False Witness (30 page)

“Use the back door, where you parked,” said Crowe.

“All right. Thanks. So, what do we do next?” he asked.

“We? There’s no we.”

“After what I just did for you? We’re in this together now. The three of us.”

Crowe thought about it for a moment. None of the Roses had been here during the attack. Combine that with the fact someone in the know had tipped off Tom Ferbey’s killers about the contents of the storage unit, and suddenly he couldn’t trust any of them, except for one, and that one wasn’t here. Beggars couldn’t be choosers at this point.

“All right,” said Crowe. “If you two are in for this, you better pack a bag.”

“Why? The cops just told us not to leave town.”

“Do you want the truth, or do you want to be a good little do-bee and stay here with the cops?”

Sam frowned and chewed it over for a moment as Tess joined them. “What’s going on?” she asked, clearly disturbed by the looks on their faces.

“Crowe wants us to go somewhere with him.”

“But the police –”

“Yeah, they want you in town,” said Crowe. “You need to decide right now if you’re in or out.”

Tess glanced at Sam. “You know I’m in,” he said. “I have to see this through.”

She sighed and ran a hand through her auburn hair, wild and knotted by the experience they had all just endured. “Fuck it, why not? There’s no way I’m letting you hog the glory on this one.”

Crowe couldn’t help but admire their moxie. He was a highly trained, highly paid veteran of this sort of shit; they were reporters, probably lucky if they made sixty grand a year. He hoped he could keep them safe, the way he couldn’t with Diane Manning. He hadn’t been in love with her – far from it – and she had more than her share of flaws. But who didn’t? And no matter what kind of woman she was, she didn’t deserve to go out like that.

“Where and when are we going?” Sam asked.

“Sorry, but I’ve gotta keep that to myself for now.”

Tess frowned. “You still don’t trust us? Even after all this?”

“I only trust two people, and neither of them are you.”

“Why should we trust
you
?”

“I just saved your asses from a hit squad, that’s why.”

Sam and Tess looked at each other. “He’s got a point,” said Sam.

“Pack a bag and meet me at Anderson Station tomorrow at six a.m. sharp. I’ll be driving a silver Yukon. Take a cab; I don’t want that piece of shit you drive sitting in the parking lot like a big, blue neon sign for the cops.”

Sam looked like he was going to say something but then thought better of it. “All right,” he said. “We’ll be there.”

The reporters took one last glance around the Rosebush and then left. Crowe stayed until the gaggle of cops finally began to dissipate a couple hours later. Finally alone, he surveyed the damage to the Rosebush himself. Twenty-nine rounds, twenty-nine holes. He looked at each hole closely. About half were on a slight downward angle. The rest were flush on. One shooter was taller than the other. Most of the holes were in small groupings of two or three. Crowe nodded to himself, satisfied that his hunch was right. The shooters weren’t Aryans. He was certain of two things: first, whoever had attacked the Rosebush tonight were the same people that had stolen Wild Roses property and murdered Tom Ferbey. Second, he needed to make two phone calls.

#

The sun was dropping below the Rockies as Sam drove Tess home. Neither of them spoke for several minutes; instead, they just sat and listened to the chug and wheeze of Blue Thunder’s ancient engine.

Finally, he glanced over at her. She was still gorgeous despite the wild hair, disheveled clothes, and shell-shocked look. “Hell of a day,” he said.

She turned to him, eyes wide. “Did you just say ‘hell of a day’ to me?”

Sam looked back at the road, abashed. “I couldn’t think of anything else to say.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Hell of a day,” she said. Then she surprised both of them by cracking up into peals of laughter. Sam quickly joined her. It was borderline hysterical, he knew, but it felt good, like finally being able to take a sharp rock out of your shoe.

They laughed for a full minute before settling into a more companionable silence. Finally, Tess said: “Are we crazy?”

Sam shrugged. “Probably.”

“I mean, people
shot
at us tonight. Someone
died
, right in front of us.”

“I know. I was there.”

“So why are we going home to pack for a trip with a guy who might be a homicidal maniac? Why aren’t we heading straight for the nearest bar and getting blind, stinking drunk?”

“You know Crowe isn’t a maniac.”

