The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volumes 1-4 (115 page)

“Toy Diaz’s account numbers.”

“Yep.” I took the final step, William watching as I stood at the trail. He turned the bay toward the stone stairs and retainer wall where I could look him in the eye. “I’m not sure if Mr. Diaz is around, but I wouldn’t be surprised. We need to get you out of here.”

“I’m the safest I could be, here.”

“No, you’re not.” I looked around, acutely aware that we were not out of the proverbial woods. “I think they’ve been all over this park looking for you. I think the sooner we join my friends at the bottom of the hill the better.” I stepped back to block him from taking the trail behind us and gestured to the path below. I stepped around the bay and looked up at him. “I’ll go first; just in case.” I cleared the .45 from the poncho and looked ahead, where I hoped, if there was trouble, was the direction from which it would come.

We zigged the first part and had just begun our zag when I thought I saw movement at the next curve. I stopped and studied the shadows of the trees in the black of the rain-soaked ravine, raised my arm, and stopped the horse on the rounded stones of the trail. “Whoa…” The bay halted and let out with a sigh that pressed hot breath on the exposed back of my neck.

I had just about convinced myself that it was nothing when I thought I heard a sound like something moving. It was not discernable, just a sound that sounded different from the rest. I waited and then motioned for William to stay put.

I eased down the path with the big Colt pointed in the direction of the movement and sound. Henry wouldn’t have left his position at the base of the hill, and the police were all stationed at the vehicle entrances of Wissahickon Park.

I slipped a little on one of the larger rocks and caught myself before I landed on my ass or shot myself in the foot. I waited and then carefully approached what still looked like a tree. It was a tree.

I shrugged and turned back, walking with the .45 to my side. There was no reason for me to climb the hill again, so I motioned for William to come down. He nudged the horse in response, and we were lucky he did, because that’s when the first series of shots ripped through the woods like the tearing of the muscles in your chest.

The muzzle flash came from the trees above. Toy Diaz must have followed us. He made the mistake most civilians make with an automatic weapon—his shots were high and climbed—and, once again, if William White Eyes didn’t know what to do, the bay did; it ran like hell and straight toward me.

I threw myself to the right and landed against one of the retainer walls as the bay passed me, with William unhurt and holding on to the horse’s mane and riding low against his withers. Another volley from the automatic dotted an unconnected blaze after him, kicking rock shards and sparks as it went. I rolled up on one shoulder and fired four rounds into the darkness behind us. There were no answering shots.

Nothing.

I stood and listened and hoped that William and his horse had arrived at the bottom where Henry could corral them. I kept the .45 pointed up the hill and hustled into the type of situation I despised.

I ran up the path to the spot where I thought the shooter must have been. There were shell casings scattered across the trail and a muddy slick where someone had slipped and fallen. There was a dark liquid on the rocks. I smeared it with my hand and held it to my nose: blood.

I looked up and down, still seeing nothing. I was at the end of a turn and I couldn’t see to the next segment of the trail through the foliage, but I knew it was there. Taking the direct route was a calculated risk, but the only hope I had was to cut the distance to William White Eyes before Diaz cut that same distance. I thundered over the hill and threw my arms up to block at least some of the branches from blinding me as I went, half-running, half-falling with all my momentum. I was top-heavy and could feel the weight of my upper body and arms pulling me forward so I flipped the safety back on the Colt before I toppled onto the path below.

I struggled to my side, lifted up on one arm, and watched as a dark figure turned the corner ahead of me and disappeared. I could hear the clatter of horse’s hooves on the trail below; I was still a distant third.

I heaved myself up and stumbled forward in another straight-line attempt at interception, feeling as if I’d run the gauntlet of tribal initiation. I finally gave up on protecting my face and pummeled my way forward like some refrigerator catapulting its way down the hillside after being thrown from above. I raised my head but couldn’t see anything.

The sounds of the chase were still below me. The cutback was not as lengthy this time, and I was able to arrive at the ditch alongside the main trail as Henry charged from the rock-walled path to the left; he was on one of the paints and was holding the reins of the bigger of the two horses for me.

