The Eagle and the Fox (A Snowy Range Mystery, #1) (19 page)

Josh took Marcus’ elbow and held it in a steady grip. He didn’t have to say the words, his friend understood. Nodding, Marcus blended into the shadows, leaving Josh with the far less appetizing task of invading an alien environment. Grumbling, “Shoulda pulled the fucking trigger card,” he shoved through the doors into a wall of sound.

A voice in his ear, shouting, “Josh? Josh Foxglove!” had him spinning toward a small woman wearing wire-framed glasses and a huge grin.

He smiled and said, “Mrs. Walker. Hey.” She had been his senior English teacher, one of the few who’d encouraged his interest in law enforcement, even going so far as to walk him through the requirements for different metropolitan areas. She’d also been the one to say one day he’d be going places. Little had she known just how far from home he would end up.

She shouted above the din, “What brings you back to this den of inequity?”

Good question. Josh hadn’t thought far enough in advance that he might need an excuse for being there, especially since he didn’t have kids in school. Showing up for old time’s sake wasn’t going to cut it, not with Mrs. Walker. Her glasses perched on her nose, leaving her brows knit together expectantly.

Josh swallowed and chose a half truth. “Um, you know Marcus Colton. From the feed store?” The woman smiled and said something he couldn’t hear. He gently steered her toward the rear of the gym to keep his ears from bleeding and to save shouting since his throat wasn’t up to that challenge yet. “Petilune Goggles works for him. She asked if he’d come by to meet her boyfriend.” An eyebrow lifted. That explained about Marcus, who wasn’t there, but not why
he
was.

Oh, shit shit shit. I’m no good at this.

In for a penny, in for a pound... “Marcus, um, well... He said he didn’t feel right coming to this by himself since he didn’t go here and wouldn’t know anyone. So, he asked if I’d come along. So I did.”

Lame, Foxglove, really lame.

Mrs. Walker gave him her patented
that’s nice dear, but maybe you should work on your delivery
expression while he squirmed under her scrutiny.

What am I, six years old? Christ, I used to deal with homicidal maniacs.

The woman directed his attention to a spot just left of the stage where a student band was abusing electronic instruments with far too much enthusiasm. “Petilune’s there.” She was indeed, but Kit was missing or was lost in the mass of bodies performing some sort of tribal ritual.

He asked, “Which one is her boyfriend?”

She puckered her lips and scanned the crowd, then her face brightened and she pointed to the thin frame wending its way toward one of the far exit doors. Josh knew where those doors led. He excused himself, saying he was going to say hello to Petilune and ducked into the crowd. When he looked back, the teacher had her back turned, chastising two kids pushing and shoving each other.

Knowing he was free and clear, he limped as fast as he dared toward the main corridor. Kit was going to cut through the locker room area and then take the back route to get to the exits leading onto the soccer field behind the building. He pulled his phone out and texted “soccer” and hoped Marcus understood.

With his bum leg, he needed to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, use his knowledge of the school to shave time, and get himself into position before Kit disappeared. Even if the boy wasn’t directly involved in whatever was going down, he’d certainly gotten wind of it. There was no other explanation for him ducking out and leaving Petilune alone.

He grinned with satisfaction. At least one question had been answered. Kit Giniw was a student at the school. Josh wondered how the kid had pulled that off because his every instinct suggested the boy was a vagrant, possibly on the run—from the law, from his tribe, maybe his family. He was tough scared, wearing bravado with a skin that didn’t quite fit.

There was nothing legitimate about Kit Golden Eagle except his Native American heritage and how he felt about Petilune.

––––––––

M
arcus wound his way past clumps of kids sneaking smokes, shooting the shit, trash talking. Clusters of jocks here, biker dude wannabes over there, the entrepreneurs exchanging small baggies for bills. In the trucks, some rockin’ ‘n rollin’ as couples played Russian roulette with sperm, the innocents grabbing a grope with blushes and titters. Those who were cool, those who weren’t but didn’t quite get it.

It was like being hurled back in time. Nothing much had changed—not the kids, not the trouble they got into. Certainly not the part where making mistakes was part of making memories, though they’d need to grow into those, like he’d done.

