Last Call (20 page)

* * *

Dean awoke at first light dreaming of Trish. The bed next to his hadn’t been slept in and there was no sign of Jim. He dressed quickly and left the room.

He found Jim sitting on the hood of the car in lavender dawn light, sipping hot coffee. Relieved, he said, “You okay?”

Handing him a fresh cup of coffee, Jim said, “I’m fine,” and slid off the hood. “Let’s go home.”

––––––––

Saturday, July 9

JIM WAS GRATEFUL Dean was dealing with his grief in silence. During his years on the street, he’d discovered a vault deep inside himself where he’d been able to stuff his pain; and while it had been a more secure vault steeped in alcohol, it was serving him well enough now. He knew a time was coming when it would fail him and he’d have to face the unbearable truth, but he preferred to do so in isolation. For now there was only this numbness. And the hate.

They were on Highway 69 now heading north, and Dean pointed at a rustic log structure a hundred yards ahead, a portable sign on the verge identifying it as the Cold River Trading Post, one of the many places they’d canvassed on the way down. Dean said, “I’ve got to stop up here and use the can. My guts are a mess.”

He pulled the Beemer into the busy lot and found a space between a silver Lexus and a gray campervan about fifty yards from the entrance. He pocketed the keys and told Jim he might need a while, and Jim decided to go inside. He didn’t feel like talking, but he didn’t want to sit out here alone, either.

The place was a typical Northern Ontario souvenir shop, stocked to the rafters with Native crafts, T-shirts, handcrafted jewelry, mineral samples and lots of sugary edibles. Patrons milled about in pairs or dragging impatient kids, trying on jackets and sunglasses, shaking their heads at the hefty price tags.

As Dean headed for the men’s room, Jim approached a long display case at the front of the store, a big-bellied guy wearing a name tag that said “Hank” standing at the register, handing a wad of cash to a man in a ballcap and dark glasses. Jim saw the man pocket the cash and leave, then watched Hank stoop to add something to the display case, a small silver tray bearing an assortment of white charms that triggered a jarring cross-connection in Jim’s mind. There were a bunch more of them in the lighted case.

Seeing Jim’s quickening approach, Hank said, “Can I help—?” and Jim seized one of the pieces off the tray, scattering the others to the floor. Hank said,
“Hey,”
and Jim grabbed a large geode off a display stand and sank to one knee, a creeping horror clenching his scalp. He set the carving on the plank floor and slammed the geode against it like a sledge, smashing it into three jagged pieces. Tossing the geode aside, he retrieved the largest fragment and angled it to the light of the big front window.

Hank was angry now, telling Jim he’d better pay for that thing or he’d bring the cops down on him, and Jim said, “A tooth...it’s a goddamn
tooth
.”

Hank said, “What are you talking about?”

“These carvings,” Jim said, rising to his full height. “Where do you get them?”

Hank aimed a sausage-size finger at him. “I remember you. You’re the guy was in here the other day looking for his kid—”

“I said where do you
get
them?”

“Uh, local fella,” Hank said, stumbling back a few paces. “Kinda mysterious. Comes in here couple times a month in season with a bunch of new stuff. They’re very big sellers. Why did you—?”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No idea,” Hank said. He pointed at the exit. “But you just missed him.”

“The guy in the sunglasses?”

Hank nodded and Jim bolted to the window.

The guy was climbing into a campervan now—they’d parked right
next
to him—and Jim’s first instinct was to run out there and drag the bastard out of the van. But at this distance he’d never make it; he’d only spook the guy and they’d never find him again. So he waited, watching the guy drive to the verge and signal a right-hand turn.

Then he ran to the men’s room and banged on the locked door. “Dean, get your ass out here now. It’s
him
. The son of a bitch is right outside.”

He heard Dean say through the door, “What? Who’s outside?”

“The guy who got Trish.”

Dean came out jabbing his shirttail into his pants. “How do you know?”

Trust me,” Jim said, putting his hand out. “Give me the keys.”

Dean gave him the keys and Jim ran flat out for the exit, Dean on his heels, Hank shouting, “Hey, who’s gonna pay for this thing?”