“Where are they?!”

“They did not come this way.” He wheeled his horse toward the bridge farther down the hill. Mine balked and crow-hopped toward Henry as I holstered the .45 and attempted to get a hand on the horn, but the Bear held the leather straps steady as I mounted.

In the best of situations, I am only a competent horseman and, after being beaten half to death by every tree in eastern Pennsylvania, I was lucky I even knew which way to face. Henry was already gone, and I felt the lurch of gathered horse muscles as the big mare shot from under me and surged toward the arch of the stone bridge. I grasped my hands around the leads and bounced forward, almost coming unseated at the first strike of her gallop. She was very fast, and she seemed to know where we were going. I assumed she would follow Henry, and the only thing I needed to do was remain neutral and allow her to take us where we needed to go.

Hi-yo, Creampuff.

The trail split in two directions on the other side of the bridge; the Bear had reined in his mount and was standing in the stirrups; he looked west and then east as my paint slid to a stop alongside him. I settled my rear into the seat and tucked my heels down for a better ride. “Well, hell…”

He actually smiled as he turned his paint to the left, and they blew down the incline to the east, easy in the saddle and melding together in a rhythm of man and horse. Creampuff started to follow him, but I wrapped the reins and veered her to the right. I broke west and thundered down the ramp to Forbidden Drive as the rain continued to pummel me. The big paint’s gallop was steady and, after I got centered, I could see further down the trail to the periodic illumination of the dusk-to-dawn lamps, which were momentarily faked to darkness by the flashes of lightning.

I dug in my heels and allowed the mare to have her head; in an instant I was around the far turn. I heard the terrible sound of the automatic again, like fibers being torn in cloth.

I could feel Creampuff reaching out and grabbing the rough surface of the path and throwing it behind us. I leaned with her and missed a sign by inches, almost spilling the two of us on the rain-slick trail. Just around the corner, I could see that something was down and that Toy Diaz was warily approaching it. It was a horse, kicking and screaming in the pathway, with William White Eyes trapped underneath.

The drug dealer could not catch a galloping horse, but the 9 mm had.

The fickle streetlights chose that moment to burst into full illumination, and there was a sharpness to the edges of everything, a glistening, as Diaz stood to the side of the fallen horse, careful to stay clear of its kicking legs. My paint’s mean streak and mine kicked in in a last-second attempt to save William’s life, and I felt the surge as Diaz lifted his arm.

It’s possible that he was so concentrated on the action that he didn’t hear me or that the echo of thunder in the ravine had deafened us all. Either way, by the time he heard us, it was too late. The big paint didn’t slow; she didn’t veer or misdirect her momentum. She simply ran right over Toy Diaz.

He must have pulled the trigger on impact, but the rounds flailed emptily into the hillside to the left. There was a momentary muffling of the horse’s hooves, and her balance shifted just a little as I reined in and veered from the injured horse lying on the gravel.

I thought I would come unseated when the paint reared and pivoted to the left. She stiffened her legs and backed away from the smell of blood and the screaming of the other horse. She wanted nothing to do with the scene in front of us and backed away into the trees along the creek bank.

She reared again, and this time I wasn’t as lucky. I fell against the saplings that lined the Wissahickon as she went over backward, slipping on the wet gravel and falling to the side. I clawed my way to the left as she slid right and rolled. We both made it to the flat area of the trail at the same time, whereupon she turned left and disappeared away from the vehicle approaching from the direction we’d been heading, its revolving yellow emergencies strobe-lighting the shiny surface of the pebbled path.

I pulled the .45 from the small of my back and clicked off the safety.

Diaz had been thrown to the side of the trail; he still lay there, face down and unmoving. The shoebox-shaped automatic was there as well, where the horse and I had struck him, far out of reach even for a whole man.

I approached carefully with the Colt pointed at his head. He didn’t move, so I knelt beside him, and placed my fingers along his wrist. There was a pulse.

