Deadly Reckoning
“Thought you might be ready for lunch,” she said quietly. After last night’s true confessions, she felt sure she could get him to answer Chance’s questions without putting a strain on anybody’s friendship.
He looked at his watch and said, “Sure, why not. I got a little bit of time between jobs. Let’s go into Wal-Mart to the Subway.”
Time between jobs? That wasn’t what she had heard from Ronnie. This wasn’t like Hardy. If he wanted to blow off work, he would just say so.
While they strolled across the half-empty parking lot, Mesa broached Chance’s accusations carefully. “Chance asked me to let you know he wants to talk to you.”
Hardy looked over at her and said, “Yeah? Sounds official.”
“He wants to talk to you about last night.”
“You mean about you and me.” His voice sounded slightly surprised.
“No,” she said dismissively, “about Kevin Murphy. Somebody jumped him outside Shoestring Annie’s last night.”
Hardy stopped walking. “What’s that to do with me? I was with you. You told him that, right?” He scratched at his ever-present scraggle of a beard. Mesa could see he was uptight. “Murph’s going to be okay, right?”
She nodded as they started walking again and cut between a line of shopping carts and a station wagon filled with kids. “You know last night when you said you had made a huge mistake and couldn’t go back to Moab?”
He stopped again. “Mesa, what’s up? Why all the questions?”
Mesa pressed on. Now, in the light of day, she wanted to know the truth too. At least then, she would know what she could do to help him. “You took that plane from Moab, didn’t you? That’s what you were talking about last night. Chance saw you talking to Garrett Birch, Hardy. He thinks you took Birch and Austin up in that plane and you had to crash land. Is that what happened?”
She reached out to touch his arm as if to convey her concern. “I know you couldn’t kill anybody. But if you took that plane, Jesus, you’re in a lot of trouble.” Her voice tailed off. She was in no position to judge Hardy for whatever lies he told, but stealing was something else. “Maybe I can help you, but you have to tell me what happened.”
Hardy didn’t have to say anything. She could see the answers in his face. He had that hung-dog look that always appeared in the waning seconds of a big game that his team had lost, when he knew winning wasn’t in their cards. He turned back in the direction they had come, almost walking in front of a van backing out. “I don’t know anybody named Garrett Birch. I gotta get going,” he said.
Mesa held onto his arm even as he tried to pull away. “It was Garrett, wasn’t it? Do you know where he is? I know he might be in a bad space right now, but maybe we can get him to turn himself in.”
“I told you, I don’t know anybody named Garrett Birch,” Hardy said, his usually laid back voice, tinged with irritation.
“I met him at the Labor Day picnic, and I know his sister. He’s AWOL from the Army, Hardy. He’s got nothing to lose.”
Hardy was walking fast now, shaking his head while Mesa talked. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, how about we can talk to Rollie Solheim. Explain it to him. He knows you and your family. He can help you. I know he can.” Mesa was walking fast now, trying to catch up. Who knew what the Sheriff would do, but she had to try to stop Hardy.
Her instincts told her that Hardy was on the verge of hopping from the frying pan into the fire. And despite her mixed feelings about him, they went too far back for her to give up on him.
They were almost back to the truck. She had to know what they were dealing with. “Hardy,” she said, raising her voice. “Tell me you didn’t kill Lowell Austin.”
Hardy unlocked the truck door and said in a whisper, “Mesa, I didn’t kill anybody. You know me better than that. I made the best I could out of a bad situation, and that’s what I’m gonna keep doing.” He reached up and touched her cheek, lifting a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I’ll be in touch,” he said and jumped in the cab of the truck.
He cranked the engine, and Mesa looked around, wondering if anyone had seen or overheard them, as if she might recruit help make Hardy listen to reason. She was exasperated, not sure what to do next. Her eyes settled on the bed of the pickup. Propped on its side against the built-in stainless steel toolbox was a black and green contour backpack she had seen Hardy use countless times. He was going somewhere all right, she realized uneasily, and it wasn’t back to work.