* * *

By the time they got to the highway the camper was just a speck on the crest of a distant hill. Jim said,
“Shit,”
and gunned it, white smoke spewing from the rear tires as they found purchase on the blacktop.

Dean said, “Can you tell me what’s going on now?”

“There was something in Mandy’s car, a charm of some kind, a small white carving broken in two. It looked like ivory or maybe bone, but it finally clicked in that joint back there. The guy had a bunch of them in a display case. They’re made of teeth.
Human
teeth. I had a couple of my own knocked out in a bar fight once, busted into pieces in my mouth.”

“What’s any of that got to do with the guy we’re chasing?”

“He’s the guy who does the carvings.”

Dean said, “Holy shit,” and reached under the passenger seat, coming out with a sturdy plastic case. He thumbed it open on his lap and pulled out a .22 caliber pistol.

“Where’d you get that?”

“It’s one of my dad’s target pistols,” Dean said, pointing it down the road. “Come on, man, we’re losing him.”

“Don’t worry, I see him. I don’t want him to know we’re onto him. We’re just—will you put that thing away?”

Dean stuffed the gun down the back of his jeans.

Jim said, “Thank you. Try not to shoot yourself in the ass.” He said, “We’re just going to follow him for now, see where he’s holed up. Then we wait.”

“For what?”

“For the fucker to fall asleep.”

Dean said, “He pulls out their teeth to make
jewelry
?”

Jim nodded, his gaze fixed on the camper, a half mile ahead now.

Dean brought the gun out again and drew back the slide, chambering a round. He said, “This motherfucker’s dead.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later the camper turned left onto an unmarked side road. Keeping his distance, Jim eased the BMW onto the shoulder and counted to ten before making the turn. The only sign of the camper now was a dense cloud of road dust, the hard-packed surface bone dry in the summer heat. The road was narrow and badly rutted, shaded by an almost uninterrupted canopy of overarching trees, and Jim had to slow to a crawl, waiting for the dust to clear.

They lost sight of the vehicle after that but kept on rolling, nowhere to go but straight ahead. Several minutes later the road forked and Jim stopped the car, no evidence in either direction now of the camper or its passing. He said, “Which way?” and Dean pointed left into a corridor of trees, no trespassing and private property signs posted every fifteen feet or so.

Jim angled left, taking his time, the tone of the signs becoming more forbidding the farther along they went: BEWARE OF DOGS, THIS PROPERTY PROTECTED BY SMITH & WESSON, TRESSPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

Dean said, “Paranoid son of a bitch.”

They crested a hill and Jim stopped the car, a rundown farmhouse appearing in the near distance now, the campervan just rolling in through the arched entryway to a machinery barn in the field behind the house. With the exception of the roadway, the property was surrounded by bush, no signs of cattle or other domestic animals. This was not a working farm.

“Okay,” Jim said. “Dead end. That’s where he’s holed up.” He shifted into Reverse and turned to look out the rear window. “We’ll wait back at the fork until dark—”

Dean jumped out of the car and started down the road in a commando-style crouch, the .22 aimed at the sky.

Cursing, Jim parked the car and went after him, saying, “What the hell are you doing?”

“You go ahead back to the fork,” Dean said. “I just wanna check it out.” He took off again and Jim followed, Dean cutting into the woods to the right of the roadway now, circling through the undergrowth toward the back of the house. There were a few other outbuildings back here not visible from the road, a couple of storage sheds and what looked like an unused outhouse, the plank door hanging askew by one of the hinges. There was a big chain-link kennel with a corrugated roof about thirty feet from the back porch, penning at least six large black dogs, two of them pacing with their noses to the ground, the others drowsing in the sun. Jim thought,
Rottweilers. Fucker wasn’t lying about the dogs
.

Dean reached the tree line and sank to one knee, the house a hundred yards away now across a field of hip-high cord grass and wildflowers.

Coming up behind him, Jim said, “Let’s head back now and wait for dark, okay?” The cover in their current location was solid, the bush densely shaded, but they’d be sitting ducks if they tried to get any closer in broad daylight. He said, “I don’t want to risk this freak spotting us.”

