Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(41)
“Who’s winning?” the housekeeper asked.
“Not the Lions,” Viktór said.
“I’m not surprised. I can’t remember the last time they won. I’m from Michigan.”
Viktór didn’t know what that meant. He looked to László, who was lifting the ax from the floor to lay it across his thighs. Viktór signaled to his brother with his eyes to calm down.
“It’s none of my business,” the housekeeper said, “but they’re serving free Thanksgiving meals at the community center if you guys are interested. Turkey and all the trimmings.”
“We’re okay,” Viktór said. “Please close the door.”
He could feel László tense up next to him, ready to leap to his feet and swing the ax through the gap in the door.
“Well, suit yourself,” the housekeeper said. He sounded disappointed. But the door eased closed and Viktór let out a deep sigh of relief.
Then the door opened again.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” the housekeeper called out. Then he quickly pulled the door closed.
His shadow passed across the curtains of the outside window and Viktór could hear the squeaking of laundry cart wheels on the cement sidewalk. A few seconds later, he heard “Housekeeping” called out in front of the room next to theirs.
“These people,” Viktór said. “They’re a pain in my ass.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Northwest of Boise
Nate Romanowski and Geronimo Jones were over halfway on the nineteen-hour, thirteen-hundred-mile drive from Denver to Seattle. Nate was at the wheel of the van. The landscape was rolling grassland and wide-open vistas and there was no longer much snow in the mountains. The sagebrush was gone. They’d outrun it.
As they traveled, Nate got used to the van rattling with empty cages on rough blacktop. It was a sound that he hoped would go away once the crates were filled with his recaptured Air Force. The rattling would be replaced by the shrieks of falcons and the heavy odor of hawk shit. He welcomed it.
They’d soon leave Idaho and enter the state of Oregon. Eastern Oregon, like eastern Washington, struck Nate as more Rocky Mountain West than Pacific Northwest. Dry, flat, and lonesome. The change in terrain and atmosphere was subtle and it came slowly over hundreds of miles traveled. He’d noted it before. Beef cattle still grazed in the fields and the small rural towns they passed through were ranch-oriented. Farming towns and green fields would soon replace them in a kind of changeover that came with the subtle drop of altitude and the heavier air. Once they left the Yakama Indian Reservation and crossed over the Cascades in Washington State, it would all be different: wet, green, and more than a little insane.
As he drove, Nate eyed every car they passed on I-84 for a glimpse of Axel Soledad’s vehicle. They’d learned from Tristan that Soledad had swapped out the Chevy Suburban he’d used in Wyoming for a black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter transport cargo van. Presumably, it was loaded with Nate’s falcons and one, maybe two, associates of Soledad’s. If Tristan’s information was correct, Soledad was bound for Seattle with a stop along the way in Baker City, Oregon.
Tristan had let the Baker City reference slip when he talked to them and it determined the route Soledad would take. Interstate 25 north to Fort Collins, US 287 to Laramie, I-80 West to Salt Lake City, I-84 to Ellensburg, Washington, then I-90 West to Seattle. The fastest possible route, less the stop.
Nate and Geronimo planned to stop in Baker City as well, if they didn’t overtake Soledad’s vehicle en route.
* * *
—
Tristan, last name Richardson, had spent the previous night bound and gagged in a heated outbuilding on Geronimo’s land in the mountains west of Denver. Nate had been given a well-appointed guest bedroom on the second floor in the Joneses’ spectacular log home. He’d gone to sleep overlooking a stunning view of the twinkling city lights far below them.
From that distance, downtown looked quiet and peaceful. The fireworks had apparently stopped.
Jacinda Jones, Geronimo’s attractive wife, had made scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. She was obviously six to seven months pregnant with their first child. It was clear to Nate that she was peeved at Geronimo, likely because he’d told her what they were about to do. She kept her distance during breakfast to maintain civility, but she couldn’t help but ask Nate about his “circumstances.”
Men always asked what he did for a living. Women always asked about his family.
He showed her photos of Liv and Kestrel on his phone and her eyebrows arched.
“I didn’t know there were any Black people in Wyoming,” she said.
* * *
—
Tristan had been seated on the floor in the corner of the utility shed when Nate and Geronimo took him a plate of breakfast. Geronimo had cut the tape from Tristan’s wrists and removed the tape from his mouth so he could eat. He refused and said he wasn’t hungry.
Relieved of his black bloc clothing and heavy boots, Tristan looked even less impressive than Nate had imagined. He was pale, sallow, with a sunken chest and acne scars on his neck and jaw. His eyes darted toward them like a cautious ferret and he kneaded his fingers together to hide the fact that his hands were shaking.