Trial by Ice and Fire (12 page)

The victim had been the same girl as in the harassment case. Armalli was charged with a pattern of conduct that amounted to the crime of stalking: leaving her letters, following her around, and telephoning constantly. But then the charge had been dismissed when the girl moved out of state with her parents and was unavailable to testify.

All the files give the same address for Armalli: the highway address I recognize as being not far from Alana Reese's property in the valley. A brief psychologist's report states that Myron appears “very disturbed,” that he was abandoned by his mother at the age of five, and that his father was going bankrupt and had recently sold the family's home to the government.

“This guy isn't a monkey. He's a gorilla,” I say, slipping the files into my briefcase. Motive, means, and opportunity, even a prior. It's all there.

My hopes for arresting Wokowski on charges of stalking, burglary, assault, and attempted kidnapping are drifting away.

Something buzzes in the pocket of my painter's jeans like an angry wasp. Then the “Mexican Hat Dance” begins playing from the vicinity of my crotch. McGee shows me his big yellow teeth as I dig the phone out, his grin leaving me with no doubt as to who had programmed the irritating jingle. I'm not going to answer it in front of him if it's either Rebecca or my brother. But the urgently flashing text on the screen says
JIM GUINNESS
, so I press the
TALK
button.

The voice on the other end sounds near panic.

“You better get out here, man.”

FIFTEEN

H
OT SUNLIGHT
is pouring in the windows at the front of the courthouse from high above Gros Ventre Butte. Squinting against the light as I come into the lobby, I can see Jim's back through the glass doors. He's standing in front of them with his skinny arms outspread. It looks as if his hands might be shaking. Beyond him, facing in, is Sergeant Charles Wokowski.

He's out of uniform now, dressed in a pair of crisp khaki pants and a white polo shirt that's all-the-way unbuttoned to make room for his treetrunk of a neck. The shirt is a little too small, tight over the swollen muscles of his chest and showing off the bare skin of his arms. Mirrored sunglasses hide his eyes, which surely must be bloodshot after a long night on duty. His tan face is freshly shaven. In his left hand he holds a black nylon gym bag.

I slow down and push open the door gently, using it to move Jim out of the way and to one side.

Wokowski's jaw flexes as he catches sight of me.

“What's going on?” I ask Jim but keep my eyes on my own twin reflections in the big cop's lenses. Maybe it's him after all.

“He wants—” Jim starts to say.

Wokowski's deep voice is calm but anger vibrates through it when he says, “What I want is none of your business. Get out of my way. Both of you.”

Jim steps back against the railing that stands to one side of the door at my back. I don't have to look at him to sense his enormous relief that I'm here to take over. But I'm proud of him—he'd stood his ground as long as he needed to. And while I'm as scared as he surely is, the thrill of fear is as welcome as Rebecca's touch. For some reason I feel more like my brother at these times than like myself.

“The courthouse is closed. It's Sunday,” I tell Wokowski.

He doesn't reply. His sunglasses remain unwaveringly directed at me.

“Shouldn't you be sleeping, Sergeant? You must have had a long night, and I thought your shift ended about the time you were cruising by my cabin this morning.”

The staring continues. The sun is so bright in my eyes that I can't keep it up any longer. Glancing down, I look at the small gym bag in his hand and see that the knuckles gripping the strap are white.
What the hell's in it?
I wonder. Another stun gun? More duct tape? Would he be reckless enough—sick enough—to go after Cali in broad daylight, here in the center of town? Would he make it that easy?

When he still doesn't say anything I decide to prod him some more. “Cali doesn't want to see you.”

Red splotches materialize on his cheeks. The jaw bulges even bigger, the muscles there and in his neck flaring like a cobra's. Without consciously being commanded, my right hand brushes my pants and slips toward the gun holstered beneath my shirt high on my hip.

“Then let her tell me that,” he says.

I shake my head, not letting my eyes leave his glasses now no matter how bright the sun burns. If I even blink it might be too late. It's like I'm on top of that cornice again, the fear curdling in my stomach while the Rat happily laps it up.

“No.
I'm
telling
you.
”

“This is my town, QuickDraw. My courthouse. Get the fuck out of my way.” He's starting to swing the gym bag now. Back and forth at his side. We're at the very edge now—I can feel it. Both of us teetering there. Wondering if we're going to grab each other and throw ourselves off.

“You make a move in any direction but toward the street and you're going to be arrested right here, where everyone can see,” I tell him.

A smile twitches at the corner of his lips. It alarms me more than anything else. My hand literally aches with the need to touch my gun's beveled grip. My fingers are curled just above the butt.

