on by.”

 

A
S HE SEARCHED HIS WALLET
for his driver's license, Isaac riffled through his options. Killing a cop was a mistake. It was always a mistake, no matter how small the jurisdiction. Politicians were nothing compared to the ire raised by offing a cop. On the other hand, the kid knew too much; and, by extension, so did the old man who sold him out. Plus, professionalism be damned, Isaac was plain-ass pissed off, and he wasn't going to be able to live with himself if he let them just get away.

Now, if he could get this cop to move along before Pembroke's truck appeared in the overlook, then everything might work out just fine.

“Sometime tonight would be nice,” said Officer Tingle.

Isaac forced a chuckle. “I guess my fingers are a little slow tonight,” he said.

“I can hold a light for you, if you'd like.”

Isaac shook his head. “No. No, that's okay. I know it's here somewhere.”

Nearly a mile away, he saw headlights enter the clearing, and he dropped his wallet into the snow. “Goddammit.” He bent down to retrieve it.

And came up with his rifle braced against his hip.

Jesse Tingle jumped as if he'd been zapped with a cattle prod. He didn't even reach for his weapon to defend himself. Instead, he raised his hands to his face and yelled, “Jesus!”

Isaac fired a single round dead into the center of his chest and turned away, not even bothering to watch his victim sprawl backward into the snow. He knew the cop was wearing a Kevlar vest, just as he knew that it wouldn't even slow down the armor-piercing bullets he'd loaded.

Moving fast now, Isaac hurried back to his chosen sniper's nest along the guardrail and slipped the night goggles back into place. Dammit, the pickup was already halfway through the clearing, leaving maybe five seconds to make his kill, and nearly two of those seconds would be lost to the flight time of the bullets. It wasn't supposed to be this difficult!

Settling the rifle into his shoulder, he rested the forestock on the guardrail post, acquired his target and started squeezing the trigger. By the time the fifth round left the barrel, the first one had nearly reached its target.

 

P
EMBROKE WAS STILL LAUGHING
. He couldn't get over the irony of it all. “There he is!” he shouted, pointing past Scott to the flashing lights a mile away. “Can you see anything?”

“Just the lights,” Scott said, squinting through the fogged window. He rolled it down halfway for a better view. “Looks like two people just talking.” As he watched, the man on the right bent down, and when he stood again, the man on the left flew backward onto the ground.

“Oh, shit!” Scott yelled. “Oh, shit, he just shot the cop! Move! C'mon, we gotta move!” The booming report reached them a few seconds later.

For the first time, he saw genuine fear in the old man's face. “She won't go no faster!”

Scott continued to watch out the window. From this distance, in the dark, cut only by the lights from the police car, it was tough to make out any real detail, but he could see enough. “I think he's getting ready to fire.”

Up ahead, the clearing was giving way to a protective wall of trees. “We only need a couple more seconds,” Pembroke said.

They didn't have it. Scott watched as a thin tongue of flame danced in the dark.

“Shit!” he yelled. Without a conscious thought, Scott pulled hard on the door handle and rolled to his right, out of the door and onto the snow-packed shoulder. As he tumbled and rolled, he heard the bullets hit. It was the sound of marbles hitting the bottom of a galvanized trash can, a terrible metallic pounding, punctuated by exploding glass and flying sheet metal. The heavy booms of the gunshots arrived later. The entire assault lasted all of five seconds, and then it was over, the pickup barely moving to the cover of the trees. Scott clawed his way to his feet and scrambled to catch up, jumping on the passenger side running board and hoisting himself back through the open door.

“Mr. Pembroke, are you all right?” The inside of the cab had been torn to shreds, the vinyl upholstery and the windshield—what was left of it—spattered with blood. “Oh, God.”

“I been better,” Pembroke said. He tried to laugh again, and the result was a bloody spray. “I think I was hit.”

Scott was horrified. What was he supposed to do now? God, he was going to bleed to death if he didn't do
something.
As the truck slowed more and more, it finally shuddered and stalled out. “I think you might be right,” Scott said. He reached across the old man's lap and set the parking brake. “I need to drive now.”

As Scott grabbed Pembroke under his arms to pull him over to the passenger side, the old man howled with agony. “No! Don't! Lord Jesus, don't do that!”

But he had to. It was that or just sit there in the driver's seat and die. Every place he touched was slick with blood. “I'm sorry, Mr. Pembroke,” he said as he pulled again. “It'll be just another few seconds.” Pembroke screamed and he cussed, but he didn't fight the boy.

