Not that Charlie was the kind of guy to have a long--or short--discussion with anyway
The Old Man was in awe of Charlie Tibbs. Charlie's stillness and quiet resolve was something from another era. Charlie had never raised his voice since they had been together, and the Old Man often had to strain to even hear him. Despite his age (the Old Man guessed sixty-five, like him) and bone-white hair, Charlie was a powerful presence. Men who didn't know Charlie Tibbs, and who had never heard of his reputation, still seemed to tense up in Charlie's presence. The Old Man had seen that happen just this morning, as they neared Bremerton, Washington, from the east. When they entered a small cafe and Charlie walked down the aisle toward an empty booth, The Old Man had noticed how the rough crowd of construction workers and salmon fishermen paused over their chicken-fried steak and eggs and sat up straight as Charlie passed by them. There was just something about the man. And none of those workers or fishermen had any idea that this was Charlie Tibbs, the legendary stock detective, a man known for his skill at man hunting for over forty years throughout the Rocky Mountains, the Southwest, South America, and Western Canada. Since the days of the open range in the 1870s, stock detectives had played a unique role in cattle country Hired by individual ranchers or landowner consortiums, stock detectives hunted down rustlers, nesters, and vandals in an effort to bring those offenders to justice. Or, in some cases, to remove them from the earth. Few stock detectives still existed. Of those who did, Charlie Tibbs was considered the best. All these locals knew was that this tall man with white hair and a Stetson was someone out of the ordinary, somebody special. Someone who made them sit up straight as he passed by.
'I don't like this rain,' the Old Man said, raising his voice over the drumming on the top of the cab. 'And I don't think I like this part of the country. I'm not used to this. If you died out there tonight you'd be covered by weeds before morning.'
The Old Man waited for a response or a reaction but all there was from Charlie was the twitch of a smile. 'I just don't think you can trust a place where they have leaves bigger than a man's head,' the Old Man offered.
The Old Man watched as Charlie raised his hands--he had huge, powerful hands--and rested them on top of the steering wheel. Charlie's index finger flicked out, pointing through the windshield. The Old Man's eyes followed the gesture.
'There he is,' Charlie said flatly. 'He's home and it looks like he's by himself.'
'Did he see us?' the Old Man asked.
'He didn't even look. He drove up without his headlights. He must be drunk.'
The Old Man raised a heavy pair of night vision binoculars. Through the ram-streaked windshield, he could clearly see Hayden Powell's car cruise up the drive slowly, as if anticipating that the garage door would open, which it didn't. Powell applied the brake inches from the door and his taillights flashed a burst of light that temporarily blinded the Old Man through the binoculars--and he cursed.
All the Old Man could see was a green and white orb similar to the aftereffect of a flashbulb. While the Old Man waited for his eyes to readjust, Charlie gently took the binoculars from him to look.
'He's drunk,' Charlie declared. 'Just as we thought he would be. He couldn't figure out how to open his garage and now he's trying to figure out which key to use to open the door. He dropped his keys in the grass. Now he's on his hands and knees looking for them. We could get him now'
The Old Man looked to Charlie for guidance. What weapons would they use? What was the plan here? The Old Man fought back panic.
The Old Man didn't know a lot about Hayden Powell but he knew enough. He knew that Powell was a well- known environmental writer who had originally come to fame by writing many articles about and later the biography of his boyhood friend, Stewie Woods. Powell had struck it rich, not in publishing but through an early investment in a Seattle-based software company As the company took off, professional management was brought in to run it and Powell was eased out. With his huge home, bulging stock portfolio, and free time, he had returned to the two things he loved most: drinking tequila and writing provocative pieces on the environment.
The rumor was that his next book would be titled Screwing Up the West and was a vicious indictment of corporations, landowners, and politicians. Excerpts had been published in magazines and journals. Powell was in big trouble, though. The SEC was investigating the software company and investors who Powell had recruited-- many of whom had sunk millions into the company--were furious. There had been death threats made against Powell, which he duly reported to the SEC and the FBI. Powell had even been quoted as saying that he looked forward to going to jail, where he would feel safer.
And now the Old Man and Charlie were here to kill him--but not because of the failing software company Charlie had said it needed to look as if an angry investor had done it or had it done. There should be absolutely no link to the upcoming book
The Old Man had not been told what the details of the plan would be. He was uncomfortable, and scared. He wasn't like Charlie--these things didn't come naturally to him. He did not want to disappoint either Charlie or his employers, but this thing was getting bigger and more complicated than he had thought it would be. What was he supposed to do, run across the grass and hit Powell in the back of the head with a hammer? Shoot the guy in the dark? What?
'He's up and he's in,' Charlie said, lowering the binoculars.
The Old Man watched as the porch light went on. They followed Powell's drunken progress through his house as he switched on lights. First the kitchen, then the bathroom, then the living room. They waited.
'He's probably passed out on his couch,' Charlie whispered after nearly an hour.
'What is the plan?' the Old Man asked, trying to suppress the panic he felt rising up in him.
Oddly Charlie Tibbs smiled, showing his perfect teeth, and turned in his seat. The smile made the Old Man fee! better, but it also disturbed him in a way he couldn't put his finger on.
'Later .. . ,' Charlie began, the word drowned out by the ram. 'I'll tell you later when you need to know.'
Wearing A rain suit with a hood that slipped over his clothes and covered his face, the Old Man waited in the soaking undergrowth until Charlie Tibbs reached the front door. When Charlie signaled him, the Old Man raised his scoped and silenced .22 rifle and shot out the back porch light with a sound no louder than a cough. The Old Man had shot from an angle so the bullet would pass cleanly through the lamp and lightbulb and off into the night. It would not be wise to leave a bullet lodged in the siding that might be found by investigators. Now the outside of the expensive home of Hayden Powell was once again dark. With a tiny flashlight in his mouth, the Old Man located the spent brass casing that had been ejected from the rifle into the mud. He pocketed it while he walked across the lawn toward the darkened back door. While the tire tracks and footprints would be washed away in the driving rain, bullet casings could be recovered.
