Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (11 page)

OK, long story short here, we spent the next three hours
getting things straightened out at the campground. Most of the people at the RV
sites were more than happy to pull forward and make room for another camper;
there was also a large field used as a group camp area that we let about thirty
more people with tents set up in, after we had given them a makeshift “site
number” to pin onto their tent. One of the first things we did after simmering
down the people arguing out front was to get a rope and hang a “campground
closed” sign across the road down where it meets the highway. I met Doc and
Sally Collins about five minutes after we got there. I don’t know what I was
picturing, but they weren’t anything like I had imagined. Sally was a bleached
blond lady of about fifty-five, a little on the chunky side and constantly
smoking a cigarette. Doc Collins, on the other hand, was Asian, or partly so. Slim,
fit looking, he probably could have passed for late forties, but I found out he
was sixty-two. They were both a great help to Michelle and I. Doc was more than
accommodating to as many of the campers as he possibly could; his concern was
not necessarily the double capacity per se’, but the potential for the water,
electricity and sanitation facilities to be overtaxed with that many people. Michelle
made a suggestion that he make up a flier and use the little campground
office’s copy machine to make enough of them to distribute to each campsite. We
spent about fifteen quick minutes deciding what would be on the flier, and
after hashing out a bunch of ideas, we decided it would be easier to just write
down the ideas and have the flier announce a campground wide meeting the next
morning at 10:00 AM in the little amphitheater. The traffic jam outside the
gate had worked itself out by the time we were done. I shook hands with Doc as
we were leaving, and Sally came up to Michelle and gave her a big hug like they
were long lost relatives. Doc stopped me with a “Hey Eric . . . one more thing
. . .” I waited, but he pursed his lips, shook his head and said, “Never mind,
it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I’m sure. I’ll get right on the flyers
and have them posted before I turn in tonight.”

Sally added, “And tomorrow morning I’ll ride around on the
golf cart and announce over the PA about the meeting.” Each word was
accompanied by a small exhalation of cigarette smoke.

We said goodbye again and got into Michelle’s still idling Tahoe.
She put it in gear and we drove away. Three miles down the road we ran out of
gas. Crap.

I looked at Michelle and said, “Miss Owens, I don’t know what
kind of a boy you think I am, but the old ‘running out of gas trick’ is not
going to work on me.”

She laughed out loud and said, “Really . . . well what if I
did this . . .”

She slid over next to me and planted a long, slow soft kiss
on my ear. A wave of shivers raced from my ear down to my ankles and back up
again.

“Wow, that was . . . interesting . . . but I’m still not
going to succumb to your feminine wiles. I’m made of stone, you can’t tempt me,”
I said.

“Is that what you think?” She lifted her left leg up and
over, straddling me. Her hands grasped the back of my hair and she tilted my
head up, crushing her lips into me, her tongue searching, twining around mine. She
ground herself into my lap, slowly gyrating her hips. “You are made of stone
after all,” she purred.

“
This is Marina one calling Fish and Wildlife two, this is
Marina one calling Fish and Wildlife two, over
,” her dash mounted radio
blared into the night.

We both froze, muscles clenched, locked in a kiss. The call
repeated.

Michelle let out a deep sigh and reached behind her to grab
the microphone.

“
Fish and Wildlife two, go ahead, over
.”

“
Just calling in for a status report, everything OK
?”

Michelle replied. “W
e were just about to call you.
” I
slowly slid my hand up the outside of her thigh, climbing higher and around . .
. She un-keyed the microphone, swatted at my hand and giggled. “
Requesting
you meet us three miles from the campground, fuel status bingo
.”

“
Understood, en-route
.”

Michelle climbed off of me, got back in her seat, and turned
the key to accessory. She hit the radio’s search button on FM, got nothing,
switched to AM and had a few minutes of reception with a French speaking
Canadian station. Neither of us understood it. We sat in silence and watched a
few scattered snow flurries ricochet off the windshield. About ten minutes
later, Walter and Uncle Andy showed up in Uncle Andy’s truck. Max was riding in
the bed, and Marty and Francis were in the second row of seats. Uncle Andy
rolled down the window as he pulled up beside us.

“Everything OK at the campground?” he asked.

