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Authors: Ridley Pearson
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one, didn’t want to touch him.
“Can’t get up. Bad foot,” the man complained, still face down, straining to see Tyler.
“Bad?” Tyler asked.
“Cut it.”
Cut?
Tyler wondered.
As in knife blade? As in bleeding?
“Cut it how?” was all that came out of him. He tried to get a decent look, but the lump wasn’t cooperating. Tyler’s heart was somewhere in the middle of his throat and straining to get out. He had a feeling he was looking down at one of their two suspects.
Tyler called out loudly to the others. “How’d this guy hurt his foot? Or did he show up here with it that way?”
“Chopping wood,” one of the drunken three called out from the fire.
“Was not!” the shorter man objected. “Someone done it to him!” he shouted.
Any kind of bad cut could explain the excessive blood in the boxcar. Maybe Priest was to get her wish; maybe this was going to be a brief one after all.
Tyler nudged the lump again. “Who did this to you?” He toed the layers of covering and flipped them off the man’s leg. The odor was nauseating. His stomach retched, and he nearly vomited. This, from a homicide cop with a decade of dead bodies under his belt. Dead was sometimes easier than living.
Priest and the others stood in a tight group. She appeared to be shining a penlight on something in her hand. She glanced over her shoulder—had she sensed him?—and turned her back just slightly toward him.
Was she blocking his view?
he wondered.
Or trying to stay warm?
When sheturned again, the penlight and whatever had been in her hand were put away.
The lower extremity of the man’s left leg looked half frozen, swollen and busting out of itself, like an overcooked sausage. The pant leg was torn to accommodate the swelling, but the boot remained on, split down the middle of the toes in a horrid, blackened wedge. If anything matched the carnage they’d found in the boxcar, this foot was it.
Tyler stepped away and took in some fresh air. He approached Priest and signaled her away from the fire drum. She stepped off a few feet so they could speak, but she never took her eyes off the four, even as Tyler spoke.
“Could be our boy,” he announced.
“Not according to our witnesses. They’re claiming his injury happened here.”
“Covering is all.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“What was that,” he asked, “you and the light?”
The fire flickered across her face, and for a moment she seemed frozen—and not by the cold air. She answered, “My ID? Just now? I was trying to convince them that I wasn’t any kind of cop, just a security guard accompanying you out here. That they could tell me stuff without worrying about getting arrested.” She added, “I showed them my corporate creds, but I’m not so convinced they can read anything beyond ‘No Deposit, No Return.’ ”
He liked that.
“Guy’s foot is cleaved in half. Could easily explain the boxcar.”
“They say it happened here,” she repeated. “In camp.”
“Chopping wood, I suppose,” he proposed to her.
“That’s right.”
Raising his voice, Tyler addressed the four. “So where’s the axe?”
The bewildered men looked between themselves. Their spokesman said unconvincingly, “Snow musta covered it.”
“Sure it did,” Tyler said to Priest. Indicating the shelter, Tyler said, “We can’t leave him.” He added, “He’s dying, going on dead. Besides, he’d like a beer.”
“You’re kidding, right? You want to baby-sit this guy?”
“I want answers from him. How his foot got that way, and who did it to him. Having him alive to give us those answers would help.”
She said, “So call him an ambulance.”
“You think they’ll prescribe a six-pack of beer?” He added, “That beer is the quickest way to our answers, and you know it. Or would you rather wait around in an emergency room all night while they clean up that wound and knock him out with sedatives?”
“We are
not
taking this guy out in the Suburban,” she
“Can’t get up. Bad foot,” the man complained, still face down, straining to see Tyler.
“Bad?” Tyler asked.
“Cut it.”
Cut?
Tyler wondered.
As in knife blade? As in bleeding?
“Cut it how?” was all that came out of him. He tried to get a decent look, but the lump wasn’t cooperating. Tyler’s heart was somewhere in the middle of his throat and straining to get out. He had a feeling he was looking down at one of their two suspects.
Tyler called out loudly to the others. “How’d this guy hurt his foot? Or did he show up here with it that way?”
“Chopping wood,” one of the drunken three called out from the fire.
“Was not!” the shorter man objected. “Someone done it to him!” he shouted.
Any kind of bad cut could explain the excessive blood in the boxcar. Maybe Priest was to get her wish; maybe this was going to be a brief one after all.
Tyler nudged the lump again. “Who did this to you?” He toed the layers of covering and flipped them off the man’s leg. The odor was nauseating. His stomach retched, and he nearly vomited. This, from a homicide cop with a decade of dead bodies under his belt. Dead was sometimes easier than living.
Priest and the others stood in a tight group. She appeared to be shining a penlight on something in her hand. She glanced over her shoulder—had she sensed him?—and turned her back just slightly toward him.
Was she blocking his view?
he wondered.
Or trying to stay warm?
When sheturned again, the penlight and whatever had been in her hand were put away.
The lower extremity of the man’s left leg looked half frozen, swollen and busting out of itself, like an overcooked sausage. The pant leg was torn to accommodate the swelling, but the boot remained on, split down the middle of the toes in a horrid, blackened wedge. If anything matched the carnage they’d found in the boxcar, this foot was it.
Tyler stepped away and took in some fresh air. He approached Priest and signaled her away from the fire drum. She stepped off a few feet so they could speak, but she never took her eyes off the four, even as Tyler spoke.
“Could be our boy,” he announced.
“Not according to our witnesses. They’re claiming his injury happened here.”
“Covering is all.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“What was that,” he asked, “you and the light?”
The fire flickered across her face, and for a moment she seemed frozen—and not by the cold air. She answered, “My ID? Just now? I was trying to convince them that I wasn’t any kind of cop, just a security guard accompanying you out here. That they could tell me stuff without worrying about getting arrested.” She added, “I showed them my corporate creds, but I’m not so convinced they can read anything beyond ‘No Deposit, No Return.’ ”
He liked that.
“Guy’s foot is cleaved in half. Could easily explain the boxcar.”
“They say it happened here,” she repeated. “In camp.”
“Chopping wood, I suppose,” he proposed to her.
“That’s right.”
Raising his voice, Tyler addressed the four. “So where’s the axe?”
The bewildered men looked between themselves. Their spokesman said unconvincingly, “Snow musta covered it.”
“Sure it did,” Tyler said to Priest. Indicating the shelter, Tyler said, “We can’t leave him.” He added, “He’s dying, going on dead. Besides, he’d like a beer.”
“You’re kidding, right? You want to baby-sit this guy?”
“I want answers from him. How his foot got that way, and who did it to him. Having him alive to give us those answers would help.”
She said, “So call him an ambulance.”
“You think they’ll prescribe a six-pack of beer?” He added, “That beer is the quickest way to our answers, and you know it. Or would you rather wait around in an emergency room all night while they clean up that wound and knock him out with sedatives?”
“We are
not
taking this guy out in the Suburban,” she
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