Hellbox (Nameless Detective) (23 page)

*   *   *

Broxmeyer was listening now. Verriker had got his attention when he came back from his north valley call; the two of them were talking in his office when Runyon and I walked in. The deputy frowned when he saw us, then motioned us to join them.

I showed him the Balfour Construction pad. Verriker went around to look at it over his shoulder, said through clamped teeth, “Crazy fuck!” I had to tell Broxmeyer that we’d been out to Balfour’s place, that it looked like he’d gone there right after leaving the fairgrounds to take on supplies for a run-out. No, we hadn’t gone onto the property; the gate was locked. He didn’t buy that, or my story about where we’d found the invoice pad, but he didn’t make an issue of it, either. Nor did he say anything to indicate he had any doubts that Balfour had made those “Verriker dead” scrawls.

I said, “Convinced, deputy?”

“That Balfour had it in for Mr. Verriker? Yes. But there’s still no proof that he was responsible for the explosion, or that he kidnapped your wife.”

“So you still think she’s lost in the woods?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?” Broxmeyer looked harassed, agitated, maybe a little embarrassed at his earlier treatment of Runyon and me. “Christ, man, I’m not your enemy. But I can’t go off half cocked…”

“That mean you’re not going to do anything about Balfour?”

“No. I’ll put out a statewide BOLO on him and his vehicle.”

“That won’t do any good if he’s planning to lose himself in the wilderness somewhere.”

“You don’t know that’s what he intends to do.”

Verriker said grimly, “Bet you it is. Always bragging on what a great hunter, great woodsman he is.”

I said, “But you don’t have any idea where he might go?”

“No. Heard him say once he had a favorite spot, but he wouldn’t tell where it was.”

I asked Broxmeyer, “Can’t you make it an APB instead of a BOLO?”

“You know I can’t. Nor request a search warrant, either, without more evidence that Balfour has committed even one felony. I don’t have the authority.”

“The sheriff does. Notify him yet?”

“He has my reports to date—”

“Not what I asked you.”

“No, not yet. I will, but I guarantee he’ll tell you the same thing.”

“Do it right now, okay?”

Broxmeyer chased Runyon and Verriker out to the waiting area, but let me stay while he made his call to the county seat. He said when the sheriff came on the line, “I’ve got a situation here, Joe,” and talked for three minutes, mostly listened for another three. I could tell from his expression and his monosyllabic responses that he was being told pretty much the same as he’d told me. I stood it as long as I could, hanging on to my temper, then made gestures until he reluctantly let me have the receiver.

The sheriff was an officious bastard, strictly by the book. He claimed to understand what I was going through, but he wouldn’t listen to my arguments; nor did my not-insubstantial career in law enforcement or my acquaintance with Jack Logan, SFPD’s assistant chief, cut any ice with him. Deputy Broxmeyer was following the correct protocol, he said: there was insufficient evidence to warrant anything more than a wanted-for-questioning BOLO on Pete Balfour.

When he ended the conversation, I had to make a conscious effort not to slam down the receiver. Broxmeyer said, “I’m sorry, but I told you, our hands are tied.” I didn’t trust myself to answer him.

I couldn’t stay in the cubicle or the substation any longer; I’d come close to saying something that would have alienated the sheriff, and I was afraid of losing it with Broxmeyer. Outside, I said to Runyon, “BOLO, that’s as far as they’ll go.”

“We could try going over their heads to the FBI.”

“And run smack into the same stone wall. Nobody’s going to do anything without having hard proof shoved in their faces.” I turned to Verriker. “That favorite wilderness spot of Balfour’s. He always go hunting there by himself?”

“Far as I know. Man don’t have any friends.”

“Anybody you can think of that he might’ve told about it?”

“Well … Charlotte, maybe. His ex-wife. She’d be the only one.”

“She still live in the valley?”

“Right here in Six Pines. Works in the city manager’s office at city hall.”

He took us over there, a refurbished brick building opposite the town park. Charlotte Samuels was a fat woman with dyed-blond hair and dim little eyes; she and Balfour must’ve been some pair. She didn’t want to talk about her ex-husband, but Verriker coaxed her into it—for all the good it did. Balfour had never taken her hunting with him—she liked venison, but hated seeing animals killed—and she had no idea where he went hunting, he’d never told her.

