The Falling Away (3 page)

When the bar shut down, Greg had finished his beer and retreated to his room. Alone. So Quinn had waited, hoping other dark drones would meet him this morning.

None had, and Quinn was now sure Greg was a loner. Which meant he could have been neutralized hours before.

Quinn felt the pressure building inside, pressed the staple again, felt the pressure subside. Be still. Be quiet. Be patient.

Greg left money on the table, slid out of the booth, and headed for the glass door. Quinn slid off the stool at the counter and followed.

He had likely been dropped off the day before with a plane ticket or a bus ticket, so he'd either be walking to the Greyhound depot just a few blocks away or calling for a cab to the airport.

When he began walking down the alley toward Central Avenue, Quinn knew he was destined for the bus depot. Good. That would be easier.

She followed, increasing her pace to catch up with him, knowing it would be best to catch him before he reached the end of this alley. This was a nice, secluded spot, especially in the morning. No traffic or activity, as there would be on Central. Or at the bus station.

“Greg?” Quinn's fingers closed over her pistol as Greg turned, the question forming in his eyes before it crossed his lips.

“Who are you?” Greg snarled, pain and hatred in his eyes.

In answer, Quinn flashed the pistol and pulled the trigger, continuing to approach as Greg slumped to the ground. She put away the gun, dropped to a knee beside Greg's body, watched as his eyes rolled to white a few times and closed.

Then Quinn put her hands on Greg's body and began to pray.

3

Dylan watched as Webb thrust the rucksack toward the two Canadians, looking like some kid on the playground in his puffy blue jacket and matching bag. “Fifty large,” he said. At least Dylan could hear him, now that he'd stepped forward. “Just like Krunk promised.”

Krunk was their contact back home in Billings, the guy who had sent them here to the Canadian border for a drug swap. Dylan didn't know Krunk's real name. Didn't really want to know Krunk's name. For that matter, he often wished he didn't know his own name; more than once he'd fantasized about forgetting everything known as the life of Dylan Runs Ahead.

But when you were addicted to painkillers, you were deprived of life's luxuries, and one of those luxuries was the ability to forget. True, when you drifted into that warm, comforting haze, you left behind the pain, left behind any real, rational thought. But you never truly
forgot
; popping the drugs just let you hit the Pause button for a time. And so, even though painkillers introduced you to guys like Webb (a Good Thing), it also introduced you to guys like Krunk (not a Good Thing), and after so many days and months of hitting that Pause button repeatedly, you found yourself in the middle of the gritty Montana prairie, swapping bags with greasy-haired Canadians, wondering when exactly this whole ride had started and why you hadn't gotten off it before.

The anorexic Canadian pulled Dylan from his thoughts as he stepped forward and took the bag from Webb before retreating again. As if he were standing on the very border itself and uncomfortable with the thought of crossing into the United States for long.

After an awkward pause, Webb was the first to speak again. Of course. “The way it works is, now you take off your backpack and give it to us.” He was speaking to the thinner one, the anorexic one, who had the kind of backpack you might see a school kid carrying looped over his shoulder. It only added to Dylan's sense that they were standing on a playground, the four of them, about to fight over a kicked ball or a lost bag of marbles.

Anorexic Guy exchanged another glance with Biker Beard, then unshouldered his pack slowly and set it on the ground. While he did this, the taller one, the bearded one, produced something Dylan was afraid he might see.

A pistol.

Not a revolver, but a semiautomatic, nickel-plated. Condensation formed on its surface as he pointed the gun at Webb.

“Whoa, whoa,” Webb said as his arms went into the air, instantly entering negotiation mode. “Let's just take it easy here.”

“That's what we're doing,” Biker Beard said, glancing at Dylan as he spoke. “We're taking it. And it's easy.”

“Krunk—”

“Is your problem,” Biker Beard said. “You just turn around right now, get into that truck, and drive away, Krunk's the only problem you're gonna have. Otherwise, your biggest problem might be how to stop yourself from bleeding to death out here.”