“All right, but still. Why are we sober?”

Sam’s brows came together in thought. “I think because I don’t want to lose this feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“You know. Like we just did something amazing.”

Tess blinked. “Amazing?”

“Or something like that. Something that isn’t just watching things from the sidelines. Something that isn’t listening to people with agendas drone on about shit no one cares about. Something that mattered.” He glanced at her expression. “Does that make any sense?”

“It probably wouldn’t to anyone else,” she said. “But I guess it does to me.”

“So we’re in this together?”

“To the bitter end, Bernstein.”

Sam snapped his fingers. “That reminds me. I need to make a call.” He pulled the phone out of his pocket and hit a contact name.

“Watch the road, asshole,” Tess chided.

“I am.” The phone rang once, twice, three times. Finally he heard the electronic click that was the universal signal that a human being was not on the other end of the line.

“You have reached Constable Darcy Flowers of the Calgary Police Service. I will be away from the office on vacation until the end of the month. If you would like to leave a message, please wait for the tone, and I will return your call when I am back in the office. Thank you and have a nice day.”

“Fuck your nice day,” Sam said after the beep. “Darcy, it’s Sam. Look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about how we left things that last time. I could really use your help on something. I’m headed out of town tomorrow morning, I don’t know where just yet, but I think I’m on to something big. Anyway, if you don’t hear back from me in the next several days, it might mean something has happened to me. I know that sounds crazy, but this kind of
is
crazy. So, give me a call if you get this message, unless you’re off in Hawaii or something. Or, you know, avenge my death if it comes to that. Hasta la vista, Goliath.”

Tess gave him a quizzical look. “Who did you call?”

“Just a source in the police department. He’s not a friend, exactly, but we respect each other. And I think I can count on him if we really need him.”

“He’d help you after you talked to him like that?”

“It’s a thing with us.”

Tess shook her head. “Fucking men.”

A few moments later, her cell phone rang. She took it out and saw the caller ID. “Shit,” she muttered. “It’s Shippy.”

Sam slapped the steering wheel. “How the hell could he know already? The news won’t be on for another two hours!”

“You’re not the only one with police contacts, you know.” She looked at the phone again. “Should I answer it?”

“You’re joking, right? What are you going to tell him? ‘Hey, Ship, just working on a story that’ll help get Rufus Hodge out of prison. Oh, and Diane Manning died right in front of us. Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, right?’”

“We’ll have to talk to him
sometime
.”

“Sometime is after we get this thing figured out. I’d rather beg forgiveness than ask for permission. Besides, we’re both officially on vacation. What we do is none of Shippy’s business.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” she said. “Maybe eventually you’ll believe it.”

They reached Tess’s condo, a low-rise in the southwest with a decent view of the foothills, a few minutes later. Sam got out and helped her down, holding her elbows. With her feet on the ground, it was almost an embrace. She looked at him with those green eyes for a long moment. For the first time, he let himself think about the fact he could have lost her today. It wasn’t pleasant.

“Tomorrow morning, then,” she said.

Sam let go of her, startled. “Yeah,” he said. “Tomorrow. I’ll get the cab and pick you up. You’re closer to Anderson; I’m farther north.”

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“Let’s just say it’s the kind of neighborhood where Blue Thunder feels right at home.”

She smiled. He smiled back.

“Hell of a day,” she said.

Sam chuckled softly. “Hell of a day.”

He watched her walk toward the lobby door, keeping her in sight until she disappeared into the elevator. He had to know she was safe. He was beginning to think he might need to know that for the rest of his life.

#

Blue Thunder chugged to a halt in front of Sam’s house in the northwest fifteen minutes later. His landlord, a hard-drinking handyman in his sixties who owned the place and lived downstairs, sat on the darkened ramshackle porch like a fading southern colonel. He was wearing a white undershirt and his trademark pushbroom moustache. Even in the dark, Sam could see the pit stain as the man raised his glass to him.

“Sammy!” the old man croaked. “What’s happenin, kiddo?”

Sam sat down on the porch’s railing. It creaked ominously under his weight in the darkness. “Nothing much, Ray,” he said. “Got shot at by some guys, shot at some guys. Got caught up with the leader of a gang of organized criminals. Same old shit.”

