Bluetick Revenge (12 page)

“I have one thing you’ll never have,” he said.

“What’s that?” I said as I raised the level of the speed bag.

“Nineteen-inch biceps.”

I laughed and started getting into a rhythm on the bag.

“Was that the motorcycle mama I saw you come in with?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You about done with that gig?”

“One more week,” I said.

“Then what?”

“Probably just chill for a few weeks. Go skiing. Kill time until Jayne gets here.”

After taking turns on the speed bag and the heavy bag, we decided to fry our legs with ten sets of high-repetition squats.
While Troy was doing one of his sets, I scanned the gym floor and saw Karlynn jogging very slowly on a treadmill. To her right
a muscleman had loaded a barbell with 315 pounds and was making a big show of getting ready to do bench presses. After swinging
his arms in circles, he sat down on the bench, then took a few deep breaths, then lay back, grabbed the bar, took a few more
deep breaths, lifted the barbell off the rests and brought it down to his chest, let out a growl like a cougar that had just
received a Tabasco enema, then did one repetition and replaced the bar.

“Christ,” I said to my brother, “the bonehead puts three hundred and fifteen pounds on the bar and does one rep.” My brother
finished his set and looked at the guy I was referring to.

“That’s a new exercise,” my brother said. “It’s called the
im
-press.”

“I ought to go ask him if I can work in.”

“Please don’t,” Troy said. “He pays his bill every month, which is all I care about.”

“Oh, look, now he’s going to get a drink and talk with the span-dex gal next to the water fountain.” We watched as he walked
toward the fountain, took a few sips, and started talking with the woman just as I had predicted.

“That’s another new exercise,” my brother said. “It’s called jaw cardio.”

We finished our squats and I hit the steam room, where I did some stretching. Karlynn must have seen me finish my workout,
because she joined me in the steam room shortly after I had entered it.

“How was your jog?” I said.

“I didn’t go very fast.”

“It’s your first day. It’ll take a while to work up to a four-minute mile.”

After we had showered and said good-bye to my brother, I noticed that someone had delivered the new metro Denver phone books,
the white pages and the Yellow Pages, and left one of each on the counter near the entrance. Just for the hell of it I picked
up the white pages and turned to the
Ks
. There was only one Krait listed, and it wasn’t Paul. It was Dorothy. I ripped that page out and headed to my truck with
Karlynn.

On Sunday morning I read the paper and did the crossword puzzle while Karlynn worked on her list of one hundred things she
wanted to do in her life. We spent the afternoon watching the Broncos humiliate the hated Raiders. The Broncos had been playing
well lately, and the entire Rocky Mountain region had playoff fever. After the game I went into my office, sat down at my
desk, dialed *67 to block my identity in case she had caller ID, then dialed the number for Dorothy Krait. The phone rang
five times before a woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Is Paul there?” I asked.

“He doesn’t live here,” she said. She sounded as though she was in her mid-forties. Her voice was raspy, and I suspected she’d
spent most of her life drinking or smoking or both.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I saw your name in the phone book and assumed you were related.”

“I’m his mother,” she said. “Who are you?”

“My name is Craig,” I said. “I manage Joe’s Pawn Shop over on Colfax, and Paul was in here the other—”

“He don’t have a phone,” she said. “Try him at work.”

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“Colorado Furniture Warehouse.”

“Okay, I appreciate your—” She hung up.

I
GOT UP EARLY
M
ONDAY
morning and practiced kata in the living room, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and some gym shorts. Kata are the formal exercises
of karate. Each kata consists of sequences of techniques, both offensive and defensive, against imaginary foes. I hadn’t practiced
in a while and I felt rusty, but after thirty minutes my techniques were relaxed and fluid.

Prince trotted downstairs, so I let him out and made coffee. I showered and got dressed, then microwaved some instant oatmeal
and ate breakfast while I listened to National Public Radio. At 8:15 I telephoned the Colorado Furniture Warehouse, a well-advertised
discount outlet in Denver, and asked to speak with Paul Krait. The woman answering the phone transferred me to the warehouse
proper, where a man told me Krait wouldn’t be in until nine.

