Sandbagged: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 2) Read online

  “So you’ll be home the day after tomorrow?”

  “That’s the plan.” Screaming and yelling echoed through the room and Ramage cupped his hand over the phone. The couple in the room next to him was fighting again.

  “You got some future divorcees next door, huh?” Anna asked.

  “Love American style,” he said. “There’s a pageant in town, whatever the hell that is. Church people all over the place.”

  “I didn’t think Mormons did pageants anymore?”

  “This crew didn’t get the memo, apparently. I think some of them are in the show because they walk around in robes like Jesus might show up for an inspection,” he said.

  She laughed. “Could be. That’s what the pageants are. The Church of Latter-day Saints uses the pageants, which are like plays of religious scenes, to promote and recruit for the church.”

  “Sounds… boring as hell,” he said.

  “You didn’t watch Davey and Goliath when you were a kid?”

  Ramage had. He remembered the jumpy claymation and it made him feel old. “Well, golly, Davey, I sure did.”

  They laughed, and it was like they were sitting in her kitchen, drinking whiskey, and shooting the shit.

  “Listen,” Ramage said. “Tell Santino to go low profile the next few weeks.”

  “You worried?”

  “Not really, but with the Sandman and Carl Jr. out of the way there are sure to be people angling for power and revenge. Not everyone hated Carl Sr. and not all the garbage in Prairie Home has been swept up.”

  “Well, my personal trashman hasn’t made a visit and I’m starting to feel neglected,” she said.

  “Now you’ve got Willy’s attention,” Ramage said as the stir of arousal jabbed him. Deep-rooted guilt surged forward as a specter of Joan’s face filled his mind, but with each day, each call to Anna, his first love’s face faded further into the past.

  “Oh, do I now,” she said, and giggled. “You gonna take out my trash?”

  “All this talk of trash has made Willy a little bashful.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can talk the little feller into feeling right,” she said.

  “Who you calling little?”

  “Just a figure a speech, hon.”

  “One I’d prefer you don’t use again.”

  Anna cooed and told him she was taking off her pants and described her panties. He loved hearing her voice, picturing her naked body, her smooth skin and flowing black hair.

  Things were looking operationally promising when the warble of the hotel’s fire alarm disturbed their long-distance coitus before it got going.

  “You that hot?” she joked.

  Ramage got up and peeked through the brown dusty curtains, harsh light knifing into the dark room, dust motes dancing in the air like snow. Guests filled the parking lot as the motel emptied, people standing around in robes, drinking and complaining, their breath clouding around their heads. He looked back toward his bed, his eyes finding the wood grip of the snubby .38 revolver Santino had given him sticking out from under his pillow. All weapons pertaining to the Sandman debacle had been confiscated, and Ramage didn’t like carrying a gun, but after everything that had happened, he felt he had no choice. Rex of course would disagree. Strongly.

  Ramage pulled on his boots and jacket, but left the gun where it was. He pushed through his door onto the patio that also served as a breezeway that ran along the front of the hotel. Filthy white plastic chairs sat next to each door, with a table and ashtray. Dirty mounds of snow ran along RT-6, and cars and trucks filled the lot, mostly middle-income things, Chevy pickups and Honda minivans. Kids screamed and played, and several people blasted music from open car windows, heat rolling into the night in invisible waves.

  He sniffed the air and didn’t smell smoke, at least not of the wood burning variety, and there was no haze in the air.

  “I’ll let you go,” Anna said.

  Ramage’s stomach sank. “Wait. I…”

  A truck rumbled down RT-6, headlight beams washing over the crowd, leaving the scent of gasoline and rubber.

  They hadn’t said the “L” word yet, and signing off had become an uncomfortable dance Ramage dreaded, which was further complicated by the fact that he couldn’t touch her, reassure her with his eyes.

  “Hey, mister. Got a quarter for the game machine?”

  Ramage looked down and saw a red-haired kid of maybe four standing before him, hand out like an expert. Ramage dug in his jean’s pocket for a quarter but came up empty. “Sorry, kid,” he said.

  “What are you, poor?” The little brat said as he scampered off.

  “Kind of,” Ramage muttered.

  “Night, Ramage,” Anna said.

  “No, wait, I…” His phone beeped as Anna killed the connection.

  Ramage slipped his phone in a pocket and ran his fingers through his hair. The alarm was still wailing, and beneath it the distant sound of fire trucks screaming through the night. His eye was drawn to a woman across the parking lot.

  The lady had long black hair that ran down to her butt, and despite the darkness and cold she wore large, mirrored sunglasses. A snake was draped around her neck like a necklace, the serpent wrapping around her all the way down to the hem of her flowered skirt. Who wore a dress in forty-degree weather? The woman’s eyes found him, and he sensed her appraising him, evaluating.