Michelle gave him a brief rundown, and then Uncle Andy said,
“All right, we’re gonna drop off the kids and then we’ll be back to fill you
up.” He shined a little flashlight into Michelle’s Tahoe, angled his face lower
and said with a big smile, “You got lipstick on your face, Eric.”

My hand went instinctively to rub at my face, and I could
hear Walter, Uncle Andy, and even Francis and Marty laughing as they drove off.
Michelle was wolfing right along with them.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“I’m not wearing any lipstick, but you just busted the both
of us and now they all know it.”

Uncle Andy and Walter were still chuckling when they pulled
alongside us a few minutes later.

We refueled out of Uncle Andy’s transfer tank and headed back
to the marina. It was after 11:00 PM and I was getting a little bit tired;
Michelle said she was too. But, no rest for the weary, there was a couple
things I wanted to talk over with everybody before I went to bed. When we got
to the marina I noticed an older model Ford van parked near the front of the
bait store. I started to say something to Michelle, but she cut me off.

“I see it,” she said.

Obviously, Walter and Uncle Andy noticed it as well. They
pulled in and kept their headlights on it as we pulled around in front, boxing
the van in. The headlights from Michelle’s Tahoe didn’t reveal any movement
inside the van. I opened the passenger door and got out; I could hear that the
van was still running—couldn’t be there for gas then, I thought. I took my
flashlight out from the sheath on my belt and pressed the switch on the tail
cap, the Quark AA light flared into turbo mode as I approached. Michelle was
providing cover, gun drawn, sheltered behind the open door of her truck. I made
it to the passenger side of the van and shined the Quark through the window; nobody.
The van had a solid body, no sliding doors or windows on the sides, two small
windows—one on each door—in the rear. I slid around to the back of the van, did
a quick “rise-shine-peek” into the cargo area of the van; no movement that I
saw, no sideways figure-eight pattern of a double barrel twelve gauge pointed
at me either. I risked a longer look. Nobody inside, just what looked like an
old couch.

“Clear,” I yelled.

Walter spoke out of the window of Uncle Andy’s truck. “Everything
OK?”

“So far,” I said, “but stay in the truck, both of you, okay?”
I saw him nod.

Michelle moved up to me at the rear of the van, shined her
light through the window for a minute, and said, “Is that blood?”

I directed the beam of my flashlight through the other rear
window and looked again, what I thought was a fabric pattern on the couch might
be something else—my stomach started to sink. I reached down to the rear door
handle and lifted; it was unlocked, so I opened the door. An acrid coppery odor
wafted out of the van. It wasn’t a fabric pattern. I was about to go into the
van for a closer look when I heard Max start to snarl. I spun around, and saw
where he was facing—it was toward the back of the parking lot heading down to
the boat ramp area. Both Michelle and I directed our lights in that area. A
figure was approaching . . . male, about six feet tall, walking towards us with
his hands leading the way. Max’s snarl increased in intensity as the figure got
closer. I drew my CZ and switched to the flashlight/gun grip; Michelle dropped
to one knee, aiming. Twenty yards away and closing . . . now fifteen, I could
see blood on the guy’s shirt. The tritium night sights on my SP-01 steadied on
his chest until I heard the echo of Sam Ironfeather’s warning . . . “
Central
nervous system, head or neck
,” I adjusted upwards. Twelve yards away.

“You in the parking lot, freeze,” I yelled.

Amazingly, he did.

“Do you all mind not shining those lights in my eyes?” he
said with his hands still raised, shielding him from the glare of our flashlights.

“Get down on your knees, put your hands on top of your head,”
Michelle ordered.

He did. I holstered my CZ while Michelle covered him with her
Glock. I started to approach but Michelle cut me off with the two words.

“Eric, gloves,” she said.

I normally keep a whole box of the nitrile gloves in my
truck, but not only for searching suspects. In my line of work I also deal with
a lot of animals, living, dead, roadkill—you name it. Michelle must have been
reading my mind.

“I put the ones Sam gave us in the cargo department in the
back of my truck,” she said.

“You got him?” I asked.

Her Glock didn’t move off the suspect, but she gave a quick
nod. I went over to the Tahoe, popped the rear release using the remote on the
keys that were still in the ignition, and got two pairs of gloves out. I moved
back over, pulling on one glove at a time. Pretty comfortable actually, a
little stiff on the backside of the hand maybe, my immediate impression was
that they would loosen up pretty quick. I drew the CZ again, covering the
suspect while Michelle put on a pair.