As he said it the guy came out of the barn, moving with the same body-proud swagger Jim had seen on guys in prison. A couple of the Rottweilers started barking when they saw him, and the man strode up to the kennel gate and unhooked something from the latch post, a black club of some kind—a cattle prod, Jim realized—and now he raked it across the chain-link, creating a gout of sparks that silenced the dogs. He kicked dirt at them, then replaced the prod on its hook and went into the house.

Jim said, “Seen enough?”

But Dean was adamant. “I just want to take a closer look, then we’re out of here.”

Jim said, “Come on, man, this is close enough,” and Dean said, “Fuck it,” and charged into the field with the pistol aimed at the house. The Rottweilers were on their feet in an instant, barking in alarm.

Cursing, Jim backtracked into the bush to pick up a rusted length of rebar he’d noticed in the leaf litter on his way in, thinking if the shit hit the fan he could use it as a weapon.

* * *

Even as Dean moved he knew it was insane, rushing into the unknown like this, but all he could think about was killing this twisted jack off, making him pay for ending Trish’s life. As he raced across the uneven ground, trying to hold his aim steady, he remembered their last conversation, Trish playfully describing their future together, him working in the emergency room and her in her veterinary practice, joking about which one of them was going to stay home with the babies and the seventeen cats they were going to own—

Dean felt something bump his chest.

Then he heard a loud report, a huge sound that cracked through the shallow valley and rolled back from the distant hills.

* * *

Jim saw it happen on his way back to the tree line with the rebar in his hand—Dean running hard, halfway to the farmhouse when the bullet ripped through his chest, the impact spinning him around bare milliseconds before the report reached Jim’s ears—and Jim sank into a crouch on the forest floor, seeing Dean’s eyes now, round with mortal surprise, seeming to search the tree line as he sagged to his knees, then fell face first into the tall grass, vanishing from Jim’s line of sight.

Jim’s initial impulse was to run to him, but a deeper instinct made him hesitate. To show himself out there now would be suicide—and truth be told, in that instant, with his daughter murdered and his best friend bleeding in the weeds, suicide by psychopath didn’t seem like such a bad alternative.

Jim clutched his paltry weapon and stared at the place where Dean had fallen, seeing no movement through the obscuring grass, feeling the gallop of his heart and the hot rush of air in his lungs and realizing that in this moment the only thing he wished for more than his own death was a chance to kill the sick son of a whore who’d destroyed the people he loved.

He noticed movement to his right through the heat shimmer now, and shifted his gaze to the house.

The killer came down the steps into the sunlight, seeming to materialize out of the deep shadow of the porch, the ballcap and sunglasses gone now. He held a scope-equipped rifle in a trail carry and looked about thirty, all sinew and bone in a strappy T-shirt and faded jeans, gleaming eyes narrowed in a hunter’s squint. He glanced at the charred remains of an old bench seat at the edge of the yard, then ambled toward Dean, those eyes constantly scanning.

Jim shrank deeper into the underbrush, fear leeching his rage. The man looked invincible, unperturbed at having just shot another human being, and Jim despised himself for feeling that fear. A sick part of him wanted to flee, back to the bottle and its promise of detachment. And who would be left to judge him if he did?

Then a tiny voice in his head, his own voice, saying,
Me.

The man stopped at the patch of grass where Dean had fallen and pointed the rifle at him, then toed the body with his boot. Satisfied, he shifted the weapon into a sling carry and stooped to retrieve the .22. He tucked the pistol into his belt and stood, still tracking every compass point with those nimble eyes. He lingered a moment, rubbing the charms on a necklace Jim knew were made of human teeth, then started back toward the house, in no hurry.

But then he paused and Jim tensed, the man coming back now, skirting Dean to follow his tracks through the trampled weeds.

As quietly as he could, Jim crabbed his way deeper into the undergrowth, watching through a break in the foliage as the man paused at the tree line where Dean had crouched, sweeping his foot through the flattened grass and mumbling to himself, looking back at his property as if to duplicate the intruder’s point of view, perhaps wondering what he might have seen.

He was just standing there now, seeming almost meditative, as if immersed in thought—
or perhaps just listening
—and Jim clutched the rebar, gauging his chances of rushing the man and beating him down before he could bring that rifle to bear. It was a ten-foot sprint through tangled underbrush, and he’d first have to get to his feet without being heard, no small task in these sun-parched brambles.