Blood Line (23 page)

Wager braced his arm on the parked car’s still warm hood. “Police—surrender!” And fired. The automatic bucked quickly twice. The flash of the first round showed him where to place the second. The figure with the shotgun swore and ran toward the park, pumping and firing as it ran, and Wager shot again, keeping his rounds low so they would not carry across the open space toward the dark homes beyond.

“Goddamn!” The figure tumbled, still firing. “Help me, BP—give me some cover, man!”

A second dark-clad figure stirred in a pool of shadow ten yards from where Wager crouched, and the hot, flashing glare of the automatic weapon shoved him up against the car. The vehicle quivered like a living thing as rounds punched into it, and Wager could smell the sudden, pungent odor of spilling gasoline. The MP-5 sprayed again, glass shattering in chips and beads and stinging Wager’s hand that gave thin shelter to his face and eyes. Orange sparks of glowing steel bounced like angry fireflies across the asphalt. The car lurched again and then rose off its springs with a lung-pressing roar as the gasoline torched into a sheet of yellow-blue flames. Wager, rolling frantically from the billow of exploding fumes, tried to scramble to the safety of darkness, but the crack and whine of slugs ripped through the roaring glare of the fire, and he did not think he would make it.

Crawling, rolling, slapping at the flame that whipped like a hot flag from his coat sleeve, he heard the high-pitched crack of a rifle, then a second round, then the rattle and flash of the automatic weapon stopped and there was only the deep, windy roar of the flaming car.

Wager, nostrils pinched against the smell of gas fumes, the stink of burned cloth and hot metal, the mix of oil and steam from the still-smoking car, stared at the pillows that had been wrapped in a blanket and placed behind the wheel of his vehicle to look like a slouching man. Golding, carrying the .308 rifle with its laser scope, peered in through the other window.

“Lord, Gabe. He would have really had your ass this time!”

The hard glare of searchlights from the clattering firetrucks washed out the erratic red-white-blue flash of surrounding police vehicles and made the shredded holes in the blanket look almost colorless. The scorch of gunpowder showed up as dark smudges, and through the holes, spongy wads of filling looked vaguely like torn flesh. “Ball Peen came damn close to it with that MP-five. What the hell took you so long?”

“He was running toward you and shooting. It’s harder than hell to keep that laser dot on a running target. I don’t care what they tell you on the range.” He added, “I’m sorry about it, though. Really.”

“OK, Maury, no harm done.” Not to Wager, anyway. Ball Peen was dead: the .308 elk round had ripped through his lungs and heart and put him in the dirt where he belonged. Hastings was only wounded—once in the side and once in the knee.

Screaming first for a doctor and then for his lawyer even as the ambulance attendants loaded him up. And, of course, two police cars suffered a little damage—Wager’s from bullets and Golding’s from burning up. Chief Doyle would not be overjoyed when that report landed on his desk in the morning. But Wager was damned if he was going to use his own car to stop any more bullets; his insurance was high enough. “You made a good shot, Maury. I’m glad I’m here to thank you.”

“Yeah, well …” Golding shrugged modestly. “Maybe I should eat more carrots for my night vision.”

They watched the gurney with its rubber sheet rattle past on its way to the second ambulance.

Golding wagged his head. “You were right, Gabe. Hastings was the kind of guy who just couldn’t quit when he was ahead.”

Wager, thinking more of Julio, of Arleta Hocks, than of Hastings or Ball Peen, said, “Yeah.”

Golding started unscrewing the night scope from the rifle. “You think Hastings will cop to killing Julio?”

“What’s he have to gain? We’ll have to argue circumstantial evidence on that one—motive and opportunity.” But tonight’s criminal attempt at murder was a class-three felony, and even Heisterman wouldn’t be able to get Hastings off the hook on this one. And Wager—Kolagny or no—would make sure all the aggravating circumstances, including Julio’s death, were aired at the sentencing. It wasn’t the nice, neat ending you got on those TV detective shows, and the paperwork for tonight’s fun and games was just beginning, but Wager was satisfied.

Golding gently placed the scope in its case and stared for a long moment at the blasted pillows in Wager’s car. “I was thinking it’s too bad the Lucero kid can’t come back and testify. But”—he wagged a thumb at the torn pillows—“in a way you did. I mean, Hastings must have thought you were gone, Gabe.”

Wager nodded. He was thinking of Elizabeth, too, and wondering if it was too late to call her. Maybe not. Maybe she would be still awake, worried and anxious to hear from him. In fact, he was certain she was.

“Speaking of which, I read about this guy lives up in the mountains behind Boulder. He’s into cryogenics. You know, freezing a body until science comes up with a cure for what killed it.” He snapped the locks on the scope and hoisted the .308 to his shoulder like a successful hunter coming down from the hills. “He has his own grandfather on ice. Wouldn’t that be something? Be able to bring a member of your family back from the dead?”

Turn the page to continue reading from the Gabe Wager Novels

E
ARLY
M
ARCH IN
Denver is a time when the trees, on one cold and windy day, are still bare with winter, and on the next—though the wind is just as sharp—are suddenly swollen with buds and timid leaves. And everyone shakes their heads at the foolishness of the early bloomers because winter hasn’t finished yet and more snow, the heavy, wet, limb-breaking kind, is bound to come.

That thought rode on the others that filled Gabe Wager’s mind as he listened to Captain Melrose finish thumbing through the whispery pages of the homicide detective’s official life.

“Any personal reasons why you can’t leave Denver for a few days, Detective Wager?”

There weren’t. No major reason, anyway. Elizabeth wouldn’t be overjoyed about it, but she would understand. That was one of the benefits of going with somebody whose professional life demanded as much time as his own: a city-council person understood what it took to do the job.

“All right. Let’s talk to the feds.”