Recognizing most of the boys from those coming in the store, either to pick up an order or making like pack mules for their moms and dads who did a month’s worth of shopping at a clip, helped him focus on the ones he didn’t know well. Unlike Josh, who’d gotten up close and personal with two of the kids attacking Will Barnes, he had to rely on zeroing in on
which one doesn’t belong
?

So far he’d come up with bupkis.

A few of the overhead floods toward the back of the building where the athletic fields edged the parking lot were out. Following his nose, Marcus wandered, hands in pockets, star gazing and wishing he had a cigarette, not so much as a prop but because his nerves needed calming. He’d first thought it was because he stuck out like a sore thumb, especially since so many of the students knew him from the store or church or the odd times he was at Polly’s for a meal and they’d been in there too. But after a bit, he’d garnered a veneer of dread that wouldn’t go away.

From inside the building, the steady beat of music and the hum of voices drowned out other sounds—the imagined crunch of heels on gravel, the snick of a blade, a gun being cocked. The line of trucks stopped just short of the last few parking spaces, a demilitarized zone between him and the murky dimness of large, flat athletic fields. Knowing how open it was out there, how vulnerable someone who tread the rutted stretch of prairie grass would be... that set his skin tingling in a claustrophobic thrill.

Piercing the background din was a bellow of
shut the fuck up,
followed by the crude crunch of bone connecting with bone, then grunts of surprise, pain and rage.

Marcus plastered himself against the side of the building, out of sight. He listened, trying desperately to fix in his mind the shape of the conflict before he risked making his presence known. Whoever was there, they were being careful not to draw attention.

Fucking broke my nose, Dee.

Ssh, shut it, asshole.

Whadya want we should do with ’em?

Whoever “Dee” was, the kid growled, “Hold ’em still.” The bass beat and the sound of boots impacting a body turned the air obscenely brutal.

To his horror, a young couple, high as kites, staggered past, not seeing him in the shadows. The girl screamed. Her boyfriend hissed, “Whoa,” and pulled up, his mouth agape. Marcus wondered what the hell they saw that he’d yet worked up the courage to confront. Whatever held them like bugs in amber was bad enough Marcus knew it was time to do something.

Jogging a few steps, he grabbed the boy and spun him around. “Get her out of here. Now. And call 911.”

The girl sputtered, “He don’t have a phone...”

Marcus lost precious seconds fumbling for his cell phone, then shoved it into the girl’s hands. “Call. Then get inside. Find a teacher.” She stared at the boyfriend, still mesmerized by whatever was happening on the field. Marcus shook her, hard. “Do it. I’ll take care of him.”

“But...”

Marcus squeezed the girl’s arms until she squealed. “If you don’t do this, I’ll leave him here. You want that to happen?” Even in the dim light, Marcus could see her pupils were blown. She wasn’t firing on all cylinders, and the odds of her managing to summon the cavalry were zero to none.

Reaching back, he dug his fingers into the boy’s arm until he had both of them in his grasp, prepared to carry them to safety if he had to. He didn’t get far. A voice hissed in his ear, “Still trying to be a hero, old man?”

A knife pricked the side of his neck. It felt like a bee sting. A trickle of warm fluid trailed a path down the cords in his neck bulging with tension and fear. The boy pulled out of his grasp and backed away, palms up, mouthing something Marcus couldn’t hear.

Whoever held the knife to his neck said, “Go on home. And take her with you.” To one of the others, he barked, “Give him a little something for his trouble.”

Marcus watched a cellophane packet of pills change hands, then the two kids staggered away, leaving him alone with his assailants. He entertained a faint hope the girl might still remember to call the cops, but that was squashed when his cell phone tumbled to the gravel and bounced. Idly, his brain seemed pleased it hadn’t broken. The gods granted small favors after all. He grinned.

“You think that’s funny, asshole?”

He was tossed to the side, staggering, his hand clamped to the puncture wound. Another guy wrapped him up from behind, lifting him on his tippy-toes and slamming him to the ground. Knees buckling from the impact, his body folded like an accordion. It hurt but it was nothing compared to the impact when his skull slammed into the gravel surface, blanking everything but a white whine of pain piercing his eardrums.

Only seconds ticked by before beefy hands twisted his collar tight around his neck, choking off his air and shaking him like a rag doll. Neck snapping under the onslaught, he bit his tongue, flooding his mouth with the acrid taste of iron and copper.

