Bluetick Revenge (18 page)

“Every biker in the mountain time zone is going to be looking for this truck,” Scott said. I nodded.

“Let’s get it off the road,” I said. “We’ll hide it in the trees. You stay here to protect the dogs and the money; I’ll thumb
my way back to Coeur d’Alene and buy a new truck.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Scott said.

I started my truck and turned down the first dirt road I could find. It was a Forest Service road that probably saw plenty
of action in the summer but not much in the winter. A few hundred yards up it, I noticed a spot where I could park it in the
trees so it wouldn’t be visible from the highway.

Because of the damage to the back of the truck, I couldn’t get the window on the back of the shell to open properly. I had
to pry it open with the claw end of a hammer. Then I let the dogs out to run around. They seemed okay.

I reached into the back of the truck and pulled the box with the cash toward me. I counted out twenty thousand dollars and
stuffed the bills in the inside pocket of my coat. I donned my Broncos hat and some warm gloves, then started walking down
to the highway.

F
IVE HOURS LATER
I was driving a “pre-owned” F-150 up the Forest Service road. It was just like my old truck, only much newer. It had less
then ten thousand miles on it. It was gold, not green, and had a matching shell on the back. It had the king cab, which is
essential if you’re going to spend any time in a pickup. It had four-wheel drive and a V-8, which are essential if you live
in the Colorado mountains. It had a high quality CD player, which is essential if you know who Jack Guthrie was. It even had
a CB radio, which, due to the invention of cell phones, is only essential if you are a fan of C.W.McCall. I happen to be one.

“It was time for a new truck anyhow,” Scott said as I stepped out of the new vehicle. “I didn’t want to have to tell you,
but that truck never really loved you.”

“Thanks,” I said. The dogs were still running loose, enjoying the chance to frolic in the snow. I started removing all our
belongings from the old truck and putting them into the new truck.

“What do we do with the old truck?” Scott asked.

“Ideally, we’d push it off a cliff and it would explode in a ball of fire, but since there are no cliffs to be seen, I guess
we leave it here.”

“The cops will find it sooner or later.”

“Who cares?” I said. “They’ll tow it and send me a bill for the towing and storage. I’ll come up when things settle down,
get it fixed, and sell it.”

Scott followed my lead and began loading his guns and cold-weather gear into the new truck. I called the dogs and loaded them
into the new truck, with Wheat up front and Buck and Prince in the back. When it appeared that we had transferred everything,
I took one last look at the old truck and said, “We’ll always have Paris.”

I started up the truck and unfolded the Idaho map so that both Scott and I could see it. “Looks like we can take the state
highways back to Boise and pick up the interstate or head east into Montana and drop down into Wyoming.”

“I think we’ve worn out our welcome in Idaho,” Scott said.

It was already early afternoon. “All right,” I said, “we’ll see if we can make Bozeman or Billings tonight.”

I guided the truck back down to the highway, then headed east across northern Idaho. It was beautiful country, and aside from
the fact that too many neo-Nazis and white supremacists had chosen to call it home, my only complaint about the area was that
just about everything was named after Lewis and Clark. Bridges, schools, parks—they were all named after the two men Jefferson
had dispatched to explore the American West two centuries ago. There was even a Lewis and Clark Laundromat in one town.

“That must have been some trip,” I said. “Imagine seeing all this in its natural state.”

“Imagine paddling a canoe all day, eating an elk steak cooked over an open fire, then crawling into the tent with Sacagawea.
I wonder how two junior officers managed that assignment.”

“Clark was already out of the army when they began their journey,” I said. “Lewis asked him to tag along because he wanted
company and needed someone to handle the paperwork. Sort of like my relationship with you.”

Scott smiled and we continued east. After a while I picked up my Lewis and Clark cell phone and dialed the number for the
gas station in Blanca, Colorado.

“Who you calling?” Scott said.

“Uncle Ray,” I said.

“Crazy Uncle Ray?”

“Yeah. I figure it might be wise to have a little extra firepower while Jayne is visiting.”

“I’ll stay with you,” he said.

“I thought of that,” I said, “but then Jayne would know this is serious, and I don’t want her worrying about me.”