“You've got a restraining order?”

“Not yet, partner, but it's in the works. Along with a warrant for stalking, burglary, assault, and attempted kidnapping.”

It's out in the open now—and I hope it will spur him into doing something rash, going over. It's a gamble—I could go with him—but I think it's worth it. Wokowski keeps swinging the bag with his smile taking shape now, growing broader. The lips are pale and the red splotches are draining from his face.

“You really think I—”

“I
know,
” I interrupt. “I
know
you're the guy. You tried to break into her house two days ago. You tried to grab her last night. You've been writing her nasty letters. Cali dumped you and now you want her no matter what it takes. Even if it's against her will. And that's sick, man. Really sick. You got a problem and you need to get it straightened out.”

He makes what I suspect is meant to be a disbelieving chuckle but it comes out as almost a snarl. Then he moves.

He takes a step forward and with his right hand pushes Jim back against the railing beside the door. The bag pendulums forward then cocks back, and I realize that with another step he can swing it into my crotch. Suddenly my gun is in my hand. It's pointing at the ground between us but I know that with a flick of my wrist I can point it at his belly.

Wokowski's mirrored lenses flinch down toward the gun. The bag freezes in its backswing then slowly comes to rest at his side. Time freezes, too, and I'm not aware of anything but the two us standing here, three feet apart, with a .40-caliber H&K between us. Heavy in my hand. I feel loose and fluid and fast, as if all the joints in my body have been freshly oiled then scrunched down like loaded springs.

It is a long time before he speaks. Or at least it seems that way.

“You're a fucking maniac, QuickDraw Burns. A dangerous fucking maniac.” He says it directly into my face from just two feet away. His toothpaste breath reminds me of Cali's.

“Look who's talking, Wokowski.”

Very slowly and carefully, he steps back and down the single step that leads onto the sidewalk. He stares at me for a while longer before he turns and walks back to the black-and-white SUV parked down the street.

Inside the lobby, Jim hunches over with his hands on his knees. He's breathing hard and fast. I'm feeling a little light-headed myself. Wasted, too, as if the confrontation with the sergeant had sucked out all my strength. Even though we'd never touched, it feels like we'd gone fifteen rounds.

McGee, who has parked his walker by the glass and is staring out at the street, says, “Thought I was going to have to go out there . . . save both your candy asses.”

“How—come—you—didn't—arrest—him?” Jim pants at me.

McGee answers for me. “Because we don't have a goddamn thing on him. . . . Five minutes ago . . . we were thinking he was out of it altogether.”

“It's got to be him. He's back in the number one spot,” I say.

“No shit,” Jim agrees, standing upright now and looking pale. “That guy is a hand grenade, man. I thought he was going to lose it out there. Blow his shit up. Whew, that was close. When we take him down, we'd better have some more guys around.”

I nod in agreement. I'd noticed when Wokowski finally walked away that his pant cuff had bulged on the inside of his left ankle. He was carrying. That's not a surprising fact, since he is a cop, but it makes me realize again how hazardous it can be to go hunting your own kind.

“What did you learn?” McGee asks.

“I took a chance. I let him know he was our chief suspect, hoping he'd say or do something to seal it.”

“Well? Did he make any statements? An admission?”

I shake my head. “No. Nothing we can use. But it was real close out there, Ross.”

“What'll he do now?” Jim asks.

“I don't know. Probably go home and steam. Maybe get some sleep. Wait for a better day.”

“He might see the error of his ways,” McGee says. “Become more crafty. Maybe even give it up.”

“Or it might stoke him up all the more. We've got to be careful now, watching Cali,” I say to Jim. I remember what McGee had said yesterday, about getting the stalker to focus on me. My boss's plan might be working, although I'm not sure if it's my favorite course of action. I'd returned Wokowski's insult at the meeting yesterday, spent the night with the object of his obsession, and I'd just bested him in a face-to-face confrontation. I'll be watching my own back a lot more carefully now.

“Anton? What's going on?” Cali asks, coming into the lobby from the County Attorney's door and looking puzzled.

All three of us turn to her. It seems amazing that someone could be in the building, just a hundred feet away, and not be aware of what had just taken place outside the courthouse door. It had felt like the tension should have bowed the tree limbs outside her window, forced her to pop her ears. After I'd left her in Jim's care at her house she'd changed into a green silk T-shirt and well-worn jeans.

“Your boyfriend Wokowski just stopped by to say hi. I talked to him and he changed his mind.”

She looks at me, eyebrows raised, figuring out why we all look so tense and drained. Although I don't further explain the encounter, she reads it in our faces. I see goose bumps on her arms.

“Cali, you know Jim already but I don't think you've been introduced to my boss, Deputy Assistant Attorney General Ross McGee. Boss, this is Cali Morrow.”

The old man's eyes light up. He rolls toward her on his walker and holds out his meaty hand. When she reaches out her own to shake it, he pulls it up to his beard and kisses it loudly.

“You're a ripe little thing, aren't you?” he says before releasing her hand. He's looking at her chest.

The tiny bumps on her arms disappear as her face flushes red. Her expression is uncertain, vacillating between offended and amused. The amusement wins out and she grins crookedly at him. I roll my eyes at Jim.

“It's nice to meet you, Mr. McGee.”

“Ross, my dear, call me Ross . . . or anything else you like. . . . I can see your mother's features in your face . . . and, uh, elsewhere,” he says.

“You know Mom?”

McGee nods his square head enthusiastically. “I knew her well . . . she and I spent a lot of nights together . . . when I was a young grunt serving in Southeast Asia.”

She frowns for a second in confusion, saying, “Mom's never been to . . .” then catches his meaning. She laughs and finally manages to withdraw her hand from his grasp. “You'll have to meet her while she's here and see if she remembers your adventures together.”

I'm impressed, watching her manage his lechery so well.

McGee smacks his lips. “I'd like nothing better, young lady.”

Without thinking I joke, “Alana Reese might find you a little rough around the edges, boss. She didn't like me when I met her last night, and you know how smooth and charming I can be.” Immediately I put my foot in my mouth. I hadn't told McGee about my encounter with Danny Gorgon and don't intend to. That sort of thing was too close to the excessive-force accusations that had caused my semi-disgrace and nearly resulted in my being criminally charged. I don't ever want to do anything to make McGee doubt his decision to protect me.

McGee is turning to look at me inquisitively when Cali says, “She liked you fine, Anton. She even told me that you were a ‘pretty Mexican boy with obviously hot, Latin blood,' and that your scar looked sexy.”

This makes McGee laugh and cough. He repeats “pretty Mexican boy” twice before saying, “This pretty Mexican boy . . . with his delusions of charm. . . . I can assure you that he's the devil. . . . He's gotten my otherwise intelligent goddaughter . . . to think she's halfway in love with him.” He looks at me as he finishes speaking with what I take as a warning. Instead of feeling any guilt, all I can do is wonder when he last spoke to Rebecca.

The cell phone in my pocket starts to play its stupid song again. This time, though, it earns me no smug grin from McGee. He's still busy with carving his unspoken warning on my flesh with his watery laser-beam eyes. No name appears on the phone's screen, but the number preceded by an Idaho area code tells me who it is. Excusing myself, I walk back out through the front door and onto the street.

“So, you rat me out or what?” my brother asks in his soft, amused voice.

“You know I didn't, 'Berto. Where are you?”

“Should I be telling you that?” he laughs. “Who's with you right now? A bunch of cops?”

“Actually, yeah. Two DCI guys and a county prosecutor. But they're ten feet away, on the other side of a window. So where are you?”

“Coming down. Did a couple of routes in Death Canyon.”

“What'd you do?”

“The Snaz and Cottonmouth.”

“Solo?” I already know the answer, but I have to ask in a kind of horrified and awed wonder. The routes he'd mentioned are both long and hard, each topping out at close to a thousand feet off the deck.

“Until you stop avoiding me,
che,
and tie yourself in.”

“That girl you saw last night at my place? She's the case I'm on. Somebody's after her in a serious way and I can't bail out on her right now. Tell me, what did you see last night?”

He laughs again, a slurry sound like slow water running over rocks. “You acting all sanctimonious, going up the stairs alone. Then you coming down after she went up. You're getting soft, bro.”

“Rebecca's coming up this week,” I say by way of explanation.

“Soft and whipped,” he sighs. “
That
girl doesn't like me much.”

“What were you doing anyway? Peeping in my windows all night?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah.” He'd probably been too high to sleep, too pumped up from an injected speedball and cooling his heels until the sun would invite him onto the rock. “If you were any kind of family, Ant, you'd buy a TV and stick it in the window. Or at least get the girl naked.”

“What about the cop car last night?”

“Big sucker, one of those Expeditions or something. Must have come by six or seven times after you came home. It was really bringing me down, thinking that maybe my own bro had called him in. Couple of times I almost put a rock through the windshield.”

“Did you get a look at the driver?”

“Nah. The windows were tinted and I was kinda trying to stay out of sight, you know? Dude just cruised by and then would come back an hour or so later. Had his lights off, too.”