Outside again in the sticky heat, I asked Verriker, “You do much hunting?”

“Now and then.”

“So you know the good spots, the more remote ones—say, within a fifty-mile radius.”

“Some place Balfour might pick? A couple, maybe. But hell, we’d never find him if he’s holed up.”

“We can try. Unless you have another suggestion?”

“No. Wish I did.”

Runyon hadn’t said much since we’d driven back into Six Pines, but that was because he hadn’t had anything to contribute. He’d been thinking though, more clearly than I had. Problem-solving.

He said now, “There’s one other thing we can do if we can’t find him, and the law can’t. Long shot, but so is anything else we try.”

“Let’s hear it.”

He laid it out. Long shot, yeah, but long shots come in sometimes, and if Runyon was reading the situation right, this one just might. The odds were no worse than those on the other long shots we had to depend on—blind luck, a spread-thin sheriff ’s department and a scattering of highway patrol officers, and the whims of an unbalanced mind.

26

PETE BALFOUR

Rosnikov had his order ready right on schedule. The Russian could get you just about anything you wanted in the way of ordinance, legal or illegal, and other stuff, too, such as a couple of clean license plates with current stickers for an ’06 Dodge pickup. Didn’t take him long, neither. Must’ve had a regular armory somewhere in the Stockton area, in addition to this old storage warehouse on the waterfront where he did business. Mob ties, too, probably, but who the hell cared about that?

Only problem was what the bugger charged. Arm and a leg for everything, and no haggling or the deal was off. Balfour had to fork over almost half his cash to get everything he’d asked for.

Place made him nervous while the deal was going down. Rosnikov, big and scowly, his two bodyguards or enforcers or whatever they were, standing there looking nasty with handguns bulging in their clothes. They’d told him to drive inside and then they’d shut the doors behind him; his pickup with the loaded camper shell was sitting right there in plain sight. What if Rosnikov got it into his head that he was carrying more cash than he’d showed, decided to double-cross him, knock him off? Wouldn’t be anything he could do about it, one against three packing heat. They’d get the other $3,500, the truck, and his firepower. But that wouldn’t be all they’d get. Big surprise when they saw what else he had in there.

Nothing like that happened. Hell, Rosnikov was a professional, wasn’t he? Balfour hadn’t had any trouble with the Russian when he bought the Bushmaster and the Sterling, he didn’t have any trouble this time. Paid his money, Rosnikov counted it and handed over the package, nobody said a word until he was ready to leave. He asked if he could switch the plates on the pickup before he drove out, Rosnikov said okay, and even took the old ones off his hands.

Balfour was still a little shaky when the two bodyguards opened the doors and let him drive on out. What he needed were a couple shots of Jack to steady his nerves, but he didn’t dare take even one. Had to be cold sober the rest of today. Tomorrow and the next couple of days, too. His plans, his life, depended on it.

When he was back on the road again, he was even more careful than he’d been on the drive down. Not one mile over the speed limit, safe lane changes and only when necessary. Those two detectives in Six Pines might be after him right now, but the law wouldn’t be. Suspicious, yeah, the woman’s husband would see to that, but they couldn’t prove nothing against him. Not yet, they couldn’t. He didn’t have no cause to worry unless he got stopped for some stupid traffic violation and that wasn’t gonna happen. Still, he’d sweated all the way down from Asshole Valley, and he’d sweat some on the way back, even with the new plates.

The woman hadn’t made a sound since he’d put her in there. Dead by now, for all he knew. While he was still up in the county, he’d thought about taking a detour into wilderness country and dumping her. Too risky, he’d decided, riskier than keeping her with him. Woods were crawling with fishermen and campers and sightseeing tourists this time of year. Somebody saw him do it or find her later, he’d never get to Stockton, much less make the return drive to Asshole Valley. Never get his revenge. That was all that mattered in the short run, paying Verriker and the rest of them back for what they’d done to him. Worry about the rest of it later, the long drive out of California and on up to Idaho. First things first.

But he had to think about something while he drove, so he thought about Idaho. He’d never been there, but that didn’t matter. Lot of wilderness area in the north part of the state, he knew that. Go in deep enough and there’d be a remote spot for an experienced woodsman like himself to fort up. That Unabomber guy, Kaczynski, he didn’t know Montana, didn’t have any survival skills, when he went there and built himself a cabin and lived for, what, twenty years with nobody the wiser. FBI never would’ve caught him if his brother hadn’t turned him in.

