Junkyard Dogs (19 page)

I plucked the radio from my belt and turned it on, something I’d forgotten to do when I’d taken the thing. It squawked. “. . . And if you don’t tell us where you are right now, the first person I am going to shoot is you!”

I keyed the mic. “I’m behind the Sportstop, headed over to the ball field. Tell Sancho to go get his unit, stop in at the Owen Wister, and pick up a phone number from Rachael Terry. You can both meet me at the corner near the grandstand or over in the park by the public pool. And in other news, he’s now armed.”

Static. “What?”

“He bought a 20-gauge coach gun and shells in his detour through the Sportstop.”

Static. “Jesus. Only in Wyoming.”

I punched the button. “Did you get that, Sancho? He’s armed.”

Static. “Got it. You want me to skip the Owen Wister?” “No, he can’t be that far ahead of me, and I refuse to believe he’s dangerous to anybody but us.”

Static. “That’s a fucking comforting thought.” I returned the radio to my belt as Vic’s voice went silent, assured that my kindly and courteous backup was on the way.

He’d skirted the field and crossed the street into the park. I followed the chain-link fence that surrounded the Olympic-sized pool that had been drained for the winter, and then the tracks disappeared.

I plucked the radio from my belt and keyed the mic again. “Vic?”

Static. “I’m at the ball field, which way did you go?”

“I’m across past the pool on the Clear Creek trail. Have Sancho drive around to the other side of the park and check Fetterman and the Stage trail.” Santiago’s voice broke in.

Static. “I’m getting the number now, and then I’ll head over. You want me to just keep circling?”

“Yep.”

There was a drivable bridge to my right, but something led me straight ahead. The public bathrooms were also to my right, but there were no fresh tracks. It had started to snow more heavily now, which figured, and it was like I was in one of those globes. I walked past the horseshoe pits and tried to see if there was a spot where he might’ve veered off, but the only prints I saw leading into the trees were those of a few loose dogs.

I figured if Ozzie had called somebody to pick him up, they’d be on the other side of the park. Obviously, his mother wasn’t a part of the escape. Hell, she wanted him in prison. Who else was there? And why the shotgun? If he hadn’t called someone to give him a ride, who had he called and why?

The banks of the creek had intricate, serrated shelves where the center of the stream had opened up to the rushing water below and held dripping stalactites like those in caves. The openings were large enough for a man to fall into, but he’d have to try—I knew, because I had about a year ago. The closer you got to the water, the louder the water became, but other than that, the place was silent.

There was no one braving the absolute cold of the park and besides, within fifteen minutes, it would be completely dark. My hand automatically went to my belt, but I guess I’d left my Maglite on the seat of the truck. The old-fashioned streetlights helped brighten the falling snow but not much else. They were placed around a protected picnic area that led to a large footbridge, which angled between a playground and a day care center.

I picked up his prints in their light. It looked as if he hadn’t hesitated and had crossed the bridge toward Klondike Drive and the portion of town that stretched along Highway 16 West and up the mountain.

I hurried and crossed the bridge, pulled the radio from my belt, and hit the button. “Vic?”

Static. “Yeah?”

“When you get across the bridge, head right and check out the area around the day care. I don’t think he went that way, but I want to be sure.”

Static. “Got it.”

There was a five-inch layer of snow on the swings that silently shifted in the slight wind, and I tried to think of something more depressing than empty playgrounds in the middle of winter but couldn’t come up with anything.

The tracks continued toward the Clear Creek walking path that wound its way west past the old Wyoming Railroad locomotive that used to chug out past my place between the world wars. An extension of Washington Park, the greenway was about twelve miles in length and not as cultivated as the part in town.

As I started to cross the street, I saw the Basquo roaring up the hill on Klondike.

I stopped at the side of the road and waited for Saizarbitoria’s vehicle to slide to a stop in front of me. He rolled the window down and looked up. “I called the number in to Ruby, and she indexed it with Qwest. It’s the public phone in the bar out at the bypass truck stop.”