The guy on the ground started talking, “Hey man, you got it
all wrong. This ain’t what it looks like, I was just trying to help her.”

Michelle took over covering the guy while I re-holstered my
gun and moved up to cuff and search the guy. He still hadn’t moved from the “on
your knees, hands on top of your head” position. I had a feeling he’d been in
that position several times. He was squinting away from my light as I moved up,
and something about the story that Sam relayed about Trooper Fernandez came to
mind.

“Keep your hands on top of your head, don’t move your knees,
slowly turn your head to the right and look at me, open your eyes wide,” I
said.

He did, squinting his eyes half closed. “Open your eyes wide,
do it now,” I ordered.

“Dude, your light is like freaking blinding me,” he muttered.
But he opened his eyes. They looked normal to me.

I took him slowly to the ground, cuffed him, and then asked “Do
you have anything in your pockets that is going to stab, cut, or poke me?”

“No, man.”

I carefully searched him, found seventeen dollars in bills, a
small folding wallet with a driver’s license, and a few ATM cards; also a
little zip lock bag with about an ounce of marijuana and a small stainless steel
pot pipe, complete with a screen that he probably swiped out of his kitchen
sink faucet. Michelle had holstered her Glock and was assisting with the search.
After we were done we stood him up. His ID showed that he was Bruce D.
Westwick, resident of Bismarck, North Dakota.

We walked him back over and sat him down near his van. Michelle
watched him while I did a quick search. The glove box had registration and
proof of insurance, both current and in his name. The center console up front
had another bag of weed, some rolling papers and a half finished Cherry Pepsi. There
was a large cooler between the front seats that had more Cherry Pepsi, several
assorted bags of chips and about a dozen miscellaneous canned food items. Behind
the seats were two duffel bags filled with clothes, toiletries and a few
fiction books. Two empty 5 gallon gas cans and a clear siphon tube, a few
quarts of oil, and a four way tire iron were stashed there as well. Everything
looked normal for a typical stoner. Until you saw the couch. It looked like
part of a sectional with an armrest only on one end—the side closest to the
driver’s seat. I would have guessed that its original color was somewhere
between a cream or ivory, but most of the exposed surface area was now a dirty
gray hue, interlaced with cigarette burns and food stains. What interested me
most, however, were the several large Rorschach patterns of blood staining the
cushions, arms, and back of the couch. There was also a belly length mink
parka, some bloodstained jeans, and what looked like a wadded up piece of
cloth, completely soaked in blood. Under the couch was a pair of women’s flats,
size six, and a small teal colored purse. The purse had some makeup, a cell
phone and about $400.00 in assorted U.S. and Canadian currency. No ID. I got
out of the van and walked over to Mr. Westwick. “Sir, you are not currently
under arrest, you are being detained both for your safety and the safety of the
officers present, do you understand?”

“Yeah, I got it,” he said.

Max was still growling, so I walked about forty feet away
from where we had the guy seated whistled for him. He bounded off of the back
of Uncle Andy’s truck and trotted up to my side, eyes never leaving the guy in
cuffs on the ground.

I put my hand down and gave him a quick “good boy” pat on the
side of his rib cage. “Max . . . easy,” I said. “It’s OK . . . easy.” He
stopped growling, well almost. “Max, sit . . . wait . . . Good boy.” Max went
down on all fours, belly against the ground. That was his “sit” position when
he was in any type of stress situation. He rarely sat with just his haunches on
the ground except when we were playing, and even then he wouldn’t stay like
that for long. His golden yellow eyes were still locked on Mr. Westwick. I
reminded him one more time to “wait” and then I walked back over to where
Michelle was.

Michelle asked him, “Mr. Westwick, why don’t you tell us what
happened here.”

“Oh dude . . . I mean ma’am, I was just trying to help her
ma’am, I swear,” he said.

“Who?” Michelle asked.

The guy kept sputtering, “That lady, I’m telling you man, she
was freakin’ weird.”

Michelle said, “Slow down and tell us what happened, start at
the beginning, OK Bruce?” Using a suspect’s first name can often give you the
“good cop” advantage in certain situations, in other situations it can give you
an upper hand when you’re the “bad cop.”

