Nowhere to Run

mother.

“You owe me this one,” Missy said quietly. “Don’t forget what we’ve done for Vicki, the girl you pawned off on us last year. Vicki is getting the very best of care, thanks to us.”

Marybeth closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. Vicki was a foster child who’d entered their lives and needed extensive mental and physical treatment. Marybeth had only one place to turn: Missy. Since then, a pair of grandparents had shown up and offered to take Vicki in when she completed treatment, but Missy still paid the bills. Marybeth knew at the time she was handing her mother more bullets.

“Thank you for the coffee,” Missy said. “Have Nate call me on my cell.”

Marybeth didn’t turn around. She heard her mother call good-bye to Lucy down the hallway and go outside. In a moment, the motor on the black Hummer roared to life.

WHEN THE PHONE RANG she snatched it off the cradle, expecting Joe’s voice.

Instead, a man said, “May I please speak to Mr. Joseph Pickett?”

“This is Marybeth Pickett. Who may I ask is calling?”

The man identified himself as Dr. Vincent DeGrasso of the Rimrock Extended Care Facility in Billings, Montana. Marybeth felt a chill sweep through her.

“Joseph’s father is George Pickett, correct?”

“Yes.”

DeGrasso obviously made these kinds of calls often. “I hate to call with bad news, Mrs. Pickett, but Joseph’s father has taken a serious turn. Somehow, he convinced a friend to smuggle in a half gallon of vodka last Sunday, and from what we can tell he drank it all in one sitting. The alcohol reacted with his medication and he went into toxic shock. Right now he’s in the ICU and his organs are shutting down.”

Marybeth closed her eyes. “How long?”

“We doubt he’ll last the week. Even if we can keep him alive, he’s not ever going to be lucid or functional again. A decision needs to be made.”

“My God.”

“There was a moment of consciousness this morning,” DeGrasso said. “George asked for his son. He seemed to realize it was his last request.”

5

A BREEZE CAME UP AND CARRIED THE SMELL OF BLOOD, ENTRAILS, and tallow from Blue Roanie’s body to Joe, who watched the brothers at work from the aspen grove. They’d draped the hide over a log, then efficiently dismembered the horse. They didn’t speak or gesture but worked in a quiet rhythm of flashing knives and strong bloody hands, with no pauses or wasted movement. Within ten minutes, they’d dismembered it.

All his gear had been gathered and was piled a few yards from the carcass of Blue Roanie. He could see everything he needed but couldn’t get close enough to get it. A hundred yards was too far for an accurate shot with his handgun. If he missed, which he surely would, he would reveal his position and the brothers could make short work of him with the .308 or his shotgun or possibly finish him off with arrows. His Glock had fourteen rounds in the magazine. He wished he had his spare magazines, but they, like the first-aid kit, were in the panniers. Still, though, if he could lure the brothers in close enough and somehow keep them together, he’d have a decent chance of taking them down with the sheer volume of his firepower.

But how to get them close and unaware?

He thought again, I’m in trouble.

And he recalled the day before, when he’d first encountered the brothers. When he’d inadvertently set this ghost train in motion . . .

HE WISHED NOW he had ridden away when he had the chance so he could return with a small army to arrest the Brothers Grim. Because now the wind had reversed—as had his opportunity to get away intact—and Camish stepped away from the carcass of Blue Roanie and sniffed at the air like a wolf. They were trying to smell him. And then Camish suddenly pointed in Joe’s direction in the aspen grove.

Oh, no, Joe mouthed. He wouldn’t have thought it possible.

Caleb and Camish wordlessly retrieved their weapons and ran across the meadow in opposite directions. Caleb left with Joe’s carbine, Camish right with his shotgun. They were going to kill him with his own guns. Both brothers were much too far away for Joe to take an accurate shot.

Instinctively, he scrambled back on his haunches. A hammer blow of pain from his right thigh sat him back down, and he gulped air to recover.

He glanced up to see Caleb dart into the left wall of trees. Camish was already gone. They obviously knew he’d been hit and they assumed—correctly—he couldn’t run.

Joe thought they were going to flank him, come at him in a pincer through the trees.

Gritting his teeth from the sting of his wounds, Joe rose to his knees. The position wasn’t as painful as before. He raised the Glock with both hands, and swung it left, then right, looking over the sights toward the trees, hoping to catch one of them in the open, get a clean shot.

His training trumped the urge to try to kill them without warning. He shouted, “Both of you freeze where you are and toss your weapons out into the open. This is OVER. Don’t take it any further.”

He paused, eyes shooting back and forth for movement of any kind, ears straining for sound.

He continued, “Now step out into the open where I can see you. Keep your hands up and visible at all times.”

No response, until Camish, a full minute later, said from where he was hidden to the right: “Naw, that isn’t how it’s going to work. Right, brother?”

Joe was shocked how close the voice was. Just beyond the thick red buckbrush, the voice was so intimate it was as if Camish were whispering into his ear.