Bigfoot Crank Stomp (4 page)

Gabe pointed his finger at Stanger and flexed his thumb like it was a gun. “Bingo. Wheezy ain’t been back since.”

“What if we find a way to draw them out? Say we put them in a situation where they just happen to have product on them and we just happen to catch them?”

Gabe smirked and poured the last of the Turkey in his glass. He rocked back and lifted his feet onto the desk, crossing one polished boot over the other.

“Well, if something like that were to happen, it would have to be planned carefully so as not to turn the criminal into a victim or place any of our people in a possibly violent confrontation.”

Stanger nodded. “Don’t roll up on the meth house with one armed deputy.”

“And don’t roll up on the meth house with an army and pretend like you’re just passing by and heard something out of the ordinary.”

“I understand, Sheriff.”

Gabe drained the glass and pointed it at Stanger. “You’re starting to think about this shit the right way. You put your mind to it and find me a way to nail some of these meth cookers, and we’ll make them gone. Permanently.”

“Fucking A.”

Gabe leaned forward and set the glass to the side and rested his elbows on a blotter covered in doodles. He sighed heavily. “Well, all talking aside, I think I’m about spent for the night.”

“Yeah, me, too.” Stanger stood and rolled his neck. It popped in about five places. “Been a long one.”

“Who’s got the duty tonight with Lyle?”

“Pronger.”

Gabe nodded. “On your way out, call Lyle and tell him to radio me when Miss Tawny is dropped off. No calls after that unless the town’s burning or something.”

“Roger that.”

Stanger tipped his cap and turned and took two steps when static burst over his radio. No voice followed, though. He stopped and turned back to Gabe.

Gabe shrugged. “Maybe Lyle sat on his and keyed it by accident.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Gabe’s radio burst next. His eyebrows narrowed as he picked it up and keyed it. “Lyle, is that you trying to reach one of us?”

“Sorry, Sheriff, it’s Dispatch. I hit the wrong number the first time.”

“Debbie, damn it, I’m down the hall. You don’t have to call me on the radio when I’m in the office.”

“Yes, Sheriff. I didn’t know if you were...indisposed.”

Gabe eyed Stanger. “Debbie knows?”

A grin a fox would be proud of spread across Stanger’s mouth. “Shit, everyone knows.”

Gabe didn’t like that. “One of you guys run your mouth?”

“Nope. I think she heard through the door a few times. Did the math.”

Well, there was nothing to be done about that. Debbie hadn’t said anything or even dropped a hint she knew about his tastes. That said something about her. Loyal. Dutiful.

“Sheriff?” Debbie’s voice broke over the radio again.

Gabe blinked, remembering she’d called. “It’s just me and Stanger. Come on down.”

“Wonder what’s up?” Stanger said.

Gabe had half a response out when the door flew open and Debbie ran in. She huffed and puffed. Her ample breasts rose and fell against a khaki button down. Her face, flushed. Eyes wide. Sweat dotted her forehead. She was pushing forty but was still in good shape. The run down the hall didn’t have this effect on her. Something else had excited her to the point of hyperventilating.

“Jesus, Debbie, what is it?” Gabe started around the desk.

“Shootout.”

“What?” Gabe and Stanger said at the same time.

“Shootout.” She took a deep breath and spoke as she exhaled. “9-1-1 call just came in. Several shots fired up off Fool’s Gold Loop.”

Stanger’s head snapped to Gabe. “Cookers up in one of those cabins.”

Gabe held up a hand. “Who made the call, Debbie?”

“Anonymous male. But they said it sounded like several shotgun blasts and a handgun.”

“Did he say what kind of handgun?”

“Nine millimeter.”

Gabe turned to Stanger. “Manny Lopez.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Manny’s a former Marine sniper. Who else up on the Loop could pick out a shotgun and a nine mil? Hell, who else is on the Loop this time of year other than Manny and free-campers?”

“Good point. Why didn’t he just give his name?”

“Because he’s a paranoid fuck who hates government. It probably took him ten minutes to talk himself into making the call.” Gabe turned back to Debbie. Her breathing had slowed some. “Did he say where on the Loop?”

“Said it sounded like it came from around mile marker Four.”

“The old Robertson place,” Stanger said. “Definitely cookers. Young punks. Seen them around town. One of them inherited the cabin or some shit like that.”

Gabe placed his hands on his hips, nodding. “Good job, Debbie. Go back out and radio Lyle. Tell him to meet us at the bottom of the Loop.”

“Okay, Sheriff.” She headed for the door, stopped, and turned back around. “Should I send emergency services?”

“Not yet. We’ll check it out first. Don’t want a couple of EMTs getting shot.”

She half-smiled and left.

“Stanger, get Pronger and Betts over there.”

“Want the Armory opened?”

“No. Shotguns and sidearms only. I doubt there’ll be anyone shooting by the time we get there.”

“Just the injured and the dead.”

“Just the dead.”

Stanger’s eyes opened a few centimeters beyond normal.

Gabe winked. “We’ll make these cookers go away permanently. Right?”

Stanger’s face lit up. “Right.”

“Well, let’s get moving then.” Gabe grabbed his gun belt from the coat rack. “You’re driving.”

RUSSELL

Russell found a living room on the left. Mickey stood in front of the TV, back to him, shoulders rising and falling on heavy breaths. Behind him, a bunch of Chinese food cartons left out on a cable-spool coffee table.

“Mickey.”

No response.

“Mickey.” Russell almost yelled his name.

Mickey turned. The front of his face and shirt were splattered with blood. His eyes were wide but still sharp.

Mickey pointed at his ear. “Fucking nearly deaf from the shots and fucking TV.”

