Bad Penny Page 7

  “Of course, it is. It’s like the family version of the Bat Mobile.”

  “Right,” Frank said. “And it comes with weapons too. We can pelt our foes with that nuclear Bat Diaper I saw rolling around in the back.”

  * * *

  Frank and Sam rolled north on 191. Then they turned west and rose up out of the valley over the western ridge and headed north-northwest. All about them, for miles and miles, was stubby, gray, water-starved sagebrush. The landscape was napped with it. Not a single tree to break the view. No houses, no barns, no telephone poles, nothing but a barbed wire fence running a number of yards off on each side of the road, looking much too puny to contain so much land. Every now and again an anemic dirt road would run off the highway, across a cattle guard or through a closed barbed-wire fence, and disappear in the distance.

  A dead and broken deer lay off the shoulder of the road. A mob of crows pecked at the carcass, pulling bits off as a snack.

  “Road kill,” Frank said.

  “Too old,” Sam replied.

  Frank tried to refresh the tracking page. The display showed the working circle. The last position of the pin showed Tony was stopped a few miles ahead, probably about halfway between Rock Springs and Eden. He’d been at that location for some time.

  Sam raced along the highway. When they were about to the spot, Frank told him to slow down. Sam did, but the Nissan was nowhere to be seen.

  A knot of worry began to churn in Frank’s gut. He looked down at the tracker, looked back out at the barren land. The tracker said Tony should be right on the road.

  Sam pulled the van over to the shoulder. “Maybe it’s off a little,” Sam said. “I have a buddy who had a GPS once that was always taking him miles from his destination.”

  “How’s it going to get mixed up?” Frank asked. “There’s only one road.” The sagebrush was scrubby, but it was tall enough that if you dragged a body a hundred yards off the road, well away from the fence, nobody would find it. Nobody but the ants, the buzzards and crows, and the windy Wyoming sun. A body could disappear out there for years, until it was nothing but a few weeds growing up between bleached and dried ribs. Frank had run across enough partial skeletons of deer and cattle on his long jogs to know that.

  Frank’s worry began to rise.

  “You want to get out and look around?”

  “Go another hundred yards,” Frank said, “and then we’ll turn around.”

  What was he going to tell Kim? This just couldn’t be happening. A small white rage began to build in him.

  Sam moved forward slowly. Frank looked down at the tracker, trying to refresh it. The page hung and hung. Then his connection dropped. He had no signal.

  “Sam, you have cell service?”

  Sam pulled out his phone, opened it up. “Nothing.”

  Relief washed through Frank. It blew a huge hole in the dark mountain of despair that had been poised to crush him. “This was his last known position. All this time the stupid connection was trying to update.”

  “You want to search one of those side roads?”

  “No,” Frank said. “Just get on down the highway.”

  Sam looked up at the ceiling of the van. “Lord,” he said.

  Frank couldn’t tell if he was stating a request, gratitude, or giving a status update.

  Sam pulled back onto the road and accelerated to about eighty. A few miles farther they met and passed a pickup pulling a horse trailer coming the other way. A few miles past that Frank got service again. He logged back into the tracking webpage, clicked on Tony’s phone, and opened the map. Tony was up ahead about eight miles, moving on one of the streets in the town of Eden.

  And that’s where this would end. When Tony was safe, Ed was going to learn the meaning of tragic miscalculation.

  6

  Eden

  FRANK AND SAM drove into the Eden, Wyoming valley, which was not, alas, a lush garden for naked folks and fruit trees. It probably didn’t get more than seven inches of rain each year. However, there was one spot of green in the middle of the valley.

  Back in the 1800s, thousands of pioneers had rolled through here as they made their way along both the Oregon and Mormon trails. The Pony Express had built a station here. But it wasn’t until a man named Farson financed a big project back in 1907 to irrigate from the Big Sandy and Little Sandy rivers that snaked through the valley that anyone really stayed. The rivers weren’t wide and deep; they were smaller shallow things, and calling it “Eden” was all part of Farson’s PR. Still, the result was two little ranching communities about four miles apart, one named Farson and the other Eden, with a combined population of 628 souls. The land was green for a few miles around each community. Beyond that, it was all miles and miles of high plains desert, sagebrush, and wind.