Bruce started talking. “Like, I was leaving Bismarck, me and
about a billion other people . . . you know all the stuff they’re saying like
war in Korea and everybody getting sick and all. And after sitting in traffic
for like days it seemed, I cut down some back roads that I knew—I used to drive
the delivery truck for a home medical supply company and I knew a lot of the
back roads. So I kept heading north—got some buddies in Canada I was going to
crash at for awhile—until I came to some small hick town called Mesa Hill, and
the damn sheriff wouldn’t let anybody in. He was detouring us back out toward
the main highway. So I drive out that way, and I can see that this far out the
traffic is at least movin’, so I got back on the interstate headin’ north again.
I went for, I don’t know, maybe seventy or eighty miles; there were cars
everywhere man, people outside pulled off yelling at each other, other cars
with people sitting on the hoods and trunks and even their roofs, I saw some
dude whip out a shotgun and blow the window out of a station wagon filled with
people that cut in front of him. Man, there were kids in that car. I took the
next side road off the interstate and started heading east where I knew I’d
eventually run in to the road that I needed to head into Canada with. I went
down there maybe another two hours, got lost a couple times where the road
turned and wasn’t marked, but I eventually came back out on another highway,
and dude, right there where I came out was a sign pointing to the left that
said ‘Canadian Border—USA access 117 miles.’ I got like all happy and fired up
a fatty right there. So, like, I’m sitting there, enjoying the sunshine and a
little bit of mother nature, and I swear here comes this candy apple red Vette
flying down the road, swerving like the dude driving it was drunk. Man, I couldn’t
have even got out of the way if I wanted to, but at the last minute it locks up
its brakes and fishtails, then does a 360, and ends up sitting with the back
wheels off the ground and the nose down in a little drainage ditch. So like I
take another hit off the fatty, and pinch it out. I’m feeling pretty toasty
right then, and then I start thinking that I got some bad weed and was seeing
things cause out of the Vette steps this gorgeous blonde; dude she was smokin’
. . . I mean, so was I, but not like she was, you know, like really good
looking, like stripper good?”

Michelle and I tried to suppress our smiles as we answered, “What
happened next?”

“So she walks around her car, not real fast though, then she
notices me lookin’ and says something like ‘Are you just gonna stare or are you
going to help a lady in distress?’ So I got out of my ride and asked her if she
was OK, and she said that she wasn’t feeling good, felt kind of dizzy or
something. I told her that if I’d just wiped out like she did I’d probably feel
dizzy too. She said something like ‘No, I was feeling that way before I
wrecked.’ Anyhow, she said her name was Celeste . . . something . . . and asked
if I could give her a ride. You know, right there I had an idea and asked her
if we could use the gas from her car since I was getting low. She said
something like ‘she didn’t give a rat’s ass what I did to “his” car because he
was a cheap-ass-chicken-shit-good-for-nothing bastard that left her high and
dry . . .’ Anyway, she went on awhile about whatever dude she was talking
about, then grabbed her purse and got in my van. I used my siphon to drain the
gas, almost filled me up, and then we hit the road. So, like, she’s riding
shotgun, I got the heat cranked up and she takes off her coat; underneath she’s
got this red tube top, lookin’ real fine you know, but then I see that she’s
got blood running down from her shoulder, and it’s, like, soaking in to her
tube top. I asked her if she was OK, and she says something like ‘it’s not from
the wreck,’ but when she stopped to try and get gas a while ago, some jerk
tried to attack her. She said she kicked him in the nuts and got back in her
car and took off, drove for a while until she started feeling dizzy and ‘about
creamed me.’ Anyhow, she said she was tired and wanted to lay down on my couch,
so she went in back and I kept driving. When it got dark I pulled off the road
‘cause I only got one headlight. I finished my fatty and probably zoned out for
a few hours, and when I woke up she was all moaning and stuff, and she wouldn’t
answer me when I asked how she was doing. So I went back and she was lying on
the couch with nothin’ but her panties on. She didn’t look too good; I mean,
she looked really good, but not healthy good . . . I mean she looked ‘healthy’
. . .” He indicated by holding both of his hands, palms up, fingers curved, in
front of his own chest.