Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (15 page)

* * *

Present time.

Pippa laughed into the cell phone, doing her best, at least partially, to obstruct her face. The man wearing the white windbreaker was standing off to the side. Nearby, an elderly lady looked ready to feed a few swans. Earlier, Pippa hadn’t a problem fitting into Arli’s youthful outfit. She was a bit surprised how perfectly the little black skirt fit around her waist. Suspecting Arli’s apartment to be monitored, they’d worked out the switch—to take place inside Starbucks, in the bathroom. Once inside there, they quickly hugged and proceeded to exchange clothes.

Now … in the park, so far so good: If the man following her suspected anything, Pippa couldn’t tell. Holding her phone to her ear, she turned around, leaning her backside onto the railing. Baltimore was seventy-five yards away—on the other side of the pond—holding binoculars. He was on the other end of the call, relaying the exact movements of Arli’s pursuer, and now hers.

“Okay … grandma just rushed off in a huff. Be ready,” Baltimore said.

“You know, I loved that movie too! The ending … oh my god …”

“He’s moving now. He’s reaching into his right front pocket. Can’t see what he has there yet. Be ready!”

“You really are silly. No, I wasn’t drunk, I’m not a big drinker.” Pippa had no idea what she was saying—pretty much just talking gibberish—trying to look like a relaxed young woman ten years her junior. She could see his face clearly now for the first time. He was pleasant looking, with a nice, almost peaceful, expression—a man out for an early morning walk in the park.

“Be ready … whatever is in his hand—”

Pippa never heard the rest of Baltimore’s sentence.

I was awakened at 5:30 the next morning by the sound of a diesel engine revving somewhere nearby outside our window.

“What the hell is that noise?” Carmen asked, draping an arm over her face. “Don’t look at me,” she said, pulling the blanket up over her head. “Oh God, you’re used to perfect little Pippa. I must be a frightening sight to you.”

“Oh come on, that’s nonsense.” I got up and went to the window and peered out through the curtains. “Looks like John Wayne is maneuvering a tractor rig into the circular drive below. He’s pulling a flatbed trailer … stacked with bales of hay. Your ride’s here.”

When I turned back she was already scurrying into the bathroom. “Not a morning person, huh?” I remarked, suddenly needing to sit back down.

“Just find me some coffee.” A moment later, though, she peered around the door. “Hello? You okay?”

I was seated back on the bed. I’d planned on getting up hours earlier, two or three in the morning, but without my phone’s alarm function, I’d slept through to daylight. “Not a hundred percent. Need to tap in … I’m way overdue.” I raised a hand and saw tremors starting up.

“And I was worried how I looked,” she said, looking concerned. “Why don’t you get in the shower first … get dressed.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

* * *

Showered and dressed, I emerged from the steamy bathroom feeling somewhat better. Carmen greeted me, holding a large mug out. “Caffeine … stimulates the release of dopamine.”

I took the hot mug from her. “Thanks.” I gulped down several large swallows, and felt the hot liquid hit my stomach. “I need to find where the power panels are to this place.”

“I’m a step ahead of you. The kitchen help is a yappy group.” She looked at me with concern. “You know, if you had told me about this … this condition earlier, I could have made special arrangements. Come up with—”

I held up a hand. “Please … the panels?”

“Oh, sorry. Unfortunately, the incoming power feed and panels are located in a separate structure, adjacent to the main lodge here.”

A knock on the door was followed by a woman’s voice. “Breakfast in the main hall. Ten minutes.”

It was John Wayne’s ditsy wife, Harriet. A moment later, we heard tapping on the door next to ours. “Breakfast in the main hall in ten minutes.”

I said, “Finish up getting ready, and I’ll go and get the lay of the land outside. I’m used to this routine.”

* * *

Guests were already milling around downstairs, and there seemed to be more kids than I remembered seeing at supper. The front double-doors were open and I could see John outside, still trying to maneuver the big, brand new-looking tractor rig around. Either Jude, or Jordan, was standing behind him, signaling with his hands as John slowly backed up, but his angling was wrong. It was evident the Duke hadn’t a clue how to drive a tractor, let alone one pulling a large flatbed trailer behind it. Fortunately for me, a significant crowd had formed outside, around the front of the lodge. Men, accustomed to being in positions of power, barked off suggestions and outright commands. By the look on John Wayne’s reddening face, he was about ready to tell them all to shut the hell up.

I took a left at the bottom of the stairs that led into a wide corridor. I passed by the busy kitchen, preparing for the breakfast service, and found a series of sliding-glass doors leading out to the back, east-facing, yard. Twenty paces further on was the start of an Aspen grove of trees—mostly saplings. I stopped and wavered some as the shakes hit me full-force; the scenery around me was spinning.

“Hey, you all right, man?”

“Fine … must be the altitude,” I said. At first, I thought the man standing before me was part of John Wayne’s security team from Guffy, but he was no local mountain dude, carrying a six-shooter. The man was highly trained—most likely a special-ops soldier. It takes one to know one. I had wondered how Rudy Palmolive was handling his own security—now I knew. Leaving things to the likes of Jude, Jordan, and the others wouldn’t have sufficed. Although this man, like me, was dressed in Western garb, he carried a shoulder-slung automatic rifle, and wore a holstered Beretta side arm on his upper thigh. Three men, similarly outfitted, were also moving around, patrolling off in the distance.

“Take care of yourself,” he said. I noticed a small comms device in one ear as he moved away. Looking to my right, down a path, I noticed an open-sided wooden gazebo. Off to the left, north, was a large garage structure of sorts, and twenty yards beyond that—a low-profiled building with a facade covering of grayish river rock.
Bingo
. I started walking in that direction.

I could see only a single entrance into the structure, located on its far side, with cement steps leading down to a nondescript metal door. It looked profoundly strong, impregnable for someone in my shaky state. I followed the steps down, as if I’d done so a hundred times before—acting like I belonged there. Reaching for the doorknob, it suddenly swung out, and a woman wearing all white, a stained apron tied around her waist, abruptly rushed out. I jumped back out of the way and gave her an impatient glare. “You best watch what you’re doing next time, young lady.” Clutching a large sack of potatoes in both arms, she offered an apologetic cringe as she hurried past me and up the stairs.

I wasted no time entering the rock structure. Immediately feeling the difference in temperature—cool and musky—I found myself standing in a large slump-stone room. Off to the right were heavy metal shelves, holding food stores—commercial-sized boxes of cereal, instant potatoes, and premixed cornbread. Directly in front of me was a large black cylindrical tank, holding Propane, I guessed, and beyond that were the electrical panels.

* * *

Thirteen minutes later, I found Carmen, seated in the main dining hall.

“I ordered for you,” she said, gesturing to the stack of pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs sitting on the table right before me. She was halfway through her own meal. “There’s more of Harriet’s home-made cornbread, I hear … if you want any.”

My mind flashed to the stores of dry goods I’d just seen—the boxes of instant potatoes and pre-mixed cornbread. “No … that’s okay.” Famished, I dug into my eggs.

By the time I finished eating, the hall was practically empty. I found Carmen out front, waiting for me. John was rounding the distant bend, behind the wheel of the tractor.

“Feel better?”

“Much … thanks.”

“We’re in the last group. Everyone’s required to go on the hayride, this is how we get to the stables.”

I remembered John mentioning that everyone got a horse to ride. I thought about us, the last two to mosey on down to the stables. Could be only slim pickens left—old nags or obstinate fillies. I noticed two small boys, giggling, as they were boosted up onto the tractor’s wide fenders. Jude assisted them on one side, Jordan on the other. Things were looking up. Rudy Palmolive, aka Billy the Kid, was among our group, as was his demure wife.

“Ready?” Carmen asked, heading toward the back of the trailer.

“Save me a seat … I’ll just be a second.”

Billy the Kid and Carolina were already seated atop high-stacked hay bales on the flatbed, closest to the wide rear fenders of the tractor pulling them, where their two sons now perched. John Wayne, who must have made this same trek three or four times already, looked impatient to leave. I gave him a friendly nod and looked up at Carolina.

“Good morning, Doc,” she said, brightening at my approach.

“Good morning. Hey … I don’t mean to be a damper here, but your boys …” I gestured to them both, seated on the rear fenders next to John. “Take a good look at those big smooth fenders. You know what they look like to me?”

