Today two guys had come blowing down the road as blithely as if they hadn't driven around the fucking Bridge Out sign back at the highway. Yeah, they'd seen it. but thought it could have been there by mistake. Any idea how long it would take to repair the bridge? A couple of days, maybe?
They were just the sort of dimwits, Goss thought, who would complain long and loudly to anyone they thought could get the bridge fixed. Any day now, someone with the highway department would show up.
Maybe there was some sort of cosmic soup from which they all drew the same thoughts, because Teague suddenly said, "Your guy looks ready to flip out."
Goss shrugged. "He's under a lot of pressure. He's never failed to deliver before, plus he and the boss go back a long ways together."
"He's let his ego get involved."
"1 know." He had quietly helped that by spurring Toxtel on at every opportunity, agreeing with the most asinine of ideas, putting the most extreme twist on any view Toxtel came up with. Toxtel wasn't an idiot, far from it, but his pride was at stake and he didn't know how to back down because he'd never had to back down before. An unbroken string of successes could become a handicap if it went on too long, because a guy lost perspective.
Toxtel had definitely lost perspective.
Maybe it was time to end this and move on, Goss thought, suddenly feeling cheerful at the idea. There was no way the lid could be kept on this fiasco. Too many people had died, too much damage had been done. All he had to do was make certain this blew back on Faulkner, and that was the easiest thing in the world to do.
"That's it for me," he said, yawning, when the current game ended. "I think I'll go talk to Hugh, maybe relieve him early if he's tired."
"It's a couple of hours yet until midnight. That makes for a long shift for you," said Teague.
"Yeah, well, don't tell him I said it, but I'm younger." He stood and stretched, and pulled on his heavy coat, made sure he had gloves and a watch cap. The weather here could change in the blink of an eye. It had gone from clear and cold to warm and cloudy, then to cold and cloudy, then cold and rainy, and now back to clear and cold - all in as many days as there were changes. This morning the mountains had been snowcapped. Winter was coming, and he wanted the hell out of Idaho.
Good old Hugh. He'd miss him.
Not really.
He had to make certain this pointed back to Faulkner. Maybe plant a note on Hugh that said, "Yuell Faulkner paid me to do this"? Yeah, right. It had to be something the cops would catch, but not so obvious they would discount it as a plant. Tying Bandini in would be a nice touch, too, guaranteed to bring a shitload of trouble down on Faulkner's ass, from both the good guys and the bad.
He pulled on his gloves as he went over to the Tahoe, opened the door, and fished Toxtel's cell phone out of the glove box. The phones were useless out here in the mountains, but he wasn't interested in making a call. He turned on the phone, then entered Faulkner's number in the address book. No name, just a number. The cops would run it down. He turned the phone off and replaced it in the glove box, then on second thought got it out again and slipped it into his pocket. Then he had a third thought, smiled, and once more put the phone in the glove box. Yeah. That would work even better.
There was a pile of papers in the Tahoe, maps and lists and sketches. One of the sheets of paper had fallen to the floorboard, been stepped on, and was generally dirty. Goss grabbed a pen, clumsily scribbled Bandini's name on the dirty sheet of paper, put a question mark after it, then marked through the name so it was almost illegible - almost, but not quite. He dumped all the papers on the back floorboard, and dropped the pen between the driver's seat and the console.
Then, whistling, he walked down the dark trail to where Toxtel stood - or rather, sat - lonely vigil, waiting for someone on the other side to talk to him.
Cal melted into the shadow of a tree, making himself part of the undergrowth. He was no more than five feet from the third guard, whom he recognized as Mellor, when he heard someone coming toward them, whistling.
He stood motionless, his head down and his eyes narrowed to mere slits. He'd smeared mud on his face to break up the pattern of pale features, but he'd slid effortlessly into the zone he reached when he was hunting, and if instinct prompted him to duck his head and close his eyes, he did. He was so close, the gleam of his eyes might give him away.
The second shooter was lying motionless in a pool of his own blood, the first guy's knife in his throat. Two down, four to go. He was tempted to take these two at the same time, but he ignored the idea. Controlling the noise, the scene, would be too difficult. He'd stick to his original plan and take them one at a time.
"You're early," said Mellor, standing up from his protected position. He was wearing a heavy coat and was holding a pistol instead of a rifle. Cal mentally shook his head at the way the guy was exposing himself to possible gunfire. He must feel safe at night, thinking no one in Trail Stop could see him.
"Thought I'd give you a break," said the other guy. Cal recognized him, too. Huxley. "Teague and his cousin are playing Texas hold 'em in the tent if you want to relax before turning in." As he spoke he leaned down and picked up a blanket, shook it out, started folding it.
"I don't play cards," said Mellor, turning to stare across the water at the dark houses. "What's with these people?" he asked suddenly. "Are they nuts? I'd have been trying to find out what was going on, what we want, anything. They just pulled back and locked down."
"Teague said they were - "
"Piss on Teague. If he'd known what he was doing, we'd already have the flash drive and be back in Chicago."