Authors: Dianne Emley
Once she had cleared the building, deputies swarmed her, roughly forcing her facedown on the ground, twisting her arms behind her, and snapping on handcuffs.
The paramedics moved in but Vining and Kissick got to Crowley first.
“Are you Bowie Crowley?” Kissick asked.
He was struggling to breathe but lucid. Grimacing, he rasped, “Yes.”
Vining crouched beside him. She saw that buckshot had peppered his torso. “What are you doing here? What’s your business with Jack Jenkins?”
“Officers, could you please …?” The EMTs were trying to do their work.
Crowley managed to croak, “Old business.”
As the deputies walked Connie past in handcuffs, she kicked loose pebbles in Crowley’s direction, hitting Vining as well.
“Hey! Cool it, Grandma,” Vining snapped.
Connie muttered, “Asshole,” as they hauled her off.
Vining persisted, leaning closer to Crowley. “Do you know who murdered Oliver Mercer and Lauren Richards?”
“Officer, please.” An EMT forced himself between Crowley and Vining. “You can talk to him later.”
Crowley’s eyes fluttered closed as he passed out.
Vining straightened to see one of the sheriffs’ vehicles peel out and head toward the mountains. She ran toward the truck as Kissick turned it around, the tires skidding.
THIRTY-EIGHT
G
oing at
high speed through the small town, they quickly reached a crossroads. Kissick rolled down his window to confer with the deputies. They would take off in opposite directions, the deputies going left and Kissick and Vining to the right.
Kissick gave them his cell phone number. “But the reception is flaky.”
One of the deputies looked at his own cell phone. “Shows good reception here. We’ve got more units en route and we’ve requested a helicopter. We’ll get your bad guy.”
They parted.
Before long, Vining and Kissick seemed to leave the desert behind, passing expansive fields planted with bell peppers and alfalfa. Cows grazed. Sprinklers released great fans of water.
They drove with the windows down but did not hear the big motorcycle’s engine.
Vining ran her hand over her sweaty face. “Jenkins is gone. He knows these roads. We’ll never find him.”
“I need some water.”
Vining grabbed the liter bottle and opened it for him.
They passed a group of men at the side of the road unloading hay from a truck.
“Stop,” Vining said. “Let’s ask those guys if they saw anything.”
Kissick threw the truck into reverse and backed up to where the men were working. Vining rolled down the window and called out to them. She did not identify herself.
They didn’t know much English. Vining and Kissick had a rudimentary command of Spanish. Between them, they managed to communicate. Minutes ago, the men had seen a big motorcycle traveling at high speed. They’d swerved to avoid it when exiting a side road as the cyclist turned onto it.
Kissick again took off, making a sharp left onto the road the farmworkers had indicated, a gravel ribbon cutting across the fields, stretching for miles. They bounced along the uneven road at high speed. Bales of hay piled twelve feet high were stacked along the sides, periodically blocking their view.
Vining struggled to hold her binoculars steady. She peered at a large barn set back in a field where workers were moving equipment. The men were busy finishing the day’s labor before the sun turned brutal.
“Something in the road up ahead,” Kissick said, not decreasing his speed as they closed in on the obstruction.
In the distance, Vining zeroed in on a flatbed truck loaded with hay that was partially blocking the road. Men were gathered around. Dozens of bales of hay had spilled onto the ground.
Her view was obliterated when the road disappeared behind a low rise. When they surfaced, they saw men hoisting a fallen motorcycle. In the middle of the dungaree-clad Latino farmworkers, Jenkins stood out with his platinum hair, sparkly striped shirt, and white pants. He was bent over, his hand braced against the truck as he examined his leg.
Through the binoculars, Vining could see blood on his pants. “Jenkins took a tumble.”
Kissick stepped on the accelerator. Vining nearly dropped the binoculars when he hit an incline and landed heavily. When she again got Jenkins in view, he was already astride the bike, scattering the farmworkers as he took off.
Kissick laid on the truck’s horn as he bore down on the scene. Men dove out of the way as he steered the truck in a broad arc around the activity, cutting across rows of bell peppers. The ripe orbs crunched crisply beneath the tires, filling the air with a sharp, sweet aroma.