The captain went to the office door and opened it to lean out; the dark skirt of her uniform emphasized the chunky rear end that tilted toward Wager as she said something to someone. Then she led two men in. Both wore suits, both were in their late forties or early fifties, both had the assurance of people who told a lot of other people what to do. And both carefully sized up Wager.

“This is Detective Sergeant Wager, currently in Homicide. Chief Menzor, Department of Agriculture, who’s with the U.S. Forest Service’s enforcement section—and Chief Director Leicht, head of the Bureau of Land Management’s enforcement operations.”

Wager leaned across the small conference table to shake hands with the two feds.

The captain sat with her back to the large window that looked out over the leafless twigs of treetops. “What we talk about here is, of course, confidential.” She waited until Wager nodded at the obvious and then turned her eyes to Chief Menzor.

The man’s red, fleshy cheeks creased in a brief smile and he leaned forward slightly. “How long have you been in Homicide, Detective Wager?”

“Nine years.”

That seemed to make the man happy. “And Captain Melrose tells me you have prior experience working with federal agencies?”

“Yes.” Wager couldn’t think of any experience that wouldn’t be “prior,” but he could think of the work piled on his desk. “Why not tell me just what it is you’re after. Then I can tell you whether or not I have the background to handle it.”

Menzor’s eyebrows bounced just enough to imply that he wouldn’t take that tone from one of his own people, then he smiled. “Fine with me. Julian?”

The other man, gazing at the tabletop, shrugged one shoulder.

“All right. What we’re after is someone with strong investigative experience, especially in homicides, who can talk to locals on and off an Indian reservation. We want somebody who won’t be an official representative of the federal government. To be frank, Detective Wager, the federal government has become the—ah—whipping boy for a lot of problems out there. Even our people have become targets. I’ve had to issue weapons to a number of park rangers in that region for their self-protection, and Julian here’s had several of his BLM agents assaulted. One of them was murdered, recently.”

“I thought the FBI and Indian police handled crimes on federal land and reservations.”

“Yes, in general. And the FBI’s been working that end of it on the Squaw Point Reservation, where Julian’s BLM agent was killed. But there have been some other problems, too.” He paused and looked away, as if reading a list of those problems in his mind. “Much of what we’re concerned with has occurred on state land in the La Sal County sheriff’s jurisdiction. But liaison there is—ah—spotty. What we need is somebody who seems neutral and who can act as liaison for us. Somebody who doesn’t have close ties to any of the agencies involved but who’s able to work with all of them, as well as gain the trust of the locals.”

“Three federal agencies plus the county sheriff’s office? That still sounds like FBI responsibility.”

The other man, Leicht, finally spoke up. “Damn well should be. But it looks like the FBI doesn’t want to do much anymore. Ruby Ridge—Waco—screw-ups like that have made those people walk mighty light in the area. They don’t want any part of another shoot-out. So the FBI’s policy now is to delegate enforcement responsibilities to other involved jurisdictions and limit themselves to technical support only.” Leicht snorted. “They do have one investigator whose primary responsibility is the reservation. Anyway, the result is we’ve got a goddamn alphabet soup out there, and nobody comfortable working with the other agencies. And don’t count on any help from the sheriff’s office—not if he thinks you’re working for BLM.”

“He doesn’t have much good to say about the park service, either. But at least he’s not shooting at us.”

“The sheriff’s shooting at you?” Wager asked.

“The bastard would like to,” said Leicht “He’s elected by the ranchers out there, and since they don’t get along with BLM, neither does he.”

Menzor cleared his throat. “I’m not going to tell you that it’s not—ah—dangerous out there, Detective Wager. At least three people have been murdered on government land since the beginning of the year, plus another suspicious death off federal land. We’re beginning to wonder if the killings aren’t tied together. No evidence that they are, but nothing saying they’re not, either. That would be your principal assignment: determine if the deaths are related, and—ah—sort of coordinate the efforts of the several agencies. Bring together what the several jurisdictions have learned about the cases. Frankly, it’s a mess, and given the—ah—political realities, you’d be pretty much on your own among a lot of citizens who won’t want to tell you much.” He paused and glanced at Captain Melrose.

That was her cue. “What do you think, Detective Wager? Are you still interested?”

Wager nodded. “I am.”

Wager later told Elizabeth as much as security allowed. She stared at him across the oversized platter with its little piles of artfully arranged green and orange vegetables, pilaf mounded into a seashell pattern, barbecued and lightly glazed chicken. “Two to four weeks?” Against the burst of laughter from a nearby table, her voice sounded faint.

“It came up all of a sudden—they told me about it this morning.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Then, “Will you be able to call me?”

He nodded. “I can’t say when. I won’t find out what’s involved until I get out there, but I’ll be in touch.” He added, “I’ll be working with the FBI and some other federal agencies.”

She cut a small piece from the chicken.

“It won’t take that long.”

“You’ll do a good job.”

She was making some connection there, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. “What’s the latest on the Downtown Development Committee?” It was a clumsy attempt to change the subject, but she accepted it.

“The Cultural and Entertainment Center’s financial report finally came in. McGraw tried to hide as much as he could, but it still looks pretty bad.”

Weldon McGraw chaired the city council’s Downtown Development Committee. Liz was the vice-chair. She had once told Wager that her main job was to keep a lid on the number of sweetheart deals McGraw made on public-private enterprises. The Cultural and Entertainment Center was a good example of what could go wrong. Most of its funding had been provided by the taxpayers of the city and county of Denver through bonds underwritten by the building’s projected value plus a percentage of the entry and concessions fees. An unpublicized clause in the contract promised the private investors an exemption from payments out of those fees if the center’s profits fell below a certain level. Now, predictably, the entry and concessions income was falling short of the initial rosy estimates.