  Frank had been up here a couple of times, the last time with Tony, to stop at the Farson Mercantile, the “Home of the Big Cone,” which served monstrous ice cream cones—the extra large was five scoops, each as big as a softball. But the locator said Tony hadn’t gone for Farson ice creams. It said he was stopped in Eden.

  Frank zoomed the map in and went to satellite view. They were at a home, surrounded by fields, about two miles off the highway that ran straight through the community. There was no Google street view for these roads, which meant he and Sam would have to drive by to get eyes on the situation.

  Frank unbuckled and moved into the back seat of the minivan, behind the tinted windows. They rolled down the highway. He told Sam to turn at an intersection next to an old clapboard shack that was painted light blue.

  “Eden Bar” was painted in red letters above the shack’s doorway. It was still early afternoon, but there were a handful of cars out front, parked in the shade of the tall cottonwood trees. It appeared the old Biblical Edenites weren’t the only ones to fall for forbidden fruits.

  Frank wondered who Ed or Jesus would know up here. Or had they just stopped at the first house that seemed empty? The folks who lived in these little towns rarely locked their doors. They rarely took the keys out of their cars. If it were Frank, he’d be wanting to ditch the Nissan as soon as possible, and this place would be easy pickings.

  Ed turned onto a country dirt road with fields of thick hay on both sides. He slowed to keep the dust down, but it was so dry a large cloud billowed up behind him anyway. The strong afternoon wind blew crossways, carrying the dust right off the road and into the fields. The ranchers had begun mowing one of the fields, and the hay lay in windrows drying until it had just the right moisture content to bale.

  Sam drove toward the house where the locator said Tony’s phone was. It was a single story manufactured home with cream siding. A number of tall elms lined the property. A wooden pine-rail fence ran along the front. An open gate made from fat lodge poles had been erected over the driveway. The poles were about fifteen feet tall. Black bears carved out of wood climbed the poles on either side. One little cub lay across the top pole with his paw reaching down like he was swatting at whatever might roll through that gate. In the driveway, a well-used pickup with mud spattered all along the bottom half sat out front along with three minivans of different makes and colors, but there was no Nissan.

  Frank checked to make sure he had service. The phone showed full bars.

  They drove past the house. No Nissan on this side either. There was a barn out back; its front door was rolled up, revealing a red tractor inside along with some barrels along one wall, probably full of oil.

  Sam said, “I don’t see anything.”

  “Pull off to the side of the road,” Frank said.

  Sam slowed and pulled over. The small dust cloud following them blew into the field. A trampoline stood on the lawn on this side of the house. It was tied down with rope to four long rebar poles that had been pounded into the ground. Two girls were jumping on the tramp, the big wind blowing their clothes tight against their bodies, streaming their long hair out almost straight out behind them. They were laughing, squealing in
the wind. A little boy in nothing but a diaper stood next to the tramp with a popsicle held high, trying to keep it away from a calico dog that looked like an Australian Shepherd. The Australians, Great Pyrenees, and Border Collies were the main work dogs of a good portion of operations Frank had seen in the area.

  The girls squealed again as a big gust of wind blew into them. The wind picked up a scrap of paper from the lawn and whipped it out above the field across the road.

  Frank refreshed the locator. Tony had to be inside. Maybe that’s why the kids were outside on the tramp.

  Frank said, “Sam, how do you feel about doing some recon?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve got to get eyes in that house. Turn around and park in front. I want you to go knock. If the kids talk to you, tell them you need to speak to their mom or dad. Say you’re looking for the reservoir. No, better yet—tell them you heard there’s a cutoff through Opal to Kemmerer. Ask for directions. Maybe ask to use their phone. If you see Tony, act like he’s part of the furniture. I need to know what the backside of the house looks like as well. Places we could enter. I’m going to slump down in the back. If Ed looks out, he can’t see me. Not just yet.”

