Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) (25 page)

It veered right, then drove straight into the trees, colliding head-on, the Aerostar’s frame no match for the row of pines. Peyton stumbled back at the roar.

Moments later, Bruce Steele, Pam Morrison, and the two Garrett policemen had parked nose-in, forming a semicircle around the van, all three crouching, pistols drawn, leaning over the hoods of their vehicles.

Four portable Q-Beam lights illuminated the overturned van as if it were a prop on a stage. Steele was ten paces from the driver’s door, his labored breath emerging from his gaping mouth like smoke. Pam Morrison was beside him. When they’d converged on the van, Peyton had moved her truck to the side of Route 1 and retrieved her flashers, allowing traffic to pass. Now her headlights bathed the rusted white Aerostar in additional light.

“Agent approaching from behind!” she hollered. “Hold your fire!”

Beyond the first row of young pines lay an open field that ran to a mature forest. The speed at which the vehicle had been traveling carried the van beyond the first row. It lay on its roof in foot-high grass, tilted forward awkwardly as if balanced on its windshield. Grass in front of the driver’s window concealed the interior. The rear tires were still spinning. The night’s snowfall hit the hot manifold, making light hissing sounds before dissolving. Faint smoke rose from the tailpipe. The front fender and the van’s hood were indented like a V. The windshield was spider-webbed and blood-splattered. A dull screech sounded with each slow rotation of the rear tires. The vehicle didn’t writhe back and forth, its interior soundless.

“Crawl out of the vehicle!” Bruce Steele barked. “Hands first! Let me see them!”

Nothing.

Steele looked at the cop covering the rear of the van. “Anything?”

Morrison stepped closer to the van, crouched, gun aimed. “I don’t see any movement.”

“Too dark,” the cop said. “Grass is too high to see inside the van.”

“Think the driver crawled in back?” Steele whispered to Peyton. “Want to get a crowbar?”

“Hit the trees at seventy miles an hour,” Peyton said. “We might have a fatality here.”

Steele nodded. “Why don’t you call this in? I’ll check it out.” He motioned the cop to move closer and cover him.

“Bruce, let me go,” Morrison said.

“You both already have position,” Peyton said. “Let me do it.”

“No, I can do it,” Morrison said.

Peyton shook her head. “Cover me.”

“Don’t go in there guns a-blazing, Peyton.”

“I know,” she said and moved to the side of the passenger’s door, her gun drawn, her pulse quickening. She had no idea what she’d find. How desperate was the driver to escape? Was he armed? Was he dead?

Peyton slid down into a crouch, her back against the sliding side door.

She’d been in this situation previously. Never knew what you’d find when you looked inside. As kids, Elise hid in a dark closet, hollered for Peyton, and yelled when Peyton opened the door. She’d played that game for real as a Border Patrol agent—and hated every minute of it. Whether opening rear doors of an eighteen-wheeler or the front door of a desert shack in El Paso, searching for drugs, illegal aliens, WMDs, or God knows what, you never knew what awaited you.

And desperate people did desperate things. The driver of this van had been desperate enough to play chicken with a forest of pine trees.

Her heart thumped against her chest. She took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled.

Her mind flashed to Tommy’s gap-toothed grin.

Her pride had gotten her into this. Morrison or Steele could have just as easily checked the driver. Hewitt had said work wasn’t a competition, and she’d been told that before. She’d moved back here for her own safety, done it for Tommy. Now she would lean into an overturned van, smoke still rising off the tailpipe, and see who was inside. She’d learn what his condition was and just maybe discover how desperate he was to flee.

Why had she insisted?

She knew the answer and kicked herself as she dropped to her knees and leaned in the window holding her pistol.

THIRTY

T
HE SPOTLIGHTS ILLUMINATED THE
van, and, as she had in the hospital room, Peyton saw a clear recognition in his eyes.

He’d crawled behind the front seats and now lay on his belly in the overturned van, peering out at her. She had crawled inside the van, stopping dead in her tracks when she realized she was six feet away from him. He had a three-inch gash on his forehead and squinted when the blood dripped into his eyes. The spotlights shown through the broken windows, and Kenny Radke’s pale face was caught in a shaft of light. Peyton could see the whites of his eyes and watched as a vein pulsated on his forehead. He was in pain.