A woman at the gas station answered, and I asked her to take a message for Ray and give it to him if he happened to pass through
town. My mother’s youngest brother lives in a plywood shack on five acres of cactus-covered land outside Blanca. A former
merchant seaman, Ray was a drunk for much of his life, but he found Jesus several years ago at age fifty-six and now lives
in an impressive eight-by-twelve shack that he built in southern Colorado. He has no phone, no electricity, and no running
water, but he’s happy. And he’s good with a rifle. My mom grew up dirt poor in rural Alabama, and everyone in her family is
good with a rifle, including my mom.

Next I called the Nederland Police Department. Phyllis answered on the first ring. “Hi, Phyllis,” I said, “this is Pepper
Keane. Is Glen in? I really need to speak with him.”

“Just a sec,” she said. She put me on hold. Glen is Nederland’s chief of police. He runs the four-man department. The lanky
runner had been a cop in Houston for thirty years before taking the job in Nederland a few years back. Though he is soft-spoken,
he’s been a controversial figure because he actually enforces the drug laws. Well, most of them. Some of the hippies in Nederland
don’t like him, but the town seems to have reached a homeostasis in which everyone understands that the discreet use of marijuana
by adults is acceptable, but other drugs won’t be tolerated.

Glen’s voice came on the line. “Pepper,” he said, “I’ve been hearing rumors about you.”

“Is one of them that Thad Bugg wants me dead?”

“Yeah, that’s one. Another one is that the feds think you helped Bugg’s girlfriend disappear.”

“That one is bullshit,” I said. “Hell, I was trying to find her and convince her that the Witness Protection Program was a
good deal. We tracked her to Boise, but then the trail went cold and we got involved in some other things.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’d sure appreciate it if you guys could keep a close eye on my house. Jayne’s coming home this week, and it would be nice
if my house is still standing when she arrives. I’m afraid Bugg will try to torch it.”

“We’ll keep an eye on it.”

“Thanks.”

“Why on Earth did you steal Bugg’s dog?” Glen asked.

“Why climb the highest mountain? Why fly the Atlantic? Why does Rice play Texas?”

“I remember that speech,” he said. “I was in Houston when Kennedy gave it. It was nineteen sixty-two. You would have been
four or five years old.”

“Then let me finish,” I said. “I chose to steal that dog. I chose to steal that dog in this decade, not because it was easy,
but because it was hard. Because the goal of screwing with Bugg will serve to organize and measure the best of my energies
and skills, but that challenge is one I am willing to accept, one I am unwilling to postpone, and one which I intend to win.”

He laughed a little. “Let me know when you get back into town,” he said.

“I will,” I said. “By the way, I invited my uncle Ray to come visit until this thing with Bugg plays itself out. He’ll be
driving an old pickup with a big camper on the back.”

“I think I met him once. He’s the guy who thinks everyone is either a devil worshipper or a drug dealer, right?”

“In a nutshell,” I said.

“He may be onto something,” Glen said.

The sun went down, darkness came, and we found a nice restaurant in Bozeman. While we were waiting for the waitress to take
our order, I looked across at Scott and said, “This has to rank right up there with the worst days of my life. We got the
skinheads after us. We’ve got the Sons of Satan after us. The feds think we helped a critical witness disappear. We’ve been
shot at and we’ve shot at people. I had to hitchhike to Coeur d’Alene in the snow. I spent twenty thousand dollars in drug
money that isn’t even mine on a new truck. And I just invited Uncle Ray to my house for the holidays. It’s hard to imagine
how it could get much worse.”

The waitress arrived and asked if we wanted drinks. Scott ordered a cold beer. I asked for a diet Coke.

“Is Pepsi okay?” the waitress asked.

J
AYNE’S FLIGHT ARRIVED
at Denver International Airport just after nine on Saturday morning. I met her in the baggage claim. Even after a twelve-hour
flight she looked beautiful and refreshed. We embraced and she gave me a luscious kiss. She’s not much for makeup, but she
almost always wears pink lipstick. Her brand has a wonderfully erotic scent.

“It’s not fair for you to look so damn good right at the airport,” I said. “I don’t know if I can keep my hands off you during
the drive back to Ned.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” she said.