Chapter 20
Hardy drove away from Wal-Mart and Mesa, past the airport and away from town. “Women,” he said out loud. Whatever you gave them, it was never enough. He cared as much about Mesa as he had for any girl, but sometimes she could be too smart for her own good.
He checked the rearview mirror and then relaxed his back into the seat. He told himself to settle down. All they had to do was get out of town and then the situation would be manageable.
He passed the turnoff to Whitehall and looked at his watch, nearly noon. The sky was blue and cloudless. If he stayed cool, they could be on the road in the next couple of hours. They would drive to Big Sky first, leave the truck at the resort if need be. Then they could catch a ride with somebody going north, maybe up to Calgary.
He looked at the speedometer, careful to stay right at fifty. The last thing he needed was to get stopped for speeding. He thought about the last six days and cursed himself for being so unlucky. The previous Saturday he had just wanted to get out of Moab, now he would be on the run for good.
The shaded, red rock cliffs, blood orange in Moab’s early morning light, had suited his mood. At least he had convinced the idiot Simian to take advantage of the cool of first light for the initial leg of the ride to Hardscrabble, where he could meet up with his pals.
He and Simian had met at Eddy McStiff’s the night before. The guy talked nonstop about his business, on and on about his plane, and the five-day trip he and his buddies had spent a year planning.
Hardy tried to give the guy some tips like, for starters, how he shouldn’t get wasted the night before a strenuous ride, especially in a place where you weren’t used to the climate or the altitude.
Simian said he knew what he was doing. He had all his little gadgets, GPS, salt tablets, a Camelback hydration pack—everything but good sense and proper respect for the environment.
In the end, Hardy had struck a deal with Simian to shuttle him to the drop-off point halfway down Horse Thief Trail the next morning. He’d return the Jeep Simian had borrowed from the Moab Airport and stow the extra luggage in his plane.
At the time, it had seemed like nothing more than an easy way to make fifty bucks. But the next morning Simian had talked to Hardy as if he was some flunky—do this, get me that.
Guys like Simian had ruined Moab. The used-to-be-hip mountain-bike subculture was now crowded with every kind of human, and a lot of them were really stupid, not to mention conceited. Money made the problem worse. People who had everything seemed most likely to respect nothing. While Simian wallowed in all his toys, and ordered him around, Hardy started to think about a way to make his irritation easier to bear.
Simian planned to be back in five days, Thursday of the coming week. That left plenty of time for Hardy to fly to Butte, visit his dad, and then fly back by Monday morning, plenty of time before Simian and his crew would finish their White Rim ride.
Hardy’s job at Slick Rock Cycling Company was history anyway. After the major falling-out he’d had with his boss about getting a decent commission on the tours Hardy set up, the tour manager job was history. He was sick and tired of being taken advantage of.
As he had driven along the dirt road back to the highway, he tried to concoct a plan where he wouldn’t have to fly out on his own. He didn’t want to risk taking the plane alone since the guys at Moab Airport might wonder what was going on. Then when he turned onto Route 313 and saw the hitchhiker, everything fell into place.
There was no traffic on the highway. Hardy called out through the Jeep’s window and waved. He had seen the soldier at McStiff’s the night before. “Hey, man, where you headed so early?”
Hardy drove the Jeep across the highway, swung the passenger door open, and introduced himself. “We met last night at Eddie McStiff’s. Wasn’t sure you would remember me. You were still drinking when I left.”
The soldier nodded. He didn’t say much, that was for sure, but Hardy thought he looked the part of the rugged, outdoorsy private plane owner. “On your way out of town already?” he said with a grin, as if he knew Moab didn’t have that much to offer if you weren’t fascinated with mountain bikes.
“Going down the road,” the soldier had answered.
“Which way you headed? I might be able to get you there a little quicker.”
The hitchhiker had seemed a little suspicious. “How’s that?” he asked.
“Hop in and I’ll tell you. Ever ride in a private airplane?” Hardy asked.