The handgun he held was at a right angle, as if his elbow was pressed against his side, but the .22 still pointed at her.

“Drop it!” she yelled.

“My fucking arm is broken.” He squinted in pain. “It’s got to be.”

“Put down the gun, Kenny.”

His eyes told her that wouldn’t happen. They also told her he had no intention of repeating the time he’d spent in the Maine State Penitentiary—regardless of what he had to do to avoid it.

“You’re not going to shoot your way out of here,” she said. “Put the gun down.”

She tried to scramble out, but her coat caught on the passenger’s seat, trapping her in a cumbersome crouch.

From behind, Steele yelled, “Peyton, what is it? Get out of there!”

But it was too late. Kenny Radke pulled the trigger. She did as well.

There was a burst of light and explosion, like a thunderclap just overhead.

From six feet, she had no chance.

But the pain, a hot surge in her chest, lasted only a moment.

“Lay back down, for Christ’s sake.”

The voice Peyton heard, as she blinked her eyes open and tried to sit up, sounded angry.

“You aren’t the nurse,” she said.

“You got that right.”

She opened her eyes. It was a hospital bed, but not a hospital room—no IV, no overhead television, no white coats or jumbled voices.

“I try not to swear in front of women,” Mike Hewitt said. “That’s how I was raised. But you’re making it difficult. What the fuck were you thinking? You’d better hope to hell some white coat comes by to tell me you have a concussion and weren’t thinking straight.”

Hewitt came into full view.

“Where am I?” she asked. She felt like she was waking from a long, deep sleep.

“A room off the ER,” Hewitt said. “I can’t figure you out, Peyton, so I called your PAIC back in El Paso. She told me what a good agent you are but also admitted you could be a pain in the ass.”

Hewitt leaned forward on a metal folding chair. She squinted to see what was at his side.

“You didn’t give Bruce Steele a chance to tell you anything,” Hewitt said. “Just went running in there. Remember what Leo Miller said about Border Patrol agents being Lone Rangers? Things like protocol and procedure mean anything to you?”

“They had the scene secured,” she said. “Someone had to look inside the van. I thought I could help. That’s all I was trying to do.”

“There were four other law enforcement agents with you,” Hewitt said. “And to be clear, I’m not upset that you engaged in the situation. I’m Goddamn furious that you crawled into an overturned vehicle without knowing if the suspect was armed.”

“I thought the suspect may be mortally injured and we needed to get him or her help,” she said. “That’s what I was thinking about.”

Her chest hurt. She wore a long white hospital johnnie.

“The others already had position on the vehicle,” she said again. “Why make one of them leave his position? The less commotion, the safer everyone is.”

He stared at her. “At least you grasp the concept of procedure.”

She spread her hands. “Ouch … I was ready. So I went, Mike. That’s all.”

“You shouldn’t have gone into the van.”

“I thought someone was unconscious, possibly dead. We called to him repeatedly.”

Two inches below her right shoulder, a softball-sized section of flesh was the color of a plum. The pain lingered like a stovetop burn, but was piercing, too, like a kick to the side.

Hewitt took the navy-blue Kevlar vest off the floor. There was a hole the size of a dime on the right side.

She could smell the cordite.

“Lucky it was only a twenty-two. The vest stopped the bullet. Now we have two agents shot in one week.” He shook his head. “Up here? You know the odds on that happening? Not to mention Stan Jackman’s heart attack. He’s still in the hospital for observation.”

“What happened to Kenny Radke?” she said.

“He shot you, point-blank, in the chest. But you shot back …” Hewitt’s voiced faded away. He spread his hands.

She shook her head, shoulders falling slack. “God, no.” Her hand went to her forehead. The room started spinning. “God, no …”

“He was DOA. It’s not Radke I’m upset about, Peyton.”

She looked at him. “What?”

“It’s the second baby.” Hewitt’s eyes fell to the floor. “This one died in the crash.”

She heard the commotion before she saw them.

Three voices—two males, arguing, then pleading; and one female, protesting, then finally giving in—and State Trooper Leo Miller and Border Patrol Agent Scott Smith entered.

Smith pulled the curtain closed behind them.

“How’re you doing?” he said.

“Hopefully better than I look.”

“I think you look fine,” Miller said, “actually, better than fine. I got you some flowers.”

She glanced at Smith, with whom she had gone to dinner, and watched him turn away.

“They’re out in my car,” Miller said. “Looks like you’re going to be here a while. I’ll go get them.” He walked out.

“I’m empty-handed,” Smith said.

“Not to worry. I don’t need anything.”

“What happened?”

“Kenny Radke ran the border. He was bringing a baby into the country.”

“Radke is part of a human-trafficking ring?”

“
Was
part of one.”

“What do you think?” Smith said.

“I think Kenny knew a hell of a lot more than he told us. That’s what I think.”

Smith pulled up a chair. “You were in the van with Radke, right?”

“Yeah. I don’t know why he fired. We’ve known each other since we were kids. He had to know I wouldn’t just shoot him.”

“What do you think that means?”

“He felt trapped.”

“He was a loser,” Smith said, “probably didn’t want to go back to Warren.”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Smith waited, but she didn’t say more.

“Did Radke say anything when you were with him?” Smith said.

“I’m tired,” she said, and leaned back and closed her eyes.

“You don’t feel like talking?”

“I’m tired,” she said, her eyes closed.

She heard the chair scrape on the linoleum floor, then the sound of Smith’s shoes on the floor. The door opened.

“She’s sleeping,” Smith said.

“I’ll leave the flowers on the windowsill,” Miller said.

He did. She reopened her eyes, when the door closed behind them.

There were two babies now. Or had been.

Peyton sat in her Wrangler, headlights dimmed, staring at her mother’s house fifty feet away. The painful bruise on her chest was a fair trade for not having been there when the infant was pulled from the wreckage. She’d spent the day looking into baby trafficking—in the form of Matthew Ramsey (the boy in the box) and the girl called Autumn (found, placed in DHHS custody, and snatched)—and she couldn’t stomach the sight of a dead child.

A light was on in Lois’s kitchen. Hewitt had no doubt called her mother to inform her that Peyton had been shot but was okay. Then Peyton had called from the hospital to tell her (again) that she was okay and not to wait up.

But, of course, Lois was waiting.

Peyton couldn’t bring herself to enter. Not yet. She had killed someone on this night.

The only sound was the hum of the Jeep’s engine. No radio. No Dave Matthews playing. In the silence, she tried to piece it together. She’d shot and killed Kenny Radke, whom she’d grown up with, a man she didn’t think ever really had a chance to become more than what he was. Her hands were cold on the steering wheel. Her stomach, empty from vomiting once already, burned. Radke had made his own decisions, yes, had several convictions on his record, and had done time. And despite what he’d said, she knew damned well he hadn’t “turned over a new leaf.” Guys like him didn’t do that.

Yet none of that made her feel any better. The taste of bile seemed fresh in her mouth.

She hadn’t seen Radke’s face when she’d pulled the trigger and had been unconscious after the exchange of gunfire. So she didn’t know if he’d suffered or had spoken. Didn’t want to know. She knew enough.

She’d never killed anyone before.

It had been self-defense, of course. Yet in her years in El Paso, she’d fired only three warning shots to subdue assailants.

This shooting would be investigated, and she’d quickly be cleared. After all, he’d fired first. Yet she scrutinized her own decisions, and one phrase kept coming to mind:
Lone Ranger.

Was she?

Had she been?

Would Radke be alive if a different agent had gone inside the van?

She pushed the Wrangler’s door open, the brisk night air striking her face like a slap.

Wednesday night had given way to Thursday morning, and she entered the house at 2:10 a.m., went directly to Tommy’s room, and kissed his forehead. He’d been sleeping for several hours and didn’t stir.

Then she crawled into her bed and lay staring at the ceiling.

What had Kenny Radke been doing? He’d jumped the border at the Canadian port of entry. She’d learned from Hewitt that Radke had looked nervous at the checkpoint. When Canadian Customs officials asked him to step out of his van, he’d hit the gas. Why was Radke in Canada in the first place? What had spooked him? Who was the baby? And to whom did it belong?

Two babies. Two agents shot. On the surface, the shootings were very different. Miguel Jimenez had been shot point-blank with a .300 Savage and left to die. Her own incident had seen desperate Kenny Radke panic and fire a .22.