They got back onto the road in time to see Jenkins nearly topple the bike again as he made a hard left onto the frontage road that followed the Coachella Canal, which was flowing with Colorado River water.
Kissick and Vining made the turn, sending the truck rising onto the berm that bordered the canal, plowing through thick bunches of rushes and cattails.
The motorcycle kicked up gravel and dust as it stayed ahead of the truck, yet it was losing its substantial lead.
“He’s slowing down,” Kissick said with disbelief.
Vining pulled the shotgun from behind the seats as Kissick closed the distance between them and Jenkins. She racked in a shell and took aim. Jenkins surprised them by making an abrupt right onto a narrow bridge that crossed the canal. The bridge was nearly hidden by the tall marsh plants. The bike fishtailed, but Jenkins recovered and kept going.
Kissick sailed past the bridge, losing sight of Jenkins.
“Son of a bitch.” Kissick slammed on the brakes and turned around. The truck’s big tires chewed up alfalfa when he went off the road. They cleared the bridge but didn’t see Jenkins.
After traveling a hundred yards on an improved road, they left the nourishing canal water behind for the commanding
desert. Jenkins was ahead of them, steering the bike down a dry riverbed, heading toward the craggy Chocolate Mountains.
The rocky terrain caused the motorcycle more problems than the truck, and Kissick soon gained on Jenkins.
Vining wore a seat belt but held on to the top of the open passenger’s window with one hand and steadied the other against the dashboard. The shotgun was on the floor.
Jenkins risked glancing back at them and fired a volley over his shoulder, a mistake because he then had to swerve violently to avoid a Joshua tree. His rear wheel slid and he slashed across the sandy dirt but didn’t go down.
Bullets breezed past the truck.
Kissick got closer. Jenkins was in range. Vining again drew a bead on him with the shotgun, but her shot missed when Kissick veered to dodge a boulder. The blast reverberated through the mountains.
Jenkins climbed the side of the riverbed and headed toward a forest of boulders, where the motorcycle would have the advantage.
Gripping the steering wheel tightly between both hands, Kissick darted the truck back and forth, forced to circle narrow passages that the motorcycle slipped through. They again lost sight of Jenkins. The truck soared over a low hill and the suspension responded brutally on landing. The seat belts engaged and seized them so tightly they could barely breathe. The root beer bottles behind the seat shattered.
They hit another ridge and sailed over. The raised front end of the truck blocked their view of the ground and Kissick was powerless to steer. When the truck leveled again on the way down, Vining yelled at the sight of the fallen motorcycle directly in their path. Airborne,
Kissick could do nothing until they hit the ground. The truck bounced down, rattling their teeth and landing on top of the bike. The air bags deployed. The truck and bike skidded across the sand. Kissick turned in to the skid, the tires kicking up a cloud of sand and rocks, dragging the bike. They finally landed in a small ravine. The truck listed to the left side, its tires deflated, the motorcycle beneath it. The engine stalled.
Stunned, Vining and Kissick blinked at each other.
Kissick smashed the deflating air bag. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay.” Vining punched her air bag out of the way. “Did we hit Jenkins?”
A volley of gunfire answered her question. Bullets hit the truck through the sand and dirt which was still settling. A web of cracks crossed the windshield but it didn’t break. The bullets came within inches of them as they dove for cover on the truck’s floor. Kissick was impeded by the steering wheel.
There was silence.
Crouched beneath the dashboard, Vining rose to draw her Glock from her belt holster. “Got any ideas, Batman?”
He cautiously raised his head to look out the windshield. A bullet sailed through the glass and embedded itself in the passenger seat.
“I think he’s hiding in those boulders,” Kissick said. “Cover me while I take another look.”
“Look up on three.” She grasped the door handle. “One, two … three.” She thrust the door open, remaining squeezed on the floor. The door would only open halfway, impeded by the rise of the ravine in which they’d landed.
While bullets hit the truck’s passenger side, Kissick looked around, then ducked again.
“There’s a low hill about fifty yards away. If I can get around it I can come up behind him. If you cover me I can reach it.”
“That’s far to run in the open.”
“I’m fast.”
“You’re not faster than a speeding bullet.” “So I’m just Batman, not Superman. You have a better idea?”
“Just staying alive while that asshole is shooting at us. Where’s the cavalry anyway?” She pulled out her cell phone and laughed joylessly. “No service.”