She looked somewhat confused and Rudy had lost his smile.

“They look like kiddie slides. You know, the plastic-coated slides you see at playgrounds all over? Those tractor wheels are seven feet high, a foot and a half wide. How easy do you think it could be for one, or both, of your boys to slip forward—down onto the road—and get run over? Just one good jostle …”

Her hands rose to her mouth. Simultaneously, Billy the Kid jumped to his feet, reaching out first for one boy, then for the other. They protested but were soon seated securely beside their mother.

Carolina said, “Thank you! Oh my God, I can’t believe I let them sit up there like that, so unsecured.”

Rudy nodded at me then quickly turned his attention on the back of John Wayne’s hatted head. Standing, he struck at John’s black Stetson with his fist, sending it flying into the air before it settled on the gravel drive below.

John quickly began to swing around, his hand reaching for his Colt. Rudy, though small in stature, suddenly looked much, much bigger. He moved fast, grabbing a fistful of John’s collar, jerking him awkwardly backward. In the distance, I heard the telltale sound of a round being chambered into an automatic weapon: Rudy’s security team. “Jeopardize the safety of my family again like that and I’ll kill you. You understand me?”

John, still half-turned backward, didn’t answer.

“Don’t forget who you’re working for. Now drive this thing and try not to kill anyone in the process.”

As I made my way to the rear of the trailer bed, I peered into both Rudy’s and John’s minds. John was going to make me pay for this. He’d killed men before … more than a few. Somehow, some way, I was to become the victim of a fatal accident during my stay at Morning Hawk Ranch. Rudy, on the other hand, although inwardly fuming, was thankful for my intervention. Just maybe, I’d made a new friend. As I stumbled, moving between hay bales and scooting close to Carmen, I thought of Pippa. Was I wasting precious time here while she suffered at the hands of Heidi and Leon Goertz? Was she still alive? I needed to ratchet-up the timetable. The tractor got underway. We passed a group of ranch hands—one was Jude—his leveled gaze held steady on mine.

I finally convinced Carmen, who was quite reluctant, to stay close to Carolina and join the posse in tracking down John Wesley Hardin, the notorious gunfighter.

I stood at the corral railing, next to Billy the Kid. We were both told to hurry up and select a ride. From what I’d heard one of the ranch hands say, there’d been fifty horses earlier this morning to choose from. Now, there were only six. The only other person standing at the railing was the robust, pink-cheeked U.S. congressman who represented either Georgia or West Virginia.

The lot of them—the few nags left—looked fairly pathetic. One was, in my guesstimation, not a horse at all but a boney pony. I patted my chest and felt the pinned-on metal star. As the newly appointed sheriff, it hardly seemed appropriate for me to go riding into town with my feet dragging on the ground.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” the congressman said, holding out a beefy hand. “I’m Butch … Butch Cassidy.”

I shook his hand. “Doc Holliday.”

“He’s Sheriff Doc Holliday,” Billy the Kid added, his eyes studying the six horses. One was down on the ground, lying on her side. I quickly verified that she was only sleeping by a quick look-see into the horse’s mind.

“That at least makes the selection process somewhat easier,” Butch said, gesturing toward the prone horse. “The small one’s out for me … I’m too damn big. Probably you are too … huh, Sheriff?” Butch asked.

Billy turned on the congressman. “What are you saying? You implying something? That maybe I should take the fucking pony?”

Once again, I watched the leader of the Council of Five, perhaps the most powerful, influential man on the planet, go ballistic. I stayed out of it.

“I’m liking that chestnut,” I said.

“No … that’s the one I’ve been looking at. Pick another,” Billy said, signaling to the closest ranch hand.

Gray horse is good.

I turned to see who had said that. It wasn’t Butch and it wasn’t Billy, already hurrying toward the corral’s gate. Butch was busy, patting a small, somewhat mangy-looking dog on top of his head. He stooped to examine a hanging ident tag on the dog’s collar. “Ol’ Yeller 2.” The dog was looking up at me.

Did you say that?

The gray is a fine horse. The others all have issues. Especially the chestnut … he bites.