Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [68]
At 9:00 I called Jimmer at his pawnshop.
“Julie! Wazzup wit yo’ very bad self, sista?”
I rolled my eyes. He’d been watching 1970s blacksploitation DVDs again. Charming, if an odd choice for a former military man with an aversion to racial diversity. If at any point during the conversation he said, “Get out, shut yo’ mouf,” I’d break into the chorus of Rubberband Man.
“Nothing much. You busy this morning?”
“Depends. Whatcha got in mind?”
“You up for a little snipe hunting?” I explained what I’d planned, pacing and smoking while waiting for his reaction.
Ugly silence.
I exhaled, fighting the urge to blather. “Then again, I’m open to suggestions from the expert.”
“You don’t have nuthin’ better to do, little missy, than to fuck around with this?”
“Nope. I need to know who it is, one way or the other.”
239
“Better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission?”
“Something like that.” I played the card that always worked. “Come on, Jimmer. You love this kinda sneaky shit. Being armed to the teeth. Making guys piss their pants in fear. It’ll be fun.”
When he still wasn’t acting gung ho, I added, “I’ll even take you out for pie afterward. My treat.”
“I’m in. You done any recon on this area?”
“What I remember is the entire stretch is fenced. Isolated. No residences, no secondary gravel roads. No place to turn around. No signage announcing any of the above.”
“Cool. Looks like the weather’s gonna cooperate, too. Snow and blow, baby.”
“Be nice if something went right for me for a change. Will you be ready in half an hour?”
“Yep.”
I explained where he needed to be.
“Gotcha back, kitty cat.”
“For Christsake, Jimmer, you channeling Shaft now?”
“Nope. Superfly.” He laughed and hung up. Bundled up and loaded for bear, I cranked the tunes 240
and burned rubber out of the driveway.
Bingo. Mr. 4Runner swung in place behind me on the service road.
I took my own sweet time driving up County Road 35, aka a dirt road to nowhere, keeping his vehicle within my rearview, even when the swirling snow tried to erase it.
Twenty minutes ticked by. We were on the far edge of Bear Butte County. Miles of snow-covered grazing fields spread out in an ocean of bluish white. The thick, jagged crusts of the snowdrifts were the foamy whitecaps; the rise and fall of gauzy snow mist was like the fine spray of saltwater. The occasional stark tree offered a visual break in the unwavering line of the horizon. Telephone poles listed to the left in an ongoing battle to stay upright against the never-ending South Dakota wind.
Easy to fall prey to the landscape’s austere beauty and lose focus. My gaze zoomed to my rearview mirror. Why hadn’t my tail gotten suspicious? Driving deeper into the wilds didn’t faze my follower. This setup screamed . . . setup to me. Had I been too quick to blame this on Martinez? Tony’s guys weren’t stupid. My adrenaline pumped when I crested the last hill. I sucked a deep drag and smashed the cigarette butt into the ashtray. Placing both hands on the wheel, I floored it.
On the other side, I slammed the brakes; the back end fishtailed until I stopped sideways in the middle of 241
the road. I threw it in reverse. The back tires bumped the gravel shoulder and slid into the ditch. I threw it in park, shut off the engine, and grabbed my gun from the seat as I scrambled out the passenger door. I waited by the right front tire for my babysitter to run across my “accident.” I only hoped he was a good enough driver not to run into me.
The rise and fall of the whistling wind surrounded me, and the soft ssssss of hard snow crystals drifted over the road like icy, white, scaleless snakes.
A motor hummed on the other side of the hill, and the rolling thump of tires on snow-packed ground broke the monotony of the eerie stillness.
Come on, come on.
No screeching tires. No metallic clicking of antilock brakes. The vehicle simply slowed and stopped within my line of sight.