“Attaboy,” Ray slurred. “Give em hell. Wanna drink?” He waggled a bottle of bourbon.

Sam took the bottle and drank deeply. Ray peered at him through red-rimmed eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I think I am,” he said. It must have been payday; Ray had splurged on Jack Daniels, instead of the cheaper hooch he bought the rest of the week. Sam luxuriated in the burn as the booze flowed down his gullet, the bloom of fuzziness in his head as it hit his bloodstream.

Ray took the bottle back and refilled his own glass. “Hey, your’n vacayshun, ain’tcha?

Sam smiled. “I sure am. Heading out first thing in the morning.”

“Attaboy. Young fella like you, gotta see the world. Have an avenshure. Don’t wait till yer an old fuck like me. Then you don’t do nuthin.”

Sam patted him on the shoulder as he turned to climb the rickety outside stairs to his second-floor apartment. “You’re not an old fuck, Ray,” he said gently. “You’re in the prime of your life. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

“Ah, yer a good boy,” Ray said, knocking back half his glass. “You have a good trip, y’hear?”

“I hope to, Ray,” Sam called down the stair. “I definitely hope to.”

The band turned out to do more than rockabilly. The Kokanee Bottles played a few east coast jigs, a couple of Beatles dance tunes (including Angie’s favorite, Twist and Shout) and even a rendition of that hoary Johnny Cash staple, Ring of Fire.

The beach was decked out like a summer patio: the boardwalk was lined with plastic lanterns, folding chairs, and collapsible tables, each of which was covered in white plastic cups. The beach itself was the dance floor, and the home of the Kokanee Bottles’ makeshift stage. Drinks were simple: beer from a keg, highballs from the bar. If you wanted wine, you had your choice of red or white. Anything more complicated than a screwdriver, you were encouraged to go elsewhere.

Alex and Angie danced the entire first set away, barefoot, beers in hand, until they finally collapsed at their table when the band took a break around ten o’clock. Dozens of fellow revelers surrounded them on the beach, kicking up sand and letting off steam. Alex couldn’t remember when he’d had a better time.

Angie snuggled close to him, stroking his leg under the table with her foot. The patio lanterns cast soft shadows on her face and hair, making her look ethereal and other-worldly. “How’s your drink?”

He peered into his cup. “Non-existent,” he said, an air of suspicion in his voice.

“Mine, too,” she said. “It’s a conspiracy. I’ll go get us some more.”

They drank and danced the rest of the night away. Around midnight, the Kokanee Bottles finished their encore, and the crowd started to break up and stumble their way back to their cabins, or condos, or motels, or trailers. Alex wasn’t at all tired yet, and he talked Angie into a moonlight stroll on the beach. A few other stragglers wandered past them as they ambled along in silence, fingers intertwined. Their feet left shallow footprints in the fine, silty sand, kicking up clouds of dust with every step.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Angie.”

“I was just thinking about how dirty this sand is making my feet,” he said. “I think I might need another shower.”

She giggled and planted a long, wet kiss on his mouth. They necked for awhile, until Angie finally broke the connection. She stared at him with a look Alex couldn’t read in the moonlight. She seemed confused.

“I didn’t expect this,” she said. Her voice was low and sounded on the verge of tears. “I mean, when I came here. To Lost Lake. I was supposed to be here just to work. I didn’t expect
you
.”

He held her close again, arms wrapped around her waist. “I didn’t expect you, either,” he whispered in her ear, ignoring the guilt that always threatened to well up in his belly when he thought about The Story and how all this might end. “But these days, I thank God for surprises.”

“
Oooooooo
,” came a sound from behind them. Alex turned to see a handful of young men, probably college age, following them. One of them, a muscular blond in a tight tank shirt, seemed to be the one catcalling.

Well, that’s what I get for bringing God into this
, Alex thought, annoyed.
Thanks for the surprise, big guy
.

He kept one arm around Angie’s waist as she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “How you guys doing tonight?” Alex called, sporting a grin he definitely didn’t feel.

“We’re fucking
awesome
, man,” the blonde replied. Alex could tell the kid was high. On what? Coke? Meth? He could only assume the others were, too.
Great
.