His clothes were soaked from fording the stream, and he wore a hooded black leather jacket that was waterlogged and must’ve weighed a ton. I put his hand back on the pavement and lowered myself enough to look at his face. He was, indeed, the small man I’d seen with Osgood at the shooting range. He might have been handsome then, but he had struck the pavement like a cue ball, and his head seemed lopsided under the hood of his coat. The leather was torn at the shoulder, and he was bleeding from a spot where one of my .45s had clipped him, near a gauze bandage at his throat where Vic must’ve gotten him before.

He opened his eyes and blinked but said nothing as I watched him. My voice came out in a heavy rasp. “Don’t move.”

I felt the blood rushing to my head and the throb of my own pulse as a large, white truck pulled up. The door read FAIRMOUNT PARK COMMISSION, but the two men who got out weren’t carrying rakes.

“Are you all right?” I stared at the little red dots. “Sheriff, you all right?”

I converted the chill in my back to a nod. “Yep.”

Katz looked past me, and Gowder continued on to Toy Diaz. I stumbled a little as I walked away, stopped, and just stood there, breathing and fighting the nausea that rose in the back of my throat. I became aware of a noise in front of me and a screaming that wasn’t human.

William White Eyes had disengaged himself, pushing with his good leg, and had dragged himself to a shallow ditch; he was covered in dirt and leaves. His eyes were large as he struggled to rise up on one elbow but, even from a few yards away, I could see that something was broken in him. He slumped back against the ground, groaned, and looked at me as the screaming continued.

I stared at his pale, white body in the stark illumination of the street lamps that had pulsed on again and noticed how all the different colors of his war paint now looked black. I went over and kneeled beside him. “You okay?”

His voice wheezed with effort. “No.”

I kept quiet and held onto him till the EMTs arrived and took over.

I walked back up to the path where the gelding still kicked weakly. I kneeled again and placed a hand on the bay’s neck beside the Cheyenne medicine sign for wind. The horse attempted to raise its head but let out a rattling gasp and resettled. I counted at least five bullets in the poor animal. My father was a blacksmith and had told me when I was a little boy that the beasts of the field didn’t feel pain the way we humans did. I remember not believing him then, and I still didn’t.

I could hear the steady clop of hooves on the pathway stones as Henry rode up from behind and, from the sound, I could tell that he had captured my mount. More vehicles arrived, adding blue and red to the already abundant yellow that ran between the trees. I’m sure if it had been daylight, I would have been able to look back up the ravine and seen Chief Tedyuscung with his hand over his brow, looking west, at the mess of things in general. The screaming continued along with the sirens, and something was going to have to pay; that’s the way it always was, and it was usually the innocent.

I was cold, and my legs complained at carrying my weight. My eyes didn’t seem to want to focus as I pushed my hat back and felt the trapped rain run down my back. I looked at my hands and watched them shake, and a chill ran through me. I placed my hand back on the bay’s neck to steady him and, looking into the eye with the circle around it, spoke to him softly. “Easy…Easy boy…”

A weight hung in my chest and, before my eyes could completely blur, I raised the Colt and fired.

EPILOGUE

Two weeks, and I still had the screaming in my head.

I tossed a few more crumbs from my bagel to Mutt and Jeff, who were looking a little thicker than their hundred or so compatriots scattered across the roach-coach area of the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I guess they felt like they’d found good pasture and saw no reason to move on. It was slow going with the finger brace Rissman had put back on me. My ribs still groused every time I took a breath, but everything still hurt a little, so I just ignored it all.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

I looked up and again thought about how much she looked like her daughter. I thought about how seeing women in floral-print summer dresses gave me hope about things in general, and I thought about what she knew, which was probably more than I wanted to admit. “I’m sorry.”

Lena took a sip of the coffee she had brought with her. “Toy Diaz?”

“He’s a little worse for wear. He’s going to have a supervised rehabilitation at Graterford, and it promises to be lengthy since he no longer has his friends in the district attorney’s office.”

“What about the young woman?”

“Jo Fitzpatrick?”

“Yes.”