Scott was careful not to touch him or hurt him any more as he climbed over him into the driver's seat. He was shocked when the motor caught on the first try.

P
EMBROKE WAS IN AGONY
, moaning endlessly, his rattling lungs producing sounds unlike anything Scott had ever heard. Propelled by fear and rage, the boy drove like a madman, his foot all the way to the floor, the sloppy steering careening him from one shoulder to the other. If a car had been coming in the opposite direction, they'd all have died.

As smoke poured from the damaged motor, the smell of burning rubber combined with the stench of spilled blood and shit to form a mixture that turned his stomach. Every time he dared a glance at the passenger seat, the old man's skin looked grayer, even as the crimson pools grew larger on the seat.

“Hang in there, Mr. Pembroke,” Scott yelled. The smoke scratched his throat, making him cough. “We'll get help for you. Just don't die, okay? Please don't die.”

The sign read, Eagle Feather 1 Mile.

“All right!” Scott cheered. “Did you see that? We're almost there. We made it, okay? We made it!” He cheered again, but not Pembroke. The old man wasn't making any sound anymore. “Mr. Pembroke? Come on, stay awake for me. Mr. Pembroke!” The man didn't move.

Scott leaned over to his passenger. “Come on, Mr. Pembroke, wake up! Please wake up.” Grabbing a fistful of the old man's jacket, Scott pulled him closer, until Pembroke sat upright. Then the bleeding man came the rest of the way, sliding sideways and then onto the floor, his head faceup on Scott's lap, one eye closed and the other staring into nothing, dead. “Oh, Mr. Pembroke,” Scott moaned.

When he returned his eyes to the road, there was no time left to miss the tree.

 

B
RANDON HAD DOZED OFF
, his feet propped up on somebody's desk. Sherry sat at another desk, her eyes closed, head resting on her folded arms. At this point, the police station was merely a place to be, a place not to be alone. A twisted, fitful dream had taken Brandon to Scott's funeral, and he woke up terrified, burdened with a terrible sense of dread. At the front of the big room, Whitestone and Alexander were still locked in a discussion with Sanders. None of it interested Brandon anymore.

“What's wrong?” Sherry asked sleepily. Her head was still on the desk, but now her eyes were open.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said.

“Ditto.” She sat up straight. “Are you all right?”

Brandon tried to smile, but the best he could manage was a smirk. “Not really. Are you sure you don't want to go back to the chalet? You've got the press conference tomorrow.” He checked his watch. “Make that later today.”

“No,” she said, “I want to be here. Do I look as bad as you do?”

“You couldn't possibly look as bad as I feel,” Brandon said.

“I keep watching them,” Sherry said, nodding to the Jamiesons.

They had arrived at the station about a half hour ago, summoned by a phone call from Chief Whitestone. Hearing the news that Scott was still alive, they'd arrived full of hope. “I'm sure that your son would have said something if Cody was in danger,” Annie Jamieson had said.

Sherry could feel their agony as they spoke. “I'm sure you're right,” she'd replied. “I'm sure they're both going to be just fine.”

Since then, the old couple had just sat there, holding hands tightly and saying nothing to anyone.

“They make me sad,” Sherry said to Brandon.

In the back of the squad room, a door labeled Communications opened quickly, and out stepped a woman whom Brandon had never seen before. A tiny boom microphone lined her cheek, coming from a plug in her left ear. She carried the connection for the thing in her hand. “Hey, Chief?” she called from across the room.

Whitestone looked up from his discussion with the others. “What is it, Mattie?”

“I can't find Jesse Tingle.”

Whitestone scowled. “Can't
find
him? Was he lost?”

“I mean, I can't raise him on the radio. About forty-five minutes ago, he called in that he was making a stop out on the main road, but I haven't heard a thing from him since.”

The chief's face showed concern, but not worry. “You've tried alternate channels?”

“Every one of them,” Mattie said.

“What kind of stop was it?”

“He never said, exactly, but he didn't seem upset by it. It's not like him to just disappear off the air.”

“Probably holed up taking a nap,” said Agent Sanders, earning himself a withering glare from Whitestone.

“Is that what you and your agents do in your spare time?” Whitestone shot back. In the background, the buzzer sounded from the front door. James Alexander rose from his chair to answer it.

Sensing the opening salvo of another turf war between Whitestone and Sanders, Brandon headed for the coffeepot in Whitestone's office. “Want any?” he asked Sherry.

She shook her head no and closed her eyes again.

