Jo came back after an hour as the ME and EMT’s finished up.
“Sheriff has called in bigger guns,” she told him. “I’ve got to go to town to do paperwork.”
She nodded toward the taped off section of far campsite, the tent in the middle.
“Active crime scene,” she said. “At least until the techs show up. Try to keep people out of it.”
Brill motioned to the almost empty campground. Des checked gear next to his truck, one of the five people in the parking lot.
“Tape up the entrance,” Brill suggested. “It might keep out rubberneckers.”
Jo nodded.
“They’re going to pull me from this.”
“Yes.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong,” she sniffed.
Not a cry. No tears with it. Just defeat in her voice. He wanted to argue it was political. Wanted to comfort her.
Was surprised at himself for feeling like that.
She took his silence as a rejection. As a statement at her vulnerability. He watched her shut it down. Like blinds closing
across her eyes.
Open, honest and tear stained to dead flat in less than a second. Lips creased in a frown. Shoulders stiff.
“I’ll be back,” she said. “Don’t leave.”
He opened his mouth to tell her she was wrong. Closed it again.
Indecisiveness wasn’t a normal feeling either. He made a fifty fifty decision and went with it, always. Either it worked, or it didn’t.
Except he didn’t. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t do anything. Just watched her walk to her truck, watched her get in. Drive off.
Des waved away the dust cloud as he came over, geared up for a climb.
“Harsh,” he observed. “I’ve seen some pissed off ladies in my day, and man, she is pissed at you.”
Clapped Brill on the shoulder. Like they were friends. Comrades. Which he supposed they were. The last two men standing in a hunting ground.
Des kept walking up the trail, disappeared over the edge of the horizon as it dipped into a shallow depression.
Brill watched the rooster tail of dust float away from the truck he could no longer see on the road out of the campsite.
He opened his mouth and closed it again, just for practice, a hundred things he should have said flitting in and out of the front of his mind.
He turned back to the van. Packing up took less than five minutes. Close the chairs, stow them under the platform in the back.
Toe dirt over the dead coals of the fire. Just in case. Fold the dirty
running shorts, shirt into a small bag.
He’d find a laundromat somewhere a thousand miles away and toss them in.
Or a trash can and stop at a new thrift store for more second-hand purchases.
He caught the hint of movement out of his eye. Another column of dust coming up the road.
He hated that his stomach did a little thing in hope. Hated that he wanted it to be Jo.
As it got closer, he wasn’t crushed in disappointment. Just a little peeved. It was an ancient Ford pickup long bed. More rust than paint. Four bald tires. Two shadows in the front, three in the back.
They pulled into the parking lot at the campsite and stopped in the middle. Not in a space. Not here to camp.
Ethan folded himself out of the passenger side of the truck.
“Deputy!” he screamed.
On something, thought Brill. Meth. According to Jo.
Not just a dealer, but user. Pissed about Charlie. Or just pissed stoned.
“Gone,” Brill called out.
He pulled the sliding door closed on the van and stepped around the back.
Ethan tried to focus on him. Used the hood of the still running truck to balance with one hand.
“You’re the son of a bitch that came on my property,” his gravelly voice slurred.
Brill saw the men in the back shift. Saw the driver drop one hand off the wheel into his lap. Saw it all like a movie in slow motion.
Ethan tripped. That’s what it looked like. He leaned over too far and stumbled, left hand holding onto the hood of the truck, the other working for counter balance somewhere behind him.
Then his right arm slammed into the rusty hood, and he fired a snub nosed .38.
The bullet went wide. The old man couldn’t focus in his drug induced fugue. The distance between them was too far. The man too gone.
He had five shots left. And he could get lucky.
Brill whipped around the side of the van and ducked, putting the axle and wheel between him and the pickup truck.
A shotgun blasted pellets into the metal. Scattered pattern meant birdshot.
He hated the tactical position he was in. There were five of them. Two could drop out of the bed of the truck, sneak around the side of the van and flank him.
Ethan and the other guy could go the opposite direction, create a cross fire and nail him.
The driver was an anomaly.
If he got out of the truck, he could go either way. The hand to the lap indicated he was armed too.
Or he could stay in the truck. Gave them options to chase him down if he took off for the tree line or one of the trail heads.
Running was out of the question. He wasn’t sure how meth affected perception, but the twitching and shaky hands were obvious factors.
Their aim would be off. He wouldn’t get hit unless he was close or they were lucky.
He hefted the pistol from the holster at his back. The weight was comforting.
He bet they expected him to run. It’s what others would do. What they had experienced before, he bet.
Brill did the unexpected.
He ducked around the front of the van, stood up and walked toward the bed of the pickup.
He pulled the trigger with each step.
Five steps. Five shots. Four bodies dropping to the dirt. The fifth body was the driver.
He slumped over into the bench seat, half his head missing. The dead weight of his foot shifted off the brake.
The truck rolled forward at idle speed and crashed into one of the boulders that separated the campsite from the trees.
Once the crunch of metal and crash of glass echoed across the clearing, there was silence except for the engine.
Brill turned in a slow circle, checking his perimeter.
Des sprinted down the trailhead.
“Dude!” he screamed. “That was freaking awesome.”
He slid to stop ten feet shy of Brill, worked to catch his breath
through a wide smile.
“It was like OK Corral or something. You just walked out like Doc Holiday and blam. Got ‘em.”
Brill studied the climber for a moment, considering his options. Des was a witness. He had just killed as many men in five seconds as dead climbers they found in a few days.
Self defense, he knew. Even Des knew. Probably Jo would figure it out. But they would haul him in anyway. Protocol dictated it. The law dictated it.
He wouldn’t survive jail. No question about it. Shelby would make sure of it.
He angled the pistol toward Des. The van was ready to go, and one more body wouldn’t matter.
Not in the grand scheme.
His finger hesitated.
The climber was still grinning at him, licking his lips, excitement making his pupils the size of quarters.
“I heard the gunshots on my way back,” said Des. “I found Jester.”
He glanced down at the gun.
“He’s alive, but hurt.”
Des started back up the trail.
“Come on!” he yelled. “Help me.”
Brill looked at the bodies lining the parking lot. A big mess to leave for too long. Too much time to follow the climber and help the
injured man.
Unless the man was a killer. He could help Jo bring him to justice. Might make that look on her face change.
Might make things go easier on her with the Sheriff if she made the collar.
He wouldn’t be around to witness it. But it might be a nice thing to do.
So, he ran after Des. Caught him in less than sixty seconds, fell into an easy pace behind him as the climber led him on a rescue mission into the rocks.