Luggage began to appear on the conveyor belt and to drop down onto the carousel. She pointed out her two bags and I snagged
them. “Do you have a coat in one of these?” I asked. “You’re going to need it.”

She found a coat in one of her bags and put it on. I started to carry her bags, but she pointed out that both of them had
wheels, and suggested that we each pull one. Then we walked out into the cold and onto the fifth and top level of the parking
garage. Because it is the top level, there is no roof above it. Most people avoid it for that reason, but I favor it because
I know it is directly across from the baggage claim and won’t require me to wait for an elevator.

The dogs started barking as we approached my truck. “You bought a new truck?” she said.

“Figured it was time,” I said.

I opened the door on the back of the shell and placed her bags in the back of the truck. Buck stuck his head through and she
caressed his massive face. “I missed you, big fella,” she said. His tail was wagging in overdrive.

“That’s Prince,” I said, though it was rather obvious. She motioned for him to come, but he backed up, raised his muzzle,
and let out a loud, melodic howl.

“He’s handsome,” she said.

I opened the passenger door, and little Wheat poked his black head out. She let him kiss her, then squeezed in beside him.

“You guys are my family,” she said as I started the truck. “I’m so lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one,” I said. I squeezed her hand.

I paid the parking attendant and aimed the truck in the direction of the airport exit. “I might as well tell you now,” I said.
“My uncle Ray is going to be staying with us for a few days.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to meet him,” she said. “He sounds like a real character.”

“He’s all that and more,” I said. “The good news is, he’ll probably spend most of his time in his camper, so he’ll be more
or less invisible.”

Jayne fell asleep on the drive back to Nederland. I was glad to have her home, but I had a lot of other things on my mind—Karlynn,
Bugg, and Skull to name just a few.

I had provided the recording of Skull’s voice to a female detective at the Denver Police Department as soon as Scott and I
had returned, but I hadn’t heard back from her yet. Her name was Michelle Simmons. In the course of our conversation we discovered
we had attended the same suburban high school and graduated together. But I had been a jock and she had been active in the
theater, so we had never gotten to know each other.

“I think we had a Latin class together,” she said.

“I took Latin because it was an easy A,” I said.

“Me too,” she said. “The only Latin phrase I use in my work is ’rigor mortis.’“

“I took three years of Latin and the only thing I remember is
Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari?
“

“Translation?”

“It’s Latin for ’How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?’“

As Jayne and I continued toward Nederland, I was amused that I had remembered that completely useless Latin phrase for close
to thirty years.

Uncle Ray was waiting for us when Jayne and I arrived, and he had a roaring fire going. I introduced them to each other. They
were quite a contrast. Jayne is five-ten and always looks like a model in an L.L. Bean catalog. Ray is five-six and usually
has a week’s worth of gray stubble on his face. “My, you sho’ are a pretty one,” he said to her.

The three of us sat at the dining table for a while and talked. I had been back for several days, and during that time Ray
and Prince had become good friends. We were doing our best to keep Prince indoors on the theory that the sighting of a bluetick
coonhound on my property would eliminate any doubt Bugg might have concerning my role in the theft of Prince and in Karlynn’s
disappearance.

Ray stood and stretched his arms. “Well,” he said, “I think I’ll head on out to my truck and take a nap. C’mon, Prince, let’s
you and me take a nap.”

Once Ray and Prince had departed, Jayne said, “I think my flight is catching up with me. I think I’ll take a nap too.”

“Get as much sleep as you can,” I said. “You’ll need your energy tonight.”

Not having a real job, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself. I read some philosophy for a while, then changed into my
workout clothes and went downstairs to lift weights and hit the heavy bag. Between Karlynn and our trip to Idaho, I hadn’t
been able to stick with my regular exercise routine, and I felt guilty about it.

Jayne woke up around three, and after discussing it, we decided neither of us really wanted to go out to eat, so we drove
to the B8cF to buy some groceries, then walked across to the liquor store and bought six bottles of red wine—cabernets, merlots,
and an Australian shiraz. On the way home I stopped at the post office to get Saturday’s mail. I left Jayne in the truck.
Most of my mail was junk, but there was a postcard from my brother. The front of the card featured a gorilla from the Denver
Zoo; on the back my brother had written: