Charges (34 page)

“Are we staying here?” Gabby asked.

“Yeah, for a second.”

“
Puzzle
!” Daniel shouted again. “I want
puzzle
!”

“Okay. Okay.” Vincenzo looked around the seat and spotted the hanger on the floor, just out of Daniel’s reach. He picked it up and handed it to the boy. Daniel calmed down immediately when he wrapped his fingers around it.

“Oh, look! A horsie!” Gabby said, pointing out the windshield.

Vincenzo faced forward and saw the man who had done all the gesturing was astride a brown-and-white spotted horse. He wore a cowboy-style hat and a uniform. A badge on his left breast glinted in the sunlight.

And even more awesomeness. I’m sitting in a dead man’s truck, with another dead man’s kids. What’s going to happen if he asks for license and registration? Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do.
“Lawman’s comin’,” he muttered.

“Is he a cowboy?” Gabby asked.

“Maybe. You guys stay here, all right?” He thought about the .45 tucked between the driver’s seat and center console. “Don’t touch anything.” Vincenzo slowly opened the door and pulled the rifle across the driver’s seat as he crawled out of the Blazer.

The horse click-clacked toward him. The man was in his seventies, at least, and whipcord thin. He had a white mustache, and pale eyes gleamed in his tan face. He reminded Vincenzo of the actor Richard Farnsworth.

The man nodded toward the idling Blazer. “Never did get too many of these up this way, even before the event.” His voice was hoarse, likely from too many cigarettes. “I’m Jeremiah Foster, county sheriff’s office. And who might you be?”

“Tony Vincenzo.”

“Where from and where to, Mr. Vincenzo? I see you have children with you.”

“From New York, heading to California.”

“Quite a hike, but it looks like you have the wheels for it.” Foster leaned forward in the saddle. “Nice M1 on the front seat. Thinking of using it?”

“Not unless there’s a reason to.” Vincenzo nodded toward the bridge. “Can I pass through, please?”

“We’ll talk about that. You have any idea what’s happening in Washington?”

“Seems like some sort of marauders or something came in and sacked the town. I’m trying to avoid them. They’re not the kind of people you want to run into.”

Foster cocked his head. “Any idea how many?”

Vincenzo shrugged. “I’ve seen maybe a dozen or so. They have vehicles. And they’re killers. I guess they take whatever they need through raiding, and they don’t seem to be too particular about who gets hurt. Including kids.” He gestured at Gabby, who was peering at them from between the seats. “One of them tried to rape her.”

Foster’s brows went up beneath his hat. “And what happened to that guy?”

Vincenzo patted the stock of the M1. “This.”

The old man nodded. “I see. Well, I’m going to guess the local police weren’t of much help.”

“They’re either dead, run off, or threw in with the bad guys.”

“Are they headed our way?” Foster asked.

“I think so. Eventually, maybe. And if not them, then a few thousand refugees from Pittsburgh. I figure either one is going to be bad. So how about it. Can we pass through? If not, I’m turning around and looking for another route.”

Foster peered down at Vincenzo then glanced at the kids in the truck. “You can pass through, but you can’t stop. Not much to look at, anyway. Just a few dozen folks and their families. When you get to the second intersection, turn right. That’ll take you up and around and drop you off on US 40 about six miles down, in Claysville. You planning on taking that cross country?”

“I was.”

Foster nodded. “Seems like a safer bet than the interstates, right now, though probably not without risk. You thinking of hopping on I-70 for a stretch? You might make some time.”

“Don’t know. I’ll have to check it out, first.”

“You know anything else about these marauders that might be coming our way?”

Vincenzo tried to recall what the dying guy had said. “I was told that Roth was going to kill me. I guess he’s their leader or something.”

“You know anything about this man Roth?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “Not a damn thing. Hey, do you have any fuel I can lift from you? This thing, she’s mighty thirsty.”

“Not me. But when you get across the bridge, ask that fat fella in the yellow fishing hat. His name’s Sylvester, and he’ll probably sell you some. He runs the only gas station in town. But I’ll tell you, he’s going to gouge you. Sylvester’s the greediest sumbitch I think I’ve ever met.”

“You from here, Sheriff?”

Foster nodded. “Born and bred in Taylorville. Sounds like I might die in it too, but that was always part of the plan.” He sighed. “It’ll be a shame to go before I see eighty, though.”

27

Roth walked around in the field, taking in the scene. The path the man had taken through the grass was clear, but there were three separate tracks through the greenery, not just one. Those were closely followed by the vehicles: Harley’s bike and the two ATVs ridden by men whose names Roth couldn’t recall. They were just fodder for the army. Their loss didn’t faze him in the slightest. It was what they were made for; otherwise, they wouldn’t have come under his control.

But Harley... that was a loss he felt personally. It wasn’t that he had great kinship with the dead biker, though the man had been one of the few people Roth had been friendly with in prison. Harley had spent decades in the penal system, and he knew how things worked. He knew how to motivate, oversee, and get things done. People trusted Harley as if he were a favorite uncle, even though he was mean enough to kill anyone who got in his way. When he saw something he wanted, he simply took it, and if someone stood between him and the item he coveted, he took the person out. There was no mystery to Harley. He was bright enough to know when it was time to let others do the work for him and savvy enough to understand that he sometimes had to do things by himself. He had advised Roth faithfully over the past couple of weeks since leaving the prison, and his advice had been solid and sound. Roth had over two thousand people in his employ, and a large share of the credit went to Harley.

But Harley was dead, his body half-hidden beneath his Road King.

He had obviously been gunned down while reaching for his revolver, since it was still clutched in his right hand. He had fired one shot from it, and from the looks of it, that bullet had struck the unknown man lying in the grass several feet away. The other two were fairly far apart. The taller one had been shot twice, and the third—who was inexplicably half-naked—had been hit three times. Something more had happened to him besides the shooting because his blood was smeared across a few feet of grass. He had been attacked, either after he was dead or when he lay dying. From the amount of blood, Roth rather suspected it was the latter. The man had most likely done something to call that treatment down upon him, and Roth wondered what it might have been.

From what Roth could tell, someone had ambushed Harley and company from the woods. They had found several expended cartridges—.308 Winchester, perfect man-killing rounds—in the brush. He told one of his guys to stand in the same approximate place as the gunman had, and he saw the shooter had been only partially concealed. A careful examination of the trees would have revealed his position. That was the problem with driving people like cattle; it made the warriors complacent. Clearly, Harley had fallen victim to that and paid a steep price for his lack of attention to detail.

A smaller path through the grass told him that one person—a child, perhaps?—had joined the shooter and walked a meandering course to the rocky trail that led into the woods on the hillside. A larger path indicated that the shooter had led another person to the same trail. Further investigation down the trail revealed rugged tread marks, evidence that a vehicle had been parked there.

But he didn’t learn anything new, only confirmed the reports from the people at the other side of the trail. One of them had been killed, and another was so severely wounded that she would probably die from her injuries after her ATV had been struck. He’d already been told that the black SUV that had come bolting down the trail was an older one, bigger than a vintage Bronco, which meant it was either a Chevy or an International. The vehicle was driven by a man wearing a baseball cap, and at least one child had been spotted in the backseat. The man had sped across US 40 and up the winding road opposite. Roth wondered if the guy was a local, since he had foregone the wider and more direct highway at the intersection. The man would have been dozens of miles away before Roth had even arrived on scene.

“Two things: it was either an opportunistic killing, or the guy was lying in wait.” Clarissa didn’t look at him. Her green eyes were locked on Harley’s corpse.

He hadn’t invited her to speak, but he could forgive the transgression at the moment. She had been a homicide detective in Pittsburgh. Caught up in the orgy of violence Roth’s people had cut across the state, she had joined them willingly. Clarissa Yarborough was damaged goods, a police officer who had seen society swing too far to the left and had watched her beloved Pittsburgh become a town corrupted by union officials and spineless professional politicians. She had even married one of those pathetic creatures, a district attorney. She had left him months ago, right after quitting her job after almost ten years on the force.

She had soon become one of Roth’s concubines, but she willingly submitted to him. Roth appreciated that. He knew full well that in the dom/sub relationship, the submissive held the real power and that she had ceded it to him by choice, not just to save her life, but because she craved the type of leadership a man like him could provide. He could sew up the fraying fabric of society in the way that only a true apex predator could—through savagery, oppression, and when it suited him, guile.

“So which is it?” Roth asked.

Clarissa poked around the area where the shooter had engaged. “Opportunity,” she said finally. “I think he was seen, probably by Harley, who got one shot. The others were moving, so they got multiple shots, some of them pretty sloppy. But they all hit. No other cartridges lying around. And the one without the pants did something that really set him off. No idea what, but I know the guy was a pedophile. After they killed the father, he might have tried to do something to one of the kids.”

Roth considered that. “I don’t think Harley would have allowed that.”

Clarissa looked back at the old biker’s body. “He wasn’t turned this way, but he must’ve looked over here. It’s the only way he could have been shot through the mouth.”

“So our shooter fired out of self-defense, then took the kids. He’s a family man, someone with some morals left. Probably a backwoods country boy,” Roth mused.

“He didn’t go down the highway. Maybe he’s heading home.”

“Yes.” Roth nodded. “Let’s go find him.”

Clarissa tilted her head. “May I ask why?”

Roth fixed her with a hot gaze, and she looked away. He humored her by answering anyway. “He shot Harley. Anyone else, I would have chalked it up to the way things work out. But I liked Harley. I want to find the bastard. Clear enough?”

“Yes, sir,” she said immediately, her voice small. “Who will you send after him?”

“Hey, I’ll go,” Toombs said. He was walking toward them, and for once, his stupid face had a hard set to it. The Q-Tip was pissed.

“I’ll see to it myself,” Roth said.

Toombs’s face fell. “I can do it, if you want.”

“I’ll do it,” Roth repeated. “You’re welcome to come along, Toombs.”

Toombs brightened immediately. Roth didn’t really need him, but the man was just too stupid to leave to his own devices. Harley had been good at minding Toombs. Roth would have to find another babysitter for him.

“Okay, ready when you are,” Toombs said. His buck teeth glistened in the sunlight.

“Gather some men. Fifteen or twenty should be good enough. We’ll move as a group.” Roth looked back at Clarissa speculatively. “You’re coming, too.”

“Yes, sir.”