Russell nodded.

“Did you get the asshole who jumped out the window?” Mickey yelled every word.

Russell didn’t feel like screaming the story of what happened so Mickey could hear it. Instead, he nodded some more and looked around the room. It was small, dominated by the big LCD TV on the far wall and cable-spool coffee table. Two recliners, one maroon and the other emerald, sat across from the LCD. No couch or loveseat. Budweiser cans littered a mildewed hardwood floor.

“The other two were upstairs hiding.” Mickey’s voice wasn’t as loud now. “I think we caught them sleeping.”

“How could they sleep with the TV?”

“Got me? All I know is they were in their bedrooms. First guy tried to get me on the stairwell. Second guy dove out the window before I could blast him. Last guy was hiding in the shower with a knife of all things.”

“And the upstairs is clear?”

“Fuck yeah it is.”

“So what’s left?” Russell shifted, glancing down a hallway, shotgun at hip level.

“Besides here and the kitchen, there’s a half-bath and the garage where they do the cooking.”

“Did you check the garage?”

“Nah. Was waiting for you. Figure we’d check it out together. That way, whatever we find, you can’t say I gypped you.”

“No money upstairs?”

“Nope. So let’s check the garage already.”

Mickey moved past him and turned down the hallway toward the garage. He carried the shotgun at his side barrel down while he wiped blood from his face with his other hand. Russell followed, gun still at his hip.

They reached a door at the end of the hallway. Mickey stopped and turned to him. “Ready?”

“You sure this is the garage?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

“You can tell from the layout. Outside, the garage is on this side. This the only door. So on the other side is the garage.”

Russell raised the shotgun and pointed it at the door. “After you.”

Mickey smirked and grabbed the knob and twisted it. Russell expected him to ease the door open in case someone was waiting on the other side. Instead, Mickey threw it open without a care in the world.

The sudden movement surprised Russell and he ducked back away from the frame. He didn’t know what to expect. Gun shots. Mickey’s chest exploding in red mushrooms. Something. But what he got was a vacuum of silence which was quickly filled with Mickey’s laughter.

“Pussy,” Mickey said.

Russell dry swallowed and peeked around the frame. The garage was lit by several hanging workshop lights. Two long tables sat in the middle, holding the equipment of the trade: flasks, piping, burners, gas masks, and so forth. At the end of the table closest to them was a clear plastic box filled with glass, bagged and ready for distribution.

Mickey whistled and walked over to the box and picked up a baggie. “The quality is shit but we should make some decent money unloading it. More than enough to make a few payments on your ma’s treatment, right?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey dropped the baggie back in the tray. “We’ll leave the equipment. It’s pretty old and nasty shit. Probably stole it from their old high school.”

Russell joined him at the tray. He grabbed a baggie and opened it and shook the contents on the table. With the butt of the shotgun, he smashed the crystal. Then he grabbed a pinch of coarse dust and snorted it up his right nostril.

“Need it that bad, huh?” Mickey shook his head.

“I should have brought my pipe.” Russell snorted a pinch up the left nostril and shook his head and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His body started to relax almost right away.

“How is it?”

“Not bad.”

“Bullshit.” Mickey grabbed a pinch and snorted. He waited a few moments. “Remember that episode of
Seinfeld
when the dentist became a Jew so he could joke about Jews?”

“Yeah.” Russell took one more hit, laughing. “Jerry was offended as a comedian.”

“Right. And the dentist wasn’t really a Jew. He was pretending to be. But what he really was, was a fucking poser.” Mickey pointed at the dust. “That’s what this shit is. A fucking poser.”

“It’s just weak.” Russell looked around the room at the equipment. “They were still getting the technique down.”

“Whatever. This shit is only good for dregs and lowlifes. We’ll unload it in Shit Town. Sell it cheap and move it quick.”

Russell turned in a slow circle, taking in the rest of the garage.

“What the hell you doing?”

“Seeing if they have a stash.” Russell moved to a set of shelves on the other side. They were filled with cardboard boxes and plastic bins. He set the shotgun on the concrete floor and pulled a box from the bottom shelf.

“I doubt they stashed the money in a box.”

Russell opened it. Old Christmas decorations. He dug through it anyway. “Won’t know until you check. Unless you got a better idea where it’s at.”

“No.” Mickey grabbed a box and started digging through. “Got no clue.”

Tap, tap, tap.

Russell froze, hands in a box full of baby clothes. Maybe it was whatever Mickey was pawing through.

Tap, tap, tap.

This time Mickey froze. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t you?”

“No.”

Tap, tap, tap.

Russell and Mickey grabbed their shotguns and rose. They stood there, listening. Russell cocked his head, hoping he could zero in on where the sound had come from. He wasn’t sure if it had been inside or out.

Tap, tap, tap.

Inside.

Mickey motioned with his head toward the rear of the garage. Russell nodded. It sounded like it was coming from the back wall. Maybe a rat or something.

He took a step toward the sound. Then another. One foot over the other. The shotgun raised and he gazed down the barrel. He half expected a rat to scurry out from under the pile of scrap wood tucked in the back corner.

Tap, tap, tap.

Mickey followed behind him, breathing slow and shallow. Russell licked his lips. He was thankful he’d taken a few hits, even if it was shitty product.

Tap, tap, tap.

Russell reached a storage locker and leaned in close. The sound didn’t come from within. He looked up, hoping he’d see a rodent on top moving around. No such luck. But he did see half a wall.

The locker had been pushed up against the back wall of the garage. Except the back wall only ran half way behind the locker. Looking from left to right, there was wall and then a sharp ninety degree corner. The back of the garage was actually deeper than it first appeared.