  Sam nodded.

  “You up to this?”

  Sam blew out a breath to screw up his determination. “Piece of cake, my man. I’m just asking for directions.”

  Frank positioned himself low, behind one of the middle seats. He refreshed the phone display. It said Tony was right there. “Let’s do it. Roll down your window so I can hear.”

  Sam rolled down his window, then made a U-turn and parked in front of the house.

  Frank said, “That ear thing makes you look like you belong on Star Trek; you might want to take it out so you’re not so memorable.”

  “Take me to your leader, Baby,” Sam said and made the Spock split-finger signal. But he popped the thing out of his ear and put it in his front shirt pocket and then opened the door.

  The girls watched him get out. The dog barked a bit, but then the little boy walked past the dog, and the dog figured it had bigger fish to fry and went for the popsicle again. Sam walked to the front porch, bounced up the steps, then gave the door a solid knock. A gust of wind rocked the van.

  A man in his thirties opened the door. He was balding but had a longish goatee growing on his chin. He had a classic farmer’s tan—fish belly white from the forehead up, dark as cinnamon on his face, neck, and arms. He wore a T-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. Sam talked. The man nodded, then he held the door wide and invited Sam in.

  Frank watched the barn, the girls. A profusion of white and pink petunias grew along the front of the house. The lawn was well-maintained with clean lines marking its edges. There was a big decorative five-point star hung next to the front door; it was painted dark and looked like it was made out of tin. There was a craft sign with happy faces on the front door that said “Welcome.” There were bird feeders, all cutesy looking, a flag pole with an American flag snapping in the wind. Frank looked back at the girls who looked like they were having the time of their lives.

  Something here wasn’t right.

  A few moments later Sam came back out and walked down the steps. The man closed the door behind him. Sam moseyed over to where the girls were.

  The van window was down so Frank could hear. Sam said, “We were supposed to meet some friends out here. Have you seen a white and silver car? Real low to the ground. Super dark windows?”

  The oldest girl shook her head.

  Sam made some comment about the tramp, then walked back to the van. He said through the open driver’s window, “They’re not here.”

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  “Four mothers upstairs. A couple of babies. Some kids down the hall. The ladies were doing some stamping craft party. Everyone was all happy and chatty.”

  “Was there a basement?”

  “Yeah. I heard some yelling, but it sounded like a bunch of boys.”

  “I can make Tony’s phone ring. Go on back and knock again.”

  “Frank, I’m telling you—it’s a stamping party. Just a bunch of moms.”

  “It was just a bunch of moms in a house in Yemen sipping tea. Moms and babies and a guy who had taken one hostage in the back. You’d be surprised what a bunch of moms can hide.”

  “Frank—”

  “Just do it. We’ll never see these people again.”

  “You won’t, but I might,” Sam said. “We’ve got clients all over.”

  “Sam.”

  “All right,” he said, then turned around and walked back.

  If Ed and Jesus were in there, it was going to be a nightmare. nine millimeter bullets didn’t stop for drywall. They didn’t stop very well for plywood either. There’d be potential for all sorts of collateral damage and hostages.

  Sam bounced back up the porch steps and knocked on the door again. A woman opened the door this time. One of the moms.

  At that moment the husband with the goatee and farmer’s tan rolled up the garage door from the inside. He’d put on some knee-high field boots like he was going out to work. There was nothing in the garage but shelving and normal garage stuff. A tidy garage with sleeping bags up on one shelf all in a row and tools on a peg board on another wall.

  Frank brought up the page showing Tony’s phone, iPhone, and Nurse Ratchet. He tapped the button on the page to make the phone ring. Reveal yourself, Ed. Reveal yourself.

  Sam turned, looked at the muddy pickup. He walked down the steps and over to the bed of the truck. Then he reached in, pulled something out, and held it up for Frank to see.