Karlynn came downstairs, smoked her customary morning cigarette in the garage, poured some Grape Nuts into a bowl, covered
them with milk, then joined me at the dining table. “Feel like taking a drive today?” I asked.

“Sure, where are we going?”

“Just down to Denver. I want to talk to a guy down there.”

Forty minutes later we were climbing into my truck for the ride to Denver when Karlynn said, “Damn, I forgot my purse.” I
gave her my house key while I warmed up the truck. Why she required her purse on this particular day was not a question that
occurred to me.

She came back out and we headed down the canyon to Boulder and then Denver. The sky was clear and the temperature was in the
high forties. A nice December day in Colorado. Karlynn stared out her window at the river, the trees, and the rock formations.

“How are you doing today?” I asked.

“About the same,” she said.

“Iowa City’s not a bad place,” I said. “There’s a big university there; it’s like Boulder, but with cornfields instead of
mountains.”

“It’s not the place,” she said. “It’s the job and the whole eight-to-five thing.”

“Everyone has to earn a living,” I said. “You’ll make friends and after a few months it will seem like home.” She didn’t reply,
just gazed out the window, evidently deep in thought.

The road from Nederland to Boulder runs parallel to Boulder Creek, which is actually a river, at least by my definition. If
you can’t jump over it, it’s a river. The road twists and turns as it descends, and even though this was shaping up to be
nice day, I still had to watch for the patches of ice that sometimes appear in places where the road gets little sunlight.

“So who’s this guy you’re going to see?” she asked.

“Just a man I need to ask some questions,” I said. “It won’t take long. After that I’ll treat you to lunch.”

“Okay,” she said.

Forty-five minutes after leaving Nederland I pulled into the Colorado Furniture Warehouse parking lot. It was just after ten,
but the lot was nearly full. Even in a slow economy people want furniture, and banks and credit card companies are more than
happy to accommodate them. No money down, no payments for six months, blah, blah, blah.

I found a space and parked the truck. “This will just take a few minutes,” I said. “You wait here. Keep the doors locked and
just start honking the horn if there’s any trouble.”

“Can’t I go in and look at furniture or something?”

“That’s not a good idea,” I said. “You might run into someone you know.” Chances of that were slim, but I did not want her
with me when I talked with Paul Krait.

“Okay,” she sighed.

“Just wait here and think about where you want to go for lunch.”

I got out of the car and started walking toward the warehouse entrance. It was downright balmy in Denver, nearly seventy degrees.
I wore khaki slacks and a green poplin jacket.

As customers backed their vehicles into the loading area, I opened a metal door and walked inside, where more people were
standing around with purchase orders in their hands, waiting for their names to be called over the PA system.

The warehouse itself was gigantic—several football fields long and at least one hundred feet high. There were rows and rows
of furniture, and each row was stacked to the ceiling. Young kids maneuvered forklifts back and forth like trained ants. A
balding middle-aged man at the desk asked if I’d been helped. I told him I wanted to speak with Paul Krait.

“You a cop?” he asked.

“This is unofficial,” I said. “Just need to speak with him for a minute.”

“He’s over there,” said the man. He pointed to a young kid driving one of the forklifts.

“Thanks,” I said.

There was a sign indicating no customers were allowed beyond a certain point. I ignored it and started walking deliberately
across the concrete floor toward Krait. He was about five-eight and on the thin side. His blond hair was cropped short—still
a skinhead. He wore jeans, working boots, and a black sweatshirt. He must have thought I was there for some other purpose,
because he paid no mind to me until I was within a few feet of him. “Turn that thing off,” I said. “I want to talk with you.”

“Hey, man, who the fu—” I grabbed the neck of his sweatshirt and again told him to turn the forklift off. He did. Then I yanked
him from his seat and walked him to a spot behind one of the long aisles of furniture stacked to the roof. I pushed him up
against a large cardboard box—hard—so that his back was to it, then let go of his sweatshirt.