He picked up the water bottle and took a drink. “I think I ate a pound of sand.”
She looked at the remaining water. “Hope we don’t have to worry about running out of water. It’s hotter than hell already.”
“This isn’t going to go on all day. The sheriffs should have their copter up by now.”
She checked her watch. “You’d think so. Hopefully in all the chaos of their crime scene back at Jenkins’s store, they’ve noticed that we’re missing.”
He rubbed his back, where he was bent double. “I’ve got to stretch or I’m going to be a cripple.”
She leaned to look out the open passenger door. “This ditch we’re in gives cover on this side. Slide out.”
Bullets hit the truck’s left front quarter panel.
“We know you’re out there, asshole,” Vining shouted.
“I’m gonna kill you cops,” Jenkins yelled in return.
“All work, no play,” Vining retorted, reciting the bloody message on Oliver Mercer’s wall. When Jenkins didn’t respond, she tried again. “All work, no play, Jack. Sound familiar?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jenkins said in a snide singsong.
“Cagey ex-con.” Kissick unhinged his legs and slid
past her on his back, dropping his feet onto the ground with a long, “Ahhh …”
“Wait. Make sure there aren’t any snakes.”
He retracted his legs. “Oh, shit. Snakes.”
She giggled, knowing he hated snakes.
“She laughs. There’s gotta be rattlesnakes all over the place.”
“Stay there.” She clambered from her own tight hiding space on the floor beneath him, stuck out her head, and looked beneath the truck. “There aren’t any rocks here for snakes to hide under. I smell gasoline, though.”
“Me too. That’s not good. Probably crushed the motorcycle’s tank.”
She pulled herself the rest of the way out. On her knees in the packed sand, she aimed her gun in the opening between the door and the windshield. She saw movement and fired. “You think you’re going to sneak away from me, you crazy bastard?”
Kissick reached inside his duffel bag and grabbed extra gun magazines. He handed one to her and shoved one into his pants pocket before sitting on the ridge beside her. “Wonder how many rounds Jenkins has in that banana clip.”
“Could be a lot.” She again fired toward the boulders, sending up rock shards where the bullets hit.
They both ducked Jenkins’s return volley from the AK-47.
Kissick looked at his watch. “Sergeant Early has gotta be wondering why we haven’t checked in.”
“She’ll raise hell and drive here herself if she has to.”
“Ask Jenkins about him and Crowley.”
She yelled, “Hey Jack, what’s up between you and Crowley?”
“Fuck you.”
“Did you know each other in Quentin?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Bowie wasn’t hurt bad, Jack,” she shouted. “He’s probably already told the sheriffs everything.”
“He lies.”
Vining cocked her head. “Oh-kay.”
Kissick frowned as he sniffed the air. “Gasoline smells stronger.” He dropped to his hands and knees and looked beneath the truck, aided by the way it was tilted. “The truck’s gas tank is busted. Gas is running out. That tank was nearly full.”
“I hope Jenkins can’t smell it. He was smoking a cigarette by the mini-mart. He might have a match or a lighter on him.”
“I doubt he can smell it from over there,” Kissick said. “I’m more worried about these vapors. We’re firing guns. Could ignite.”
They looked at each other.
She said, “We’ve gotta get out of here. No part of this scenario has a happy ending.” He saw the stress in her face. “Let me take over.”
They traded places.
She sat on the ground and rubbed the back of her neck. “We need to chase Jenkins out into the open.” She rested her head in one palm, supporting her elbow against her knee as she considered their options. “Wait a minute.…”
She rose and crept inside the truck, keeping away from the windshield. She reached behind the seats.
“Careful, Nan. There’s broken glass back there.”
Her lips spread in a grin as she retracted her hand. In it she held a full bottle of root beer. “One bottle didn’t break. We can make a Molotov cocktail.”
He glanced from the boulders to her. “A Molotov cocktail? Talk about blowing ourselves up.”
She opened the root beer, took a drink, and handed it
to him to finish. “Weren’t you on a champion high school baseball team?”
“We were state semifinalists. I played left field.”
“I’ll cover you. You run clear of the truck and throw the bottle at the rocks where Jenkins is hiding. It’ll explode, he’ll run out, and we’ll nail him.”