The sensation of cool dirt and prickly vegetation dragged across his back. He intoned a mantra ...
what do they want, what do they want
until his torturer barked, “Where’s Petilune?”

A thin, reedy voice wailed, “I tol’ you, Dee, she’s inside with that bitch boy, Giniw.”

Marcus recognized the speaker, the slur and high-pitched shrill of Jackie, one of Petilune’s brothers. He was too dazed to recall if he was the older or the younger one. Though he sank in and out of consciousness, he struggled against the drift. There was no way he was letting any of them get their hands on the child. He’d die first.

Dee issued an order to one of his gang. “Untie him.” To Jackie he growled, “You go inside and get that little bitch, bring her out here.”

Jackie yelped, “No!”

“It ain’t a suggestion, digger.”

Jackie hissed, “Fuck you, you cocksucker. I ain’t going in there. That Init’ll kill me before I get out the door.” A thud and a gagging grunt followed. Jackie whined, “Why you want Petilune anyways? She ain’t right in the head.” He gurgled and spit out, “She don’t know nothing, honest to God.”

Marcus tried cracking his eyes open, but his face was planted in dirt and all he saw were stars behind his eyelids. Someone said, “Send him. She’ll go with him.”

Him... Who would go with him? Why?

“...’cause she’s fucking the old goat, that’s why.”

A disembodied voice asked, “Who the hell is he anyways?”

Jackie volunteered how his ma had bartered Petilune for some cash seeing’s how she was too dumb to pay her way, and that Marcus kept his sister in this attic above the store sometimes, doing stuff.

Dee chuckled and eased his boot underneath Marcus’ torso. With a flick, he rolled Marcus onto his back and landed a blow to his side. Marcus forced his body to go limp. If they thought he was unconscious, they might leave him alone.

Or blow a hole in his head. Much as he disliked gambling, option two seemed a better bet.

Where the hell is the cavalry? Why isn’t anyone screaming bloody murder? Where’s Josh? God help me, where’s Josh?

“Somebody knows where my shit is, Goggles. Now, either you or your brother are gonna tell me right now, or we go someplace private where no one can hear you scream.”

“How many times I got to tell you, we ain’t got it. It was stole off our truck. Hand to God, man. I ain’t lying.”

“You had one job, asshole. One job. Now I’m out some serious Benjamins, and the people I work for ain’t near as understanding as I am.”

Marcus had the sensation of movement against his shoulders, as if the ground was giving way, but he wasn’t sure. The fog lifted and settled, muddying his brain until it left him suspended in a half-waking state. In a moment of lucidity he heard, “Get rid of that one,” and prepared to meet his maker.

The ground bucked underneath his body as sirens wailed in the distance. Something, or someone, hit and rolled over him. He groaned and choked on spit and bile threading its way up his throat.

A voice he knew yelled, “Kit. KIT! You need to get out of here...”

In the chaos, he felt Josh lift him and he murmured, “Ow, fuck,” as he hung upside down, slung like a sack of grain over Josh’s shoulder, the knobby joint splitting his gut in two. After that, he didn’t remember much.

****

C
ool metal caressed his back. Someone had rolled a towel or a jacket under his neck. A light flashed in his eyes. He groaned and muttered, “Where am I?” The real question was,
am I alive
?

“Mr. Colton? I’m Sandy, the school nurse.” He smiled. She seemed to find that encouraging. “We have another ambulance on the way. They’ll take you to County for observation. I suspect you’ve got a concussion.”

Suspect? If he was a betting man...

To add to being a pervie lecher, it seemed he’d developed a gambling problem. He heard Josh ask, “How’s he doing?”

“He’ll have some pretty good bruising.” Nurse Sandy lifted the blanket. “Missed the kidneys fortunately.”

Fingers parted his hair. A hand cupped his cheek, the thumb sweeping across his eyelid. Fortunate? If that was Josiah Foxglove with the magic fingers, then bless the fates, he was
very
fortunate.

“What the fucking hell were you thinking, Colton. You were supposed to text me if you saw them.” A raging fury boxed his ears. “What did you think you could do on your own? You nearly got yourself killed...”

Maybe fortunate wasn’t the right term.