Below Zero

Coon stared at Joe skeptically.

Joe said, “April’s not here. Every minute we wait for your team she gets farther away.”

Coon threw up his hands, said, “We don’t even know that she was ever here, Joe. Come on . . .”

Joe held up his hand and extended a finger for every point: “One, she said she was going to a ranch in the Black Hills. Two, these guys are associated with Stenko. Three, the caller said there were people who might be injured. Four, someone who is not on the floor in there stood outside the house and fired inside. Which says to me they got away from here and they probably took April, who might be hurt.”

“Is there a five?” Coon asked sarcastically.

“Five, where else could she be?”

“Go home, Joe,” Coon said. “For once, I agree with Portenson. We’ve got this handled. There’s nothing you can do. Plus—”

Joe waited. Coon didn’t finish. Instead, he stepped out of the way of the EMTs who came crashing through the door with a body on a gurney. Joe stepped aside as well and walked alongside the gurney, hoping the slight middle-aged man beneath the sheet would open his eyes. The man—Leo Dyekman—was ghostly white. Swinging plastic units of blood coursed into both arms as they wheeled him toward the open ambulance. Joe recognized the stitched brown cowboy shirt Dyekman was wearing as one he’d seen on a Western wear store clearance rack.

“Leo, talk to me,” Joe said, prodding Leo’s chest.

“Please don’t touch him,” a bearded EMT warned.

“Leo, where’s April?”

“Man . . .” the EMT said, shaking his head.

“Leo!”

And Leo’s eyes shot open.

“Jesus,” the EMT said, as surprised as Joe.

Joe reached out and stopped the gurney and leaned over the victim. His eyes were open but there was no expression on his face. “Can you hear me?”

Dyekman groaned.

“Leo, who shot you?”

“Fuck. I’m gonna die.”

“No you’re not. You’ll be fine. Now who shot you?”

Dyekman rolled his head to the side. “I think Robert. But it could have been Natty. Lots of shots.”

“Robert Stenson?”

“Who else?” As he said it, his eyes drooped. Joe didn’t think Dyekman would be conscious much longer.

“Was there a girl in the house?”

“Stenko,” Dyekman said. “That damned Stenko got the cash.”

“Clear the way,” the bearded EMT said to Joe. “We need to get going. You can talk to him later in the hospital.” He pushed on the gurney and the lead EMT pulled. Joe walked alongside.

“What about the girl?” Joe asked again.

“What about her?”

He felt a thrill. “So there was a girl. Do you know who she was?”

Dyekman’s face contorted with pain.

Joe slapped him. The bearded EMT said, “Hey!” One of the sheriff’s deputies guarding the front door broke away and started jogging toward them, his hand on his weapon.

“Did you see what he just did?” the EMT said to the deputy.

“Clear the hell away, mister,” the deputy growled.

But the slap had opened Dyekman’s eyes again. Joe cocked his hand as if to do it again.

Dyekman said, “I didn’t get her name!”

“Blond? Fourteen?”

“Could be.”

The deputy bear-hugged Joe while the EMTs rolled Dyekman into the ambulance.

“Man, what’s wrong with you?” the deputy hissed into Joe’s ear.

“Let me down,” Joe said. “I got what I needed.”

When the deputy released him, Joe turned toward his pickup near the Quonset hut. Sheridan had watched the altercation and looked to him with pleading eyes. He knew what she was asking: Was April here? He nodded: “Yes.”

“SHE WAS HERE,” Joe told Marybeth on Sheridan’s cell phone. “I just know it.”

Marybeth was calm, he thought. Calmer than he was. It always amazed him how pragmatic she became when events seemed out of control.