  Ramage strolled to the end of the line of rooms, where he made a left, heading for a tiny park with two rotted picnic tables and a black metal grill mounted on a pole. There was no grate atop the barbeque, and a pyramid of stubbed out butts of various brands were mounded therein like an abstract piece of art honoring lung disease.

  Two men sat at one of the tables, a white disposable Styrofoam cooler between them. Their hands were dangerously close to touching, but weren’t. The pair argued in hushed tones, and Ramage caught “now is the time” and “she’ll kill us for sure.”

  “Hey, need a beer?” It was one of the men. “You don’t look like you’re worried about going to hell.”

  The approaching fire trucks sounded closer, but were a few minutes off. He still didn’t smell or see any sign of a fire. Ramage said, “Sure.”

  One of the guys reached into the cooler, pulled out a can of Coors, and placed it on the table. Then he fished something from his breast pocket and went to work. When he was done, the beer looked like cola.

  “Mom around?” Ramage said as he accepted the camouflaged cold one. He held the beer up, his eyes tracing the thin seam that marked the gap where the new label hadn’t covered the can. He’d seen things like this in novelty stores all over the country. Typically reserved for teenagers and public drinkers, the magnet with the fake cola logo wrapped tightly around the can, drops of condensation dripping from its bottom.

  “Kind of,” one of the guys said as he looked over a shoulder. “You do know where you are, right?”

  He did. Sixty-three percent of Utah’s population was Mormon, and they tended to frown upon free radicals. “I do, just don’t give a shit what somebody who prays to a space ghost thinks,” was all Ramage could come up with. “But it’s a free country and all that, and I mean no offense.”

  “None taken,” the guys said in unison.

  Unsure how to proceed in the precarious game of making small talk with strangers, he said, “Thanks again for the beer.”

  The two dudes were an odd couple. The beer disguiser was tall and lanky, and he looked uncomfortable folded into the narrow gap between the tabletop and bench seat. He had short dark hair, silver wire-rimmed bifocals, and a thin red scar that ran from the left side of his mouth up to his ear. Dirty jeans, a red flannel shirt, and work boots completed the man’s descent into fashion oblivion, but the second man made up for it.

  Guy two had red straw-like hair, and a freckled face so white Ramage wondered if the man had ever seen the sun. His attire was the opposite of his friend’s; expensive sneakers, tongue out, black paint-on jeans, and a green and gray
top that had feathers atop its thick shoulder pads. He wore too much eyeliner, and Ramage thought he caught the send of the floral perfume Anna sometimes wore.

  “Our pleasure,” the guy with the scar said. “I’m Maverix, and this here is Spencer.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Ramage said. He took a long pull off his Coors, savoring the wheat taste, the refreshing fizz of the carbonation, the sting of the alcohol and hops.

  Siren’s blared and red lights flashed in the darkness. A crowd of onlookers leaked around the side of the hotel, the group’s eyes focused on something Ramage couldn’t see. Presumably, the firemen doing whatever firemen do when there’s no fire.

  Maverix said, “When someone introduces themselves its usually customary for the other party to do the same.” His voice carried the air of superiority and arrogance.

  “Theo,” Ramage said.

  “Well, Theo, what brings you to this sparrow fart town? The pageant in Price?”

  He chuckled. “Truck’s down. Just killing time.”

  “So you’re not a believer?” Spencer said. The feathers on his shoulders shifted and swayed in the breeze.

  “Believer?” Ramage said. “That’s kind of a personal question, no?”

  “Leave him be, will you?” said Maverix. He waved a hand at Spencer and looked toward Ramage. “He’s always looking for allies in defiance.”

  Ramage lifted an eyebrow and his beer.

  “Lower your voice,” Spenser said as he looked around like the taxman was going to burst from the sagebrush. “You want her to hear? You want to blow it?”

  “Who to hear what?” Ramage said.

  The guys stared at the table. Maverix took a sip of beer.

  The alarm ceased and the daggers of red light stopped pulsing through the darkness. Ramage heard doors slamming, car engines powering down, the rev of big diesel engines, and the customary bleat of a fire engine’s airhorn as the firemen drove off. A crow cawed from the cover of a Joshua Tree, the tree’s stiletto-like panicles rattling in the wind.

  Ramage got to his feet, took a final pull on his beer, and handed Maverix the empty can so he could retrieve his camo magnet. “Thanks again, guys. Happy travels.”

  Both men smiled, but said nothing.

  Chapter Three

  Ramage headed back to his room, the single beer lighting him up a little, making him think of Anna and home… Prairie Home.

  The door to his room was ajar. He searched his memory and concluded he had closed it. One hundred percent sure. Well, maybe ninety.

  He wasn’t a paranoid man, but that didn’t mean nobody was out to get him. He stopped walking and faded back the way he’d come, baby steps like he was walking on hot coals. He bumped into one of the plastic chairs, which careened into its partner table, and a jar lid ashtray with dried spaghetti sauce residue around its edge slid onto the concrete breezeway with a clang.