“That means it’s probably somebody on the move.” I nodded and glanced over the roof of the car. “I think Ozzie took to the walking path.”

He peered through the passenger side window of his unit. “Why the hell would he go there? What’s he think he’s doing, going bird hunting?”

I studied the dark path. “Not with a coach gun.”

Sancho started to unbuckle his seat belt, but it was with a certain amount of trepidation. “You want to trade off, and I’ll follow him up the trail?”

“No.” I rested a hand on the sill and extended my other one. “You got your flashlight? I think I left mine in the trunk.”

“Yeah.”

He pulled it from the lodged location in the crack of the bench seat and handed it to me—a two- cell. Hell, I even shortchanged the kid on his flashlight. “Thanks. You head up Klondike here and take a right on Clear Creek Road, it follows the trail and you can use your spotlight—just don’t drive off the ridge and into the water.”

He didn’t smile. “I won’t.”

The Basquo sprayed a little ice as he departed and headed left, up the other hill. He slowed at the ridge, and I watched as he focused the spotlight into the trees ahead of me. It wasn’t like I was going to sneak up on anyone.

There was a phalanx of signs listing the rules for walking the pathway, the most important being no horses or unleashed dogs—it didn’t say anything about shotguns. I walked between the concrete posts that marked the beginning of the greenway and started up the trail less traveled. There was a mitten that someone had found stuck on a branch with its palm facing me like a traffic cop.

Stop, go no farther.

I clicked on the flashlight, scanned the surrounding area, and saw a set of hiking boot prints leading straight up the middle of the path. I kicked off on my sore foot and ignored the ache from my bite wound.

The path was marked by small red posts at every tenth of a mile and, as I got to the first one, my radio crackled; Vic’s voice was so clear in the arctic- like air that it sounded as if she were standing beside me.

Static. “Walt?”

I held the radio up to my face as I walked, the clouds of my breath freezing in the air and blocking my view momentarily. “Yep.”

Static. “I checked the building, but all but one of the kids were already gone. The lady in charge said that nobody in a bathrobe had come by and that with the amount of parents coming and going there was no way he could’ve gotten near the place without being seen.”

I thumbed the button. “It was a long shot, but I just wanted to be sure.”

Static. “Where are you?”

“I’m on the extended walking path beside the creek. Sancho’s flanking on Clear Creek Road. I’ve got shallow boot prints in the snow, and I think it’s him.”

Static. “Wait for me; I’m on my way.”

“That’s okay. I’m already a tenth of a mile in, so I’ll keep going. I’m moving slow, and you’ll catch up.”

Static. “Walt, I know he’s been pretty harmless, well, other than trying to beat another man to death with a pitching wedge, but now he’s armed.”

“You worried about me?” I couldn’t help but smile as I listened to the jostling of her radio as she ran.

Static. “Yes, asshole. I have this image of you walking up to Tweedledum and saying hi as he blows your guts around your spine.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Static. “You suck.”

I clipped the radio to my belt and continued following the tracks. Leafless trees bowered over the path, and it looked more and more like some fairy tale. There was no wind, and now the only sound besides the rushing of the creek was the distant motor of Sancho’s unit and the soft clicking of his emergency lights as he made his way along the ridge above. He was a little ways ahead, and I could see the sweeping spotlight working its way back and forth from across the creek bed to where the pathway rose and then disappeared.

There was a bench at the top of the hill, and it looked like Ozzie had veered toward it and even stood beside it for a moment before he went on. The trail became open to the right, and with the glow of the dusk-till-dawn lights on Fetterman Street, I could see the old sports field.

His tracks led me south where the cottonwood trees loitered near the creek. The path remained on the ridge and would actually meander through foothills for another seven miles, past the old power plant, finally ending at Mosier Gulch. There was a picnic area there, and it was accessible from the main road, so he could be using that as a rendezvous; still, Turkey Lane was closer.

I pulled the radio from my belt again and keyed the mic. “Sancho?” I watched as the spotlight stopped moving up ahead.

Static. “Yeah.”

“Have you seen anything yet?”