“You mean besides the Army’s?” the soldier said in a serious tone and climbed up into the Jeep.
“What’s your name?” Hardy asked.
“People call me Tree.”
“That short for something? Tremont? Gantry?”
“You could say that,” Tree said and settled into the seat, staring out the windows at the red rock cliffs.
“Which way you going?” Hardy had asked, wondering why it was taking a hitchhiker, who was getting a free ride, so long to answer.
“Somewhere north will do.”
A few minutes later, Hardy parked the Jeep next to the airport’s main building, grabbed a couple of nylon stuff bags from the back of the car, and headed into the building.
Tree followed cautiously, his duffle bag on his shoulder. They entered the tiny waiting room, which exhibited no particular signs of life. The lights were on, but nobody was around. Hardy ventured over to a counter, poked his head over it, and called, “Anybody home?”
“Must be dropping somebody off somewhere,” he said to Tree. Finally, he put the Jeep’s keys back behind the counter, and motioned Tree out through another door and onto the tarmac.
“A guy’s paying me to ferry this airplane to Missoula, Montana,” Hardy told him. After all, he had done plenty of ferrying jobs before, and he saw no reason to say anything more. “I’m gonna stop for a day or so in Butte. Sound good to you? It’s about a five-hour flight over some pretty awesome country.”
Tree smiled briefly then shook his head at his good fortune. “Sure, I know some locals in Butte.”
“No shit,” Hardy laughed, mildly surprised. People with Butte connections were spread far and wide, relatives of miners who had moved on decades ago to find work after the Anaconda Company closed. Tree named off a handful of Butte hockey players, guys Hardy had seen around town or knew by reputation. “Okay then, let’s roll.”
They walked past a small bi-plane, and then stopped at a sparkling four-seater with red and gold trim. “This is our ride,” Hardy said with confidence. It was a Cessna 180, bright and shiny, probably just repainted. He opened the side door of the plane with the keys Simian had given him, stored the gear behind the back seats, and began the preflight. He didn’t feel the least bit nervous. If Doc Jeppsen came back from wherever he was, he would assume that Tree owned the plane. Sure as hell Hardy didn’t.
Tree had stood outside watching Hardy go through the preflight. Finally, Hardy had to tell him, “Go on around, and get in. Buckle yourself up. I’m going back inside and check the weather. Once we take off, we’ll be in Butte by lunchtime.”
When Hardy came back, Tree boarded slowly, and then asked, “Where did you learn to fly a plane?”
Hardy had heard first-time passengers ask these questions before. “You’re not nervous, are you? Here, put on these earphones.” He pulled out a pack of spearmint chewing gum and offered Tree some. “Now sit back and relax. A buddy of mine back home, his dad taught me. I been flying since I was sixteen.”
“You fly much?” Tree asked as they taxied down the single runway.
“Whenever I can get somebody to let me use their plane,” Hardy had said with a smile and then they had taxied away.
All along Hardy thought, he had been so clever, playing the other guy. But Tree had called Hardy’s bluff at every turn, and now he was in over his head.
Soon the road turned from asphalt to dirt and gravel without a single car on the road since Wal-Mart, as calm as last Sunday morning. Now, as Hardy turned onto Basin Creek Road past an open pasture, he could kick himself for how flippant he had been about the whole setup, never giving a single thought to what could go wrong.
Once they had landed in Butte, Hardy had invited Tree to meet up at the Hoist House Saturday night, nothing fancy just a few drinks. Tree had shown up with a friend. No big deal, right?
Hardy realized now how clueless he had been. It angered him to think how he had let himself get suckered into such a bad hand. He had overplayed his cards all right. He had invited them on a short sightseeing excursion the next morning. “Why not,” Tree had said.
Hardy had planned to do a quick run above uptown, show them the Pit and then maybe fly toward the Pintlers. It was early, and he had refueled the plane without anyone noticing. Murph was late as usual, not that Hardy was worried. If Murph had asked any questions, Hardy would simply have told him Tree owned the plane.