Nobody was gonna catch Pete Balfour once he built his own cabin way the hell out in the middle of nowhere and settled in. And if by some fluke they did track him down, well, he wouldn’t just give up like Kaczynski had, he’d use his ordinance to take down as many as he could before they finished him.

Be kind of lonesome, living up there in the Idaho backcountry. No TV, no Internet, none of the things he’d done for R&R most of his life. He’d get used to it, though. Wouldn’t even miss his old life after a while. Never had needed people anyway, never would after what those bastards in Asshole Valley had done to him. Get along just fine by himself, hunting, fishing, trapping.

No, they’d never catch him because wasn’t nobody could turn him in. As far as anybody knew, he’d’ve dropped right off the face of the earth. All he had to do was finish his business in Asshole Valley, then make it up to Northern Idaho without nobody being the wiser, and he’d be home free.

*   *   *

It was full dark when he reached the valley. He’d made sure it would be by taking a roundabout route and stopping twice on the way, once for gas, once for a Big Mac and fries. Pulling into places with lights and people didn’t make him edgy. He wasn’t worried, wasn’t sweating anymore. Sure, he’d had his share of bad luck up to now, crap happening to spoil his plans, but that was all behind him. Everything from now on was going to go down without a hitch—he was sure of it. Nobody even looked at him once, much less twice, in the service station or the golden arches drive-through. And neither of the highway patrol cops that passed him on the roads glanced in his direction.

He wouldn’t be recognized in the Six Pines area, neither. Not with the camper shell and clean plates on the pickup, and a cap he hardly ever wore except when he was hunting, pulled down low on his forehead. Just another tourist.

But once he got there, he’d have to be careful—real careful. Use the back roads, make sure nobody spotted him going in. Wouldn’t take long to do what needed to be done, but if somebody saw him …

No, the hell with that. Wasn’t nobody gonna see him. Dark tonight, drifting clouds hiding the moon. And it’d be late enough that there wouldn’t be many people out driving around. He’d be all right. Just had to do what they were always saying you should—think positive. Yeah, think positive.

Wasn’t nothing gonna screw up his plans
this
time.

*   *   *

Nothing did.

Less than thirty minutes, in and out.

Hellbox, baby. Hellbox!

*   *   *

On his way to Eagle Rock Lake, he passed a sheriff’s department cruiser. He tensed a little, but the deputy driving didn’t pay any attention to him, didn’t brake or slow down. Nothing to worry about. Keep cool, keep thinking positive.

He thought positive about Verriker and the palms of his hands itched. He drove chewing on his hate, his blood singing with it.

Damn, though, he could still smell, still feel the woman.

He hadn’t noticed the smell too much on the round-trip to Stockton, but now it seemed strong, like a gas filtering through the camper walls into the cab. He rolled down the window to let the night breeze in, but that didn’t seem to help much. Lucky nobody’d noticed it at the gas station or the McDonald’s drive-through. He’d have to stop somewhere tomorrow and buy something to fumigate the shell. Couldn’t drive all the way to Idaho with that stink in his nose and throat.

The steering wheel felt gummy. So did his hands. He wiped one down his pant leg, then the other, but it didn’t help any. Residue. And underneath the stickiness, a kind of residue from the woman, too, that he couldn’t wipe off. Crazy notion, but there it was.

Hadn’t had that feeling any of the other times he’d picked her up, carried her, but when he’d hauled her out tonight, he’d felt that residue come off her like flakes of dried skin, and his gorge had lifted right up into his throat. Had to put her down fast to keep from puking. Why? Because she was dead? Hadn’t been a sound out of her, and he couldn’t hear breathing or feel any heartbeat. Yeah, she must’ve died sometime on the round-trip to Stockton.

But why should that bother him? She’d of been dead tomorrow, anyway. And he’d handled dozens of dead animals, field-dressed deer and small game, without turning a hair. Carrying a dead woman shouldn’t be any different. But somehow, it was. Her smell, the weight of her limp body on his hands and against his chest, a flash image of the way she’d looked alive … it all gave him the creeps.