Static. “No.”

“Turn around and head back over to Fort Street and get out to Turkey Lane. If he’s meeting somebody, I think that’s the place.”

Static. “Where the hell is that?”

“Left at the trailer park.”

Static. “What if he crosses the creek and climbs the hill?”

“He doesn’t have a flashlight, so I don’t think he’s going to get off the trail; I can barely see where I’m going with one.”

The snow was picking up again and, with the dry cold, it was like walking in an ocean of snowy dust bunnies, with little puffs of frozen humidity rising from the path every time my boots hit the ground. There were a few juniper bushes and stands of chokecherry under which was another bench; Ozzie’s tracks led to it, but again he hadn’t stopped—five inches deep and undisturbed.

Was Ozzie looking for someone on the trail, and why was he stopping at every bench? And why the shotgun?

“Do you know it’s already ten degrees below fucking zero?” Vic had caught up. She was holding something in her hands.

“What are you holding?”

“The ladies at the day care like you and thought we might enjoy some coffee during our cold pursuit.”

I cracked the plastic top on the to-go cup; it smelled really good, and the warmth was intoxicating. “Very thoughtful of them.”

We walked on at an accelerated pace, pausing infrequently to sip our coffees. I wanted to find Ozzie as quickly as possible, but I also didn’t want to walk past him in the dark. Vic’s flashlight prowled the brush to our right as I played mine over the bank leading down to Clear Creek, but Ozzie’s tracks didn’t veer from the walking path.

“I’m going to kill that little fucker when we find him. I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

“You should’ve worn your fur hat.”

“Yeah. Well, I didn’t think I was going to be hiking to the Donner Pass.” She slowed and sipped from her cup. I did the same. “He bought a shotgun in his bathrobe?”

I reattached my lid as we continued on. “Along with a parka and a pair of hiking boots.”

“What in the hell?”

“My thoughts, exactly. I can’t wait to ask him.” I studied her upturned face and saw she was looking at a brief split in the clouds that revealed a half-moon.

“Is it supposed to warm up soon, say, turn of the century?”

“Nope, this cold front is supposed to settle in, and today was the high from now through the weekend.”

“Three?”

“Yep.”

“I quit too, and I’m moving to a place where the temperature is in double digits.”

Both our radios crackled at once.

Static. “Boss, you there?”

I pulled mine from my belt. “Yep.”

Static. “There’s nobody here.”

“Tracks?”

Static. “Nope.”

“Well, you’re our stopgap. Shut your lights down and see if anybody shows up, either from the road or the trail.”

Static. “Roger that.”

Vic sipped her coffee as she walked; a Pyrrhic victory. “What kind of shotgun?”

“20-gauge, coach gun.”

“Why in the hell would he buy something like that?”

“Only thing that would fit under his bathrobe?” I shrugged and tried drinking from my cup as we walked but only succeeded in dribbling it on my coat. “I’d say he’s afraid of something.”

“Afraid of what?”

I recapped my coffee. “I’m not sure, but my mind would rest a lot easier if I thought it was us.”

She stopped. “Do you see that?”

I directed my flashlight beam along with hers. Someone was sitting on the bench ahead of us in a new North Face parka, with a bathrobe that hung down to where a naked pair of legs bloomed from a pair of hiking boots with no socks.

I slowed as I came up beside him with my hand on my sidearm and the beam of the flashlight directly on his face. Vic held to the side with her hand on her Glock. From all outward appearances, the shotgun on his lap was loaded and the remainder of the shells lay spilled in his lap. “Ozzie, if you shoot me I am going to be very disappointed in you.”

He didn’t answer, and he didn’t move.

I kept the light on his face and noticed that his eyes were open, his jaw was lax, and a strand of spittle dripped from his mouth and hung from his chin like frozen spun glass.

I stepped closer. His eyes were unfocused, and the liquid in them was already beginning to freeze. I continued around him and could see the burnt spot and the small amount of frozen blood where someone had pressed a medium-caliber handgun to his chest and shot him directly in the heart.