“A few years back,” I said, “the cops made you listen to a tape. You told them the voice on the tape sounded like a guy named
Skull. Remember that?”

“Hey, man, what right do—” I placed my right hand around his neck and pinned it to the cardboard box.

“Listen,” I said, “I don’t like skinheads. I’d just as soon kill your little racist ass, but I have enough problems right
now. You answer my questions, we’ll be done in three minutes. You don’t, you’re in for a bad, bad day.”

“I’m not a racist,” he said. “I’m a member of SHARP.” He was thoroughly intimidated at this point—exactly the result I had
hoped my forthright approach would produce. I loosened the pressure on his neck slightly.

“What’s SHARP?”

“Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice. I’m not into all that hate and violence anymore.”

“Good,” I said, “then you won’t mind answering my questions.” I let go of his neck.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m just a guy who wants to find Skull,” I said. “You remember that interview with the cops?”

“Yeah.”

“Who gave you the tape with Skull’s voice on it?”

“Like I told the cops, I don’t know.” I backhanded him, not hard. “Jesus, man, I don’t know. We’d go to these clubs, and people
would pass out shit like that all the time.”

“Who’d you give the tape to?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. He waited to see if I intended to strike him again. I didn’t.

“You told the cops Skull talked about some kind of camp in Idaho. What do you remember about that?”

“Yeah,” he said, “some kind of training camp where they teach you how to shoot and how to survive in the woods and shit like
that.”

“So you could kill niggers, fags, and Jews,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“What else do remember about that tape? Think hard.” He looked down at the concrete floor as if to think for a moment. “What
did the tape look like? Was there an address or phone number on it?”

“There was no label on it,” he said.

“How were people supposed to get in touch with Skull if they wanted to visit this camp?”

“I don’t know, man; I guess you just had to head up to Idaho and ask around.”

“Thanks for your cooperation,” I said. “Have a nice day.”

I walked back to the warehouse entrance, put a dollar into a vending machine and bought a can of diet Coke, then walked out
to the parking lot. When I got to my truck, the doors were locked, but Karlynn Slade and her purse were both gone.

A
FTER
I
FINISHED
mentally cursing myself for being so stupid, I jogged back to the store and began walking methodically up and down the aisles
on the showroom floor. Past recliners, bedroom sets, dining sets, kitchen sets, sofas, coffee tables, office furniture, and
home entertainment centers. Then I checked the restrooms, including the women’s room, and the warehouse. No sign of her.

I walked back outside, climbed into my truck, and closed my eyes. I had to think. The horn had not sounded; I would have heard
it, even in the warehouse. There was no sign of a struggle in or near my truck. The doors to my truck had been locked when
I returned from my talk with Krait. If you were going to kidnap a woman from a truck, you probably wouldn’t bother to lock
the doors after you had pulled her out of there. Suddenly, the purse made sense. Karlynn had ditched me. And by implication
she had begun the process of ditching Matt Simms, the FBI, the U.S. Marshals, Thad Bugg, and the Sons of Satan. Not to mention
Prince.

I picked up my cell phone and dialed the offices of Keane, Simms & Mercante as my truck idled in the parking lot. The receptionist
gave me the standard bit—Matt was in court and could she take a message or put me through to his voice mail. “Look,” I said,
“this is Pepper Keane—the man who founded your law firm; my name is on the wall behind your desk. This is important. So if
Matt is there, I need to speak with him ASAFP.” She put me on hold.

“What’s up?” Matt said. “Theresa thinks you’re an asshole, by the way.”

“Karlynn just flew the coop,” I said. “I left her in the truck while I went in to talk with a kid who works at the Colorado
Furniture Warehouse. When I came out, she was gone.”

“Any chance someone snagged her?”

“No,” I said. I explained my answer.

“Think you can find her?”

“It’s a long shot.”

“She’s supposed to report to the U.S. marshal’s office on Friday. That gives you four days to find her and talk some sense
into her.”

“What happens if I don’t find her by then?”

“They’ll indict her and issue an arrest warrant. She’ll be fucked as far as the Witness Protection Program goes. And my credibility
will probably be fucked too.”