  A phone.

  Frank moved out of the back seat, slid open the side minivan door, and got out.

  The farmer walked out of the garage. “Is that yours?” he asked Sam.

  Frank strode over, took the phone from Sam. It was Tony’s all right.

  Frank looked at the farmer. Looked for any signs of unease.

  “Who are you guys?” the farmer asked suspiciously.

  “I’m trying to find my nephew. This is his phone. It was in the bed of your truck.”

  Frank was pushing six foot three. He’d worked out all he could in prison. His tattoos and build probably didn’t look so friendly right now.

  The farmer shrugged.

  There was something about this guy that Frank didn’t like. His eyes were moving weird. Little jumps back and forth. “I need to see your basement,” Frank said.

  The man hesitated.

  “Two minutes, and I’m out of your hair.”

  He was going to balk. Frank could see his face hardening to it. A natural reaction to a strange request. A natural reaction when you had something to hide.

  The farmer’s T-shirt was tucked in. Frank had seen him from the front. Seen him from behind. He wasn’t carrying anything in the waistband. He doubted he had anything in those rubber work boots either. That left his pockets. They were tight against his thighs.

  Frank walked past the farmer.

  Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe not. But he’d learned long ago that you cleared the area you’re supposed to clear. You took nothing for granted.

  The mom standing at the door backed up, concern and a bit of fear crossing her face. She was a pretty brunette, medium hair kept back with a yellow plastic hair band. She wore two of those paper thin woman tee-shirts, a yellow one slipped over another that was white. She wore knee-length tan shorts and open sandals. Her toenails were painted shiny pink. She looked like she was going to close the door, but Frank said, “I’ve got it,” then pushed past her into the house.

  There were kids in the kitchen. Kids down the hall. Three girls were playing with little plastic horses in the front room. Frank strode past them. He cleared the bathroom and three bedrooms upstairs, including closets and shower. He found another group of kids playing some card game. Found a little boy sitting on the toilet, his feet dangling off the floor. It was a freaking kid zoo.

  Frank
walked back to the front room and into the kitchen past three other women sitting at the table and headed to the stairs leading down to the basement.

  He was down the stairs in less than two seconds. The basement smelled of concrete. A bunch of boys grouped around a two-player electronic basketball game shooting basketballs the size of grapefruits at small hoops. It was like what you might find at a fun park, only smaller. They didn’t even notice he was there. There was another bathroom, storage room, a boy’s room with clothes in a heap. No Ed. No Tony.

  Ed had planted that idiot phone in the back of that pickup. And Frank had fallen for it hook, line, and slimy sinker. The enormity of his mistake punched him between the eyes.

  Ed was now somewhere in a forty-five minute radius from Rock Springs. Going Wyoming speeds, 75 to 80 mile per hour, that could mean Ed was a 100, maybe a 120 miles from Frank’s current position.

  Frank sighed heavily. The boys finally noticed him and looked at him like he might be the plumber. Frank bounded back up the stairs, taking three at a time. He turned into the kitchen and pulled up short.

  The children were all herded into the back of the kitchen away from the stairs and table that still held the stamping crafts. The mothers stood in front of them. The yellow-shirted mom, the lady of the house, the one with the sandaled feet and cute hair band, stood in front of all the rest just where the counter came out in an L shape. She was carrying a big Smith & Wesson revolver, pointing the .45 caliber barrel right at him. It looked like a cannon from this side. It was huge in her mommy grip. It was a gun to drop a bear.

  In his career, Frank had shot close to a million rounds on various guns. His team had employed a Caspian 1911 as their personal firearm—a fine .45. And so a good portion of those million rounds was with, not that Smith & Wesson revolver, but something close enough. He could feel the heft of the gun in her hand, imagine the kick, the deafening bang, and the pungent smell of smokeless powder. His nostrils flared at memory. The cupboard next to her stood open, which is probably where she kept the gun. Smart woman to keep a kitchen gun. If you were going to spend a lot of time there, you ought to have something close.