On cue, a fresh gust kicked up more dirty snow. Very spaghetti western, but Dylan didn't like playing the part of the gunslinger. Didn't have the stomach for it, after Iraq. Or the leg.

The anorexic heaved Webb's rucksack over a shoulder, then stooped to pick up his own backpack on the ground in front of him.

Dylan picked that moment to act, pointing the .357 and firing at Biker Beard without pulling the revolver from his pocket. A crack lapped at the air, carried away instantly by the wind. White down exploded from Dylan's jacket, and Biker Beard staggered.

As he stepped backward, Dylan saw the muzzle of Biker Beard's pistol emit a bright flash, followed by a hollow
thunk
; he tripped the hammer on his revolver again, punching another round into Bearded Guy and knocking him to his knees. Quickly he spun and aimed at Anorexic Guy, who was trying to dig into his backpack for something, and squeezed the trigger again. Anorexic Guy fell and went still.

Biker Beard was still on his knees, running his hands over his chest as he crouched in the snow, an unformed question on his lips, a look on his face that said the preceding events hadn't happened as he'd planned.

Dylan knew how that went.

“You hit?” Dylan called to Webb, watching as Biker Beard finally slumped to his side in the snow.

“I . . . yeah. I think so.”

Dylan glanced at Webb, who was cradling his right arm. A bright bloom of blood appeared at the shoulder, turning a spot of Webb's blue coat a wet purple.

“Okay. Just kick that guy's gun away—don't pick it up, but kick it away.”

Webb did as instructed, holding his injured arm against his chest, then looked at Dylan again, waiting for new instructions. Evidently Webb wasn't much into talking after being shot.

“Go back to the truck,” Dylan instructed.

“What about the money?”

Surprise, surprise
, Joni's voice said.
Guy gets shot, he's still worried about the money
.

But the question was still there: what about the money? There really wasn't a right answer; he knew this scenario was going to be bad news for him and Webb—even if Webb didn't bleed to death—whatever he did. He could leave the money, walk away, and pretend this never happened. Trouble was, border patrol or drug runners or Indians from the Fort Belknap Reservation would likely stumble on the money and drugs . . . and none of them would just leave it sitting there. Krunk wouldn't likely buy the story if he said they left everything, because Krunk would always be convinced that Dylan himself had hinked the deal. What was that old line?

There's no honor among thieves
, Joni's voice said.

Or among drug mules
, he answered.

No, the better option was to take the cash and drugs.

“You just get in the truck,” he finally said. “I'll take care of it.” He took two steps forward, struggling as his left leg threatened to give, and pushed Anorexic Guy's motionless body off the backpack.

Told you this was a stupid idea
.

“Well, Joni,” he said aloud, “I'm a magnet for stupid ideas.”

4

After the IED in Iraq, after the months of rehab and pain, after dozens of therapy sessions talking about PTSD and feelings of helplessness, Dylan discovered the old saying was true: you can't go home again.

They cut him loose from the VA hospital in Sheridan, even booked him a flight home to Billings. He'd expected a car ride, maybe even a bus ticket, since he was only a few hours away from Billings, so the flight was something of a surprise. Just one of the many benefits of having your leg mangled in Iraq.

He hadn't spoken to his parents, hadn't spoken to anyone on the Crow rez, really, since . . . since Joni. Hadn't even spoken to the therapist about Joni, even though she'd asked him several times. Joni was off-limits to the outside world; the only place he could discuss her was inside his own mind. That was the one place, at least, he could still control. The outside world was filled with too many people wanting to help and diagnose and absolve you of your regret and guilt.

But he needed to carry his regret and guilt; no one else could carry it for him.

The VA hospital had wanted to inform his family of his discharges: his honorable discharge from the army as a wounded vet, and then, months later, his unceremonious discharge from VA care at the hospital. But he wouldn't allow it. How could he? Your family and your heritage were vital components of your very essence as an Apsáalooke; by forsaking Joni, he'd forsaken a part of who he was. How could he expect his parents, his friends, his fellow members of the proud Greasy Grass Clan, to accept his failures when he himself could not?

