“There’s an injured man?” Paulson’s voice went up a few octaves. “I think we’ll need air rescue.”
He looked up at the sky, which was basically like looking into the business end of a saltshaker. Suddenly, Paulson wanted to be the hero.
Or did he?
Jeffrey’s eyes slid over the backseat of the cruiser and he spotted two black duffel bags bulging with bricks of cocaine, a cardboard box filled with handguns, and two large stacks of cash in ClingWrap.
He looked back at Paulson.
Paulson had his gun pointed at Jeffrey’s chest.
“Back up.”
He sighed.
His gut had told him a long time ago that this idiot was going to be a problem. “You could’ve just said that you confiscated everything from Double to take back into evidence.”
“Shit,” Paulson mumbled, realizing his mistake. “Too late now.”
Jeffrey thought of his Glock tucked snuggly down the front of his jeans.
Paulson thought of it, too, reaching over and grabbing the gun. The muzzle was so cold that it took some of the skin with it.
“What now?” he asked. “I mean past stealing Double’s guns and drugs and money?”
Paulson snickered. “Mister, do you think Double’s smart enough to set up a Yankee as the contact for his supply?”
He wondered if he was going to be killed by a guy who called him “mister.”
“I didn’t kill Nora,” Paulson said.
“I know you didn’t.”
“That guy, Antonio, he’s the one you want for murder.” Paulson waved his gun. “But don’t go thinking I don’t know how to get rid of somebody who gets in my way.”
He saw that his earlier guess about what went down in the alleyway was wrong.
New version of what happened.
Paulson had been in the parking lot that morning, too. It made sense because he’d arrived on the scene so quickly, playing Deputy Fife until Chief DuPree showed up. Probably, Paulson was waiting in his blue truck so he could do the meet with Antonio, get the coke and guns, then be on his merry way. Only Antonio had needed some coffee and his car had been jacked while he was in the Linderhof. Paulson had either seen the whole thing or rolled up just as Antonio realized that his car was gone.
“Nora went into the alley,” he said. “You picked up Antonio in the parking lot and followed. Antonio shot her and then what?”
“This ain’t no Batman movie, mister. I don’t got to explain myself.”
He cocked his head, wondering why Perry and Pritchard weren’t looking for him. “Double was supposed to meet Nora in the alley so he could take the car to the chop shop. He saw you and Antonio standing over his dead sister and decided to kidnap the man who was responsible.” He remembered a detail. “Only, Double’s not so single-minded that he doesn’t take the bulk of the coke with him, which is how you ended up here on this mountain.”
Paulson climbed out of the car. “I woulda got away with it except for those meddling kids.” The gun stayed on him as Paulson tried in vain to straighten his utility belt. “Oh, wait. I’m the meddling kid, and I am getting away with it.”
He’d underestimated Paulson’s abilities.
Or maybe motivations.
The guy hadn’t seemed eager to kill another man in response to the cold-blooded murder of a girl, but he sure as shit seemed eager to murder a man over some coke, guns, and money.
“Turn around,” Paulson said. “Start walking.”
He did. It was slow going. The snow was piled up past his knees. He couldn’t see the truck, but he could hear the engine. He hoped to God that Pritchard was as smart as he looked, and Perry was as cunning as he seemed, and they’d both figured out that something was not right. Though, considering his recent streak of bad luck, the two cops were probably warming themselves inside the truck, Perry explaining to Pritchard that Hoth is the sixth planet in some star system while Pritchard tried not to strangle him.
Not that Paulson was driving Jeffrey toward the truck.
The engine noise was actually fading.
“Where are we going?” he asked. “Doesn’t seem wise to go deeper into the forest.”
“Shut up.”
He wasn’t planning on shutting up, but then he felt the gun press into his head, and knew that Paulson had a habit of leaving his finger on the trigger, so he did.
Paulson said, “I don’t want to shoot you.”
The refrain echoed from the alleyway this morning, but out in the dark, cold woods, he realized that Paulson didn’t have to shoot him to kill him.
“You just gonna leave me out here to die? Let’s talk this out, Paulson. Those two cops back there ain’t dummies. They’re gonna figure this out.”
“I’m betting they don’t.”
Then Paulson stumbled. His utility belt clattered.
The gun banged into Jeffrey’s skull.
“DuPree ain’t figured it out,” Paulson said, “and I’ve been selling coke outta my squad car for years.” Paulson stumbled again. “Stupid tourists come up here thinking they’re gonna have some fun. They go to the waterfall, take a couple’a three pictures, then head back into town and ask what the fuck do we do next.”
The waterfall.
He realized that the rush of water he’d heard when he first got out of the Malibu had slowed to a trickle.
“Through here,” Paulson said.
He turned into a clearing and they were at the falls. Or what was the falls when the temperature wasn’t in the polar region. He heard a weird noise and realized it was coming from the surface layer of the water. It kept freezing, cracking, then freezing again. The sound was like a squeaky basement door slowly opening in every single horror movie ever filmed.
There were no trees overhead, just an open, snowy sky with moonlight streaking down onto the frozen water. He’d read the brochure back at the hotel. Anna Ruby Falls was actually two waterfalls that were created by Curtis Creek and York Creek. The Curtis side dropped one hundred fifty-three feet. The York side fifty feet. They joined at the base of the falls to form Smith Creek. Jeffrey craned his neck to look over the side. Smith Creek was starting to freeze, a thin skein of ice making its way toward the falls. If you didn’t want to shoot a man, but you wanted to kill him, this was the place to do it.
Paulson said, “Move.”
He did, but only so that his toes were about eighteen inches from the edge of the falls. Again, he craned his neck to look over. They were on the Curtis side. One hundred fifty-three feet, most of it ice. What were the odds that he could survive the fall? Better than his odds of turning around, grabbing the gun out of Paulson’s hands and beating the shit out of him?
Paulson said, “You wanna jump or you wanna be pushed?”
He riffled through his options. Paulson was a man who kept his finger on the trigger. Grab the gun and he would squeeze.
“You’re gonna have to push me.”
Paulson jammed his gun between Jeffrey’s shoulder blades.
He didn’t move.
Paulson jammed him again.
He still didn’t move.
The math was against Paulson. He was taller, sure, but he was roughly one part bone and the other part gristle. Stuff like muscle and tendon had yet to develop.
“Come on, you’re doing this on purpose,” Paulson said.