He would never really understand what happened between Austin and Tree. Hardy had taken Tree at his word and thought Austin was a friend. Tree had brought Austin to the Hoist House for a drink that night and they had arrived at the airport together the next morning. Obviously, he had been mistaken.
Austin had said something that must have set Tree off. Or why else had the otherwise calm soldier attacked Austin while they were in the air? They had put on their earphones, chatting about the usual kind of thing first-time fliers wanted to hear. Austin had pulled out one of those Leatherman tools, showing it off as if no one had ever seen one before. He had handed it to Tree in the back seat.
Then when they had flown over the Pit, Austin had taken off his seat belt to get a better view out the window. Hardy had been coming back on the throttle as usual to level off.
He had just made the turn west, when the next two minutes changed his life forever. Tree had reached around Austin’s neck and before Hardy could say, “What the hell?” Austin began to struggle, pushing for leverage with his legs.
Hardy screamed at them to stop. What happened next, he would never be certain. He had thought about it repeatedly. Maybe Austin’s knee had hit the trim tab, because the nose had come down. Hardy had corrected. But then Austin fell forward. Hardy had shouted at Tree to get a hold of Austin, whose weight had pressed the steering controls forward. For a split second, Hardy wondered if the older man had had a coronary.
But he had no time to think about that. He pulled back on the yoke to keep the nose up while frantically trying to shift Austin’s body off the extra controls. The ground was coming at them too fast. They had lost too much altitude and the plane was hurtling so close to the rooftops, he could see down the chimneys. There was no way for the plane to gain any altitude. He had to ditch. He pulled back on the throttle, reducing the power to try to land the plane somewhere flat in the precious little air time left before they hit the ground.
The rest was instinct. He didn’t have time to think about the traffic on a Sunday morning on Labor Day weekend, or how he would avoid the utility wires along the street, or if the wings would clip a parked car or if the wheels would hit a pothole. Strangely, he had had the presence of mind to crack his door in case it stuck in the crash. And then he had begun to pray.
In less than fifteen seconds, he worked the rudders hard and had set the plane down on Washington Street, practically standing on the toe brakes. He had careened to the left when that wing had clipped something, a street sign maybe, he couldn’t be sure. It had all ended with an unbelievable jolt, f
irst from the back wheel that he had steered over a roll of chain-link fence hoping it might create some kind of drag, and then into the side of somebody’s house.
Another jolt, this time by a rut in the road, brought Hardy back to the present. He had to pay attention to Tree’s directions to find the cabin where he was holed up. It was Two Bit Gulch. He remembered driving up there in high school after football games to keg parties set up on Forest Service land.
A mile later, he saw the sign pointing right. He drove past some good grazing land with a stream on it. Then a couple of houses a fair distance apart came into view on the left. God, Montana was beautiful and he was leaving it all behind.
He was relieved when he saw the log cabin on the right several hundred yards farther up the road, at least until he pulled into its driveway and saw Tree. What had Mesa said his real name was, Garrett Birch? He was standing at the cabin’s front window.
* * *
Mesa had pulled into the first side road she passed in Two Bit Gulch, surprised how calm she felt. She sat next to a row of mailboxes to collect her thoughts. The Yukon Glass truck had kicked up enough dust on the gravel road to obscure Hardy’s vision. There were not that many places to turn off the ranch road that eventually led to the Basin Creek Reservoir. But Mesa could see well down the road, and Hardy had given no indication that he had spotted her. She remembered that the road ran out several miles farther down at the end of the canyon. Finding Hardy’s pickup between here and there shouldn’t be too hard, but she wanted to think for a minute about what she was going to say when she caught up with him.
She had expected him to head for points east. But when he didn’t turn on Highway 2, she remembered Tessa Revelle’s address, south of Butte. As she followed him on the route south of town, it occurred to her then that if Chance was right, Hardy might be rendezvousing with Garrett.