This was Brandon's fifth cup since he'd arrived this morning, and even before he poured it, he knew that he'd regret it soon. Maybe with enough cream and sugar…

His back was turned to the inner door when it opened, but just from the suddenness of the sound, he knew that something was wrong.

“Okay, okay, slow down,” Alexander was saying. “Just take a seat and start at the beginning.”

“There's a dead man in a car down the street—”

Brandon recognized the voice the instant he heard it. He whirled around. It was too good to be true, he knew—too miraculous—but please God, let it be.

“—he's been shot, and I wrecked the truck. We have to—”

They made eye contact the instant Brandon stepped out of Whitestone's office into the squad room. The boy seemed two inches taller and fifteen pounds lighter than the last time he'd seen him. He was bloody and his clothes were torn to shreds. He walked like his body hurt, listing a bit to one side, and on top of it all sat an unruly mop of blue hair. Brandon had never seen a sight so beautiful. “Oh, my God,” he breathed, and at that instant, the rest of the people in the room understood.

Scott seemed bewildered. “Dad?” His features melted and he started to cry. “Dad!”

Brandon sprinted across the room, knocking over a chair and pushing Sanders out of the way as he hurried to hold his baby boy again. He folded Scott into a crushing bear hug. “Oh, my God,” Brandon sobbed. “You're safe. Jesus, I've been so worried, thank God you're safe…”

They sank to the floor, just the two of them, and for the next little while, strapping Scott O'Toole was eight years old again, afraid of the dark and of the monsters in his closet, his feelings hurt by the bullies in school. He hugged his father back, embarrassed by his tears, but unwilling to stop them, grateful to finally be back in the embrace of the one man in the world who, with a single word or a well-placed joke, could make the worst calamities right again.

Whitestone and the others gave them space, unsure what they should do, while in the back of the room, Sherry Carrigan O'Toole stood with her fingers pressed against her lips, her face wet with tears, watching the reunion of Team Bachelor.

Never in her life had she felt so alone.

 

S
COTT FELT
S
HERRY'S PRESENCE
before he saw her. He looked up from the crook of his father's neck, and there she was, standing so far away, watching without moving. He gently pushed himself away from Brandon, who didn't want to let go at first, and he struggled back to his feet. Everything ached. Every joint screamed. But he was safe again.

“Hi, Mom,” he said. He couldn't tell if she was angry or sad or merely frightened. Her face was red and her lip quivered, and it occurred to him at that moment that he'd never seen his mother cry before. He held his arms out in front, open, beckoning, and she hurried past the desks and the staffers to embrace him in a hug the likes of which he'd never felt from her.

“Thank God you're safe,” she said. Her voice was a raspy whisper. “Oh, my God, I've been so worried.”

Scott hugged her back. “I've been kind of worried myself,” he said.

Sherry cupped the back of his head in her hand. “I am so sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

She pulled away from him just far enough that she could frame his face with her palms. “For
everything,”
she whispered.

And he understood. She hugged him again, but this time he embraced her with only one arm, offering the other to his dad. Brandon didn't hesitate, and for a long moment, there in the police station in Eagle Feather, Utah, they were a family again. It felt odd, at first, Scott thought, in a weird, imbalanced way. But then he allowed himself the fantasy, if only for a minute or two, of what life might have been if a thousand things had gone differently.

Finally, it was official. He was alive.

“Excuse me,” someone said. It was a tentative sound, a stranger's voice. Scott looked up to see an older couple watching them, standing so closely together that they might have been one person. “I'm Arthur Jamieson,” the man said. “Cody's father. I was wondering…”

The expression on Scott's face was enough, it seemed. The woman at Arthur's arm seemed to shrink at a single glance, and she covered her face with her hands. Scott felt his mouth working to form words, but he didn't know what to say. Several cops moved quickly to help the old couple into chairs.

Scott looked to his dad. “Cody didn't make it,” he said. Somehow, the words came more easily when speaking to his father. “He was killed in the crash.”

“They know,” Brandon said softly.

Watching the Jamiesons surrender to their grief triggered something deep inside of Scott. It came from a dark, terrible place, and once the gate was open, there was no holding it back. The emotion came without warning, pouring out in long, choking sobs and his parents were on him in an instant, trying to console him, to comfort him. But how could they? What could they possibly say that might dim the memories of white snow churned red by wolves? Of a new friend disembowled and lifeless? What could anybody do to make the agonized shrieks of Cody and Mr. Pembroke echo less loudly in his head?

What could they possibly do to bring the dead back to life?

“It's so unfair,” Scott sobbed.

His parents said nothing. They just held him and rocked him until he was ready.