Chapter Nineteen
Karl Karlson pulled his pickup into the parking lot of the Coot Lake Inn and stared. It’d only been two hours since he’d left this morning to go to breakfast, but in that time apparently World War Three: Alien Invasion had broken out. The snow was all churned up, three of the motel room windows were shot out, and Norm’s check-in door had a wobbly line of bullet holes across it.
What the actual fuck?
Even his dogs seemed to sense something wasn’t right: they’d stopped barking as he’d pulled in. Now, though, there was a familiar yip from Cookie, his lead dog, in the back, and an answering bark from two of the dog trucks parked to the side of the lot. A pause and then the full chorus started.
Norm’s head poked out around the bullet-hole-riddled lobby door.
Karl climbed down from his truck and slammed the door.
Norm flinched and turned wide eyes toward him. His hair was sticking up all over and there were white flecks in it like crumbled drywall. “Is it over?”
Molly’s forest-green Red Earth Ojibwa Indian Reservation Natural Resources truck pulled in beside his and Molly rolled down her window. “What’s going on?”
“I dunno.” Karl shrugged and turned to Norm.
Who was still looking spooked. “Bunch of yahoos, yelling and shooting. Sounded like automatic gunfire.”
Karl’s jaw dropped. “For real?”
“Realz, man.” Stu Engelstad emerged from the back of his custom truck bed, slapping his hands on his thick, jeans-clad thighs. “Three SUVs, bunch of assholes in each, don’t know how many shots fired. Went peeling out of here not five minutes past.”
The passenger side of Molly’s truck opened and Walkingtall got out. The idiot hadn’t been able to back his sedan out of the Laughing Loon parking lot after breakfast, and Molly’d offered him a lift back to the motel. Apparently the guy couldn’t ride in Karl’s truck, because he was allergic to dogs. Who the hell was allergic to dogs? Karl half suspected Walkingtall had made up the allergy so he could ride with Molly. Dick.
Now the idiot held up a cell phone, doing an impression of the Statue of Liberty—if the Statue of Liberty was an Indian guy, had a cell, and was frowning at it. “I’ve got no signal.”
“None of the dogs were hurt, though, thank God,” Stu said, getting down to the important stuff. “Motherfuckers were shooting at anything that moved.”
“Does anyone have cell phone reception?” Walkingtall asked, waving his cell.
“Jesus,” Karl said again. He looked around, but except for the snow and Walkingtall still poking his phone in the air, nothing seemed to be moving. “Who do you think it was? Meth cookers?”
They’d had a real problem with meth dealers on the rez about three years back, although Karl had heard that the worst of the druggies had been sorted out.
“They were asking about the Russian,” Norm said. “Just before they took off.”
“The Russian?” Karl’s eyes widened. “What, that little tubby guy? That Russian?”
“That was Old George’s truck they were chasing, wasn’t it?” Stu turned to Norm. “Isn’t he Russian?”
“Doesn’t anyone have a phone that works?” Walkingtall asked plaintively.
Everyone looked at him in surprise, even Molly, still in her truck.
Norm shook his head. “Landline’s dead in the office. Power lines must’ve been blown down by the storm.”
Stu was peering at his own battered cell phone. “No bars.” He shrugged and pocketed the phone. “Cell towers are probably down as well—will be for a couple of days at least. Who you got to call anyway?”
“The police?” Walkingtall replied in clear exasperation.
“Station’s not a mile down the road in the center of Main,” Norm said helpfully. Walkingtall was a paying customer, after all, and Norm liked to say he was in the hospitality business. “But I expect Doc and Sam have figured out by now that there’s strangers running around town shooting the crap out of things.”
“But… but…,” Walkingtall sputtered. “We can’t call for help. What’ll we do if they come back?”
Molly sighed and got out of her truck, kind of hopping off the running board—Molly had short legs. She walked back to the covered bed and unlocked the tailgate.
Stu spat into the snow and reached into the cab of his truck. “Son, if they come back, we’ll be ready for ’em.”
He brought out his compound bow as Molly straightened and racked her shotgun.
Karl grinned at Walkingtall’s appalled face and said in his best Mexican accent, “Badges? We don’ need no stinkin’ badges.”