The army had given him a sense of belonging he'd lost on the rez. It had even connected him, in some ways, with his heritage. As part of the army, he'd become a proud Apsáalooke warrior, one of many dating back generations among the Crow people. On the rez, people still told the stories of Apsáalooke conquests, of Apsáalooke traditions and creation stories and honors. Most people on the Crow rez could even speak the Crow language, keeping the ancient and honored ways alive. Dylan had heard these stories so many times they'd become an ingrained part of who he was.

At the same time, explosive ordnance disposal had been the perfect spot in the army for him. Finding and neutralizing IEDs, ammo stockpiles, and suspicious packages demanded precision and detail, traits that were also an ingrained part of who he was. His mind thrived on patterns, something he had been comfortable discussing with his therapist. She told him his mild compulsions—counting, grouping objects, even splitting anything in his field of vision into equal sections and shapes—were healthy ways of dealing with stress and disorder. Provided they didn't take over his every waking thought.

Of course, he hadn't told her about Joni. Or the kill box. He was pretty sure those didn't fit under the “healthy way of dealing with stress” label.

EOD was also perfect because it demanded secrecy and separation. In Iraq there were too few EODs to go around, which was why his company was much smaller than most at thirty soldiers, and why his squad was only three. Insurgent groups in Iraq had promised a $50,000 bounty for any EOD tech killed, and so entire EOD companies had been forced to live apart from other troops in their own workshops, interacting only among themselves and cutting off all contact with the outside world.

In a way that mirrored what Dylan had done since losing Joni. He'd cut himself off from his family, from the clan to which he belonged, from friends and all he knew. Enlisting in the army, becoming an EOD, embarking on a tour of Iraq . . . those were all efforts at a personal penance, and nothing anyone outside could hope to understand.

All of those feelings had coursed through his body as his flight landed at Billings Logan airport. Even today, the Apsáalooke people welcomed back their sons and daughters from the battlefield with smudging ceremonies in the airport itself, an honoring of their warrior tradition. For that to happen, though, they had to know a son or daughter was coming home. And the son or daughter returning had to be worth honoring.

Dylan had done a fair job of making sure neither of those applied to him.

He waited for all the other passengers to clear the plane before he ventured into the narrow aisle himself, propping his still-healing leg on a cane and making his way first to the Jetway, then to the interior of the airport itself. He moved slowly up the ramps toward the baggage claim area and paused at the top of the escalator that would take him to the main floor. Below him, dozens of people were welcoming friends and family, returning home from business trips or vacations or adventures.

But no one had been there to welcome Dylan Runs Ahead. Just as it should be.

5

Twenty minutes after shooting two Canadian drug runners, Dylan pulled off the rutted tracks that looked like scars in the frozen earth and back onto State Route 338. He headed south toward Harlem and the Fort Belknap Reservation. From this exact point, he knew, they were 47.6 miles from the town of Harlem; he'd checked the odometer earlier.

Dylan looked at Webb, who hadn't spoken since they got back in the truck. The scent of blood filled the cab. “Can you move your arm?”

Webb turned his face toward Dylan. It looked as if he were having a hard time focusing his eyes. “Huh?”

“Your shoulder. Can you move your arm?”

“No. I mean . . . it hurts.”

“ 'Course it hurts. You just got shot.”

He really needed to get them out of there, put as many miles as he could between the two dead Canucks and themselves. But he also needed to see Webb's injury. Dylan pulled the truck to the side of the road, unbuckled, walked to the passenger side, and opened Webb's door. “Pull your good arm out of your coat,” he said.

Webb did as he was told, wincing in pain as Dylan helped him.

“Okay,” Dylan said. “I'm gonna pull your right arm out of the jacket now. It's gonna hurt like a mother, but we're gonna see if it's just a meat wound or something worse.”

“Something worse?”

“Like a broken bone.”

“How will you know?”

“If you scream, it's a meat wound. If you scream and pass out from the pain, it's worse.”

Webb took a few deep breaths, exhaled forcefully, skipped the effort to come up with a good comeback. “Okay,” he said.