Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(48)

Randy used a cutting board on the center floor of the vehicle to dismember the rabbit, or fox, or coyote, or hapless domestic dog, and feed the pieces to the hawks in their cages.

It was disgusting. The transport was disgusting. It smelled of dead animals and live falcons that squirted pungent white shit all over the floor. Feathers floated in the air. And it seemed like every time Randy relaxed and started to take a nap, one of the birds would let out a screech that made his anus pucker up and his toes curl. None of it seemed to affect Soledad, who drove in silence.

Randy hated the birds. He hated their smug bearing and their black, beady devil eyes. If they could free themselves from their cages, they would swarm him and slash him to ribbons with their talons and beaks.

Although he’d asked in Denver if he could accompany the Shaman on his journey to the northwest and he’d been pleased and honored that Soledad had picked him (it was probably his lean and hungry look as well as his long rap sheet, Randy surmised), he now regretted making the ask. Randy didn’t really know Soledad well except by reputation. Randy had hoped to be inspired, for his commitment to the cause to be not only renewed but amplified by learning all he could from Soledad. But although an undeniable charisma surrounded Soledad like a kind of aura, he’d revealed nothing about himself or his intentions.

What Randy did know about the Shaman was that he was a true believer. Everybody said that. Soledad showed up when he was needed and provided backup, weapons, logistics, and assistance. Then he vanished like a cipher. And he never got arrested.

Soledad had promised Randy ten thousand dollars once their mission was complete. That seemed like a lot of cash at the time, especially since Randy had recently been let go from his internship at a graphic design firm. The boss hated him. That was why they’d fired him, he was sure.

All Randy knew was that Soledad was delivering a whole bunch of wild raptors from somewhere to buyers somewhere else. And that the proceeds from the transaction would be used to help the cause. It didn’t take him long to figure out the two of them were bound for Seattle, and then probably somewhere else. Soledad had insisted that he disable the GPS app on his phone and that he was to stay off of it as much as possible.

“Don’t tell anyone where you are,” he’d said as they left Denver. “Anyone.”

And Randy hadn’t, even though he knew by now his parents would be worried about him. He had an appointment with his therapist that day and his mom usually drove him.



* * *



—

Because he hadn’t had the opportunity to pack a change of clothes and wasn’t perpetually on the road like the Shaman, Randy had to dress in the wet clothes he’d hosed down on the floor of the bay. He did his best to wring them out, but they were still damp. Pulling them back on made him shiver.

Meanwhile, Soledad looked like a million dollars, Randy thought. Crisp white shirt, clean black jeans, sports jacket, and running shoes to replace the combat boots he’d worn up until now. He looked like a corporate lobbyist.



* * *



—

“Maybe we could stop somewhere so I could get a change of clothes?” Randy asked.

“Maybe,” Soledad said vaguely. He was distracted by something on his phone.

“I’d guess they have a Walmart or Target here in Pendleton. One of them should be open today.”

Randy knew nothing about Pendleton, except he thought it might be a rodeo town. It certainly looked like it from the billboards he’d seen on the way there. Something about blankets and a Roundup.

Randy had asked Soledad about what had happened in that brick ranch house. Soledad had told him to stay in the transport and feed the rest of the birds while he went inside. Even through the cacophony of screeching falcons at mealtime, Randy had thought he heard three distinct shots.

Five minutes later, Soledad had returned. His demeanor was just as cool as when he went in. The only difference in appearance were the tiny flecks of blood on the back of his right hand and a spot of it on his right cheek.

“Follow me,” Axel had said. “I need some help.”

It took four trips to completely empty the upstairs gun safe of weapons and ammunition. Shotguns, rifles, pistols, wicked-looking submachine guns were all among the cache. Randy didn’t know guns. He was surprised how heavy they were.

The weapons had filled three large duffel bags in the back of the van.

Randy wasn’t sure he wanted to know what had happened. They’d entered the house through a side door and he couldn’t see the front room. And Soledad offered absolutely no clue other than to say that “a problem had been solved.”



* * *



—

“Well, well, well,” Soledad said as he looked at his phone. His face was animated.

“What?”

“Look at this,” Soledad said. He held the phone to him, but didn’t let go of it. Randy leaned in to make out what it was.

He saw a blurry photo of a white van taken from the side. There were words painted on the exterior of the vehicle that he couldn’t make out.

Soledad swiped the screen and there was the van again, this time pointed in the opposite direction.

“I don’t get it,” Randy said. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Do you remember when I stopped on the way out of the Wingville ranch?”