  A large figure dressed all in black stepped from Ramage’s room, pump action shotgun leveled at the parking lot. The dark figure’s head turned, the person’s face covered in a rubber mask depicting a peaceful, thorn-crowned Jesus. Dark eyes stared at Ramage through the mask’s eyeholes as the stranger swung the gun around and fired, the blast like thunder.

  Ramage dove to his right, landing between an old minivan and a Ford pickup that had seen better days. He hit the blacktop hard, his face driving into an oil stain. He rolled under the pickup, parking lot crumbs digging into him. He lay flat on his stomach, waiting for black clad legs to appear.

  He saw his open door, visualized his pistol under his pillow, but even if his attacker hadn’t taken the weapon, there was no way to get it. People screamed and shouted as they scrambled to slam doors, close curtains, and dive into vehicles.

  A car further down the line to Ramage’s right sparked to life, a transmission dropped into gear with a pop, and rubber screeched.

  Ramage rolled right like a little kid playing on a sledding hill, passing beneath a white Toyota Camry, then under what looked like a Jeep, but it was one of the new styles so he couldn’t be sure. He came to a stop in an empty parking space and got to his feet, putting his back to the Jeep-like vehicle.

  Another crack of a transmission slamming into gear snapped Ramage’s head around.

  Maverix was behind the wheel of a battered turquoise Mustang GT, Spencer in the bucket seat beside him. Tires chirped as the car fishtailed and surged forward.

  The woman with the long black hair emerged from her room, sans snake, hands on her hips.

  A shotgun blast peppered the truck Ramage hid behind as the Mustang skidded to a stop.

  The dark-haired woman slipped back into her room, and everything was still for a heartbeat.

  Ramage was a blur, surging toward the Mustang. He threw open the car’s back door and plunged inside. “Go! Go! Goooooooo!” he screamed.

  Maverix’s flight or fight reflex was a bit slow on the uptake, and another blast rocked the night as Ramage and the boys got low. A side window exploded, and tiny squares of glass and buckshot ripped through the car as Maverix slammed the Mustang in reverse and dropped the hammer.

  The Mustang leapt backward, bounced off a pickup, and spun around. Maverix dropped the car into drive and sped off.

  Ramage lifted his head and looked back.

  The masked figure fired again, Ramage ducked, and the shot shattered the car’s rear window. In the reflection of the passenger side rearview mirror Ramage saw his attacker run for a dark blue SUV, and behind the chaos the woman with long black hair poked her head from her doorway.

  “What the hell was that?” Spencer screamed.

  So many questions danced through Ramage’s tired brain he was having trouble putting them in order. There was no shortage of people who didn’t like him, and those were the ones he knew of, but blasting apart a motel? Seemed a little amateur hour, which reeked of Prairie Home.

  “Who was the nut with the shotgun?” Maverix asked as he spun the wheel, tires squealing on pavement as the Mustang bumped up onto RT-6.

  Ramage said nothing as his eyes locked on the two chimpanzees sitting next to him. He started, jerking back in surprise as he gripped the headrest of the seat in front of him.

  One of the monkeys was dressed in a pink tutu, a pink bow knotted atop her head, and the other wore no clothes. Four glowing brown eyes studied Ramage without emotion. Darkness filled the car, the lights of the motel fading. Cliffs and mounds of pink-and-white striped rock, mesquite, and sagebrush packed both sides of the road.

  The monkeys didn’t make a sound as they held hands, staring at Ramage like he was out of place.

  “I realize we’ve got more important issues, but why are there two apes in your car?” Ramage said.

  “Chimpanzees,” Maverix corrected.

  Ramage said nothing. The Mustang’s engine raced, air streaming through the broken windows, the car’s headlights cutting through the gloom. The two-lane highway was a tunnel filled with blackness, red striated rock walls rising along the sides of the road where blasting crews had cut through hills and plateaus.

  Spencer sighed. “She was going to sell them, O.K.?”

  Ramage eyed the chimps, who still stared at him with indignance.

  “We just couldn’t let that happen, and we were…”

  Maverix shot Spencer a “shut your piehole” look.

  “Why would she sell them?” Ramage asked. He couldn’t help himself. It was a flaw, he just couldn’t let things be. Not even when getting chased by an armed gunman while sitting with a chimpanzee couple in the backseat of a Mustang.

  “All types of monkeys are banned in Utah. They’re considered illegal exotic animals,” Maverix said, his gaze constantly shifting from the rearview to the road ahead.

  Now Ramage understood. There was big money in illegal animals; large cats, snakes, certain birds and rodents, even penguins and kangaroos. What was legal depended on where you were, which made the laws in some states particularly susceptible to creative entrepreneurs loo
king to prey on people’s need to nurture… and impress. That’s really what having a tiger was all about, showing off for your friends, and folks were willing to overpay for the extravagance and resulting bragging rights.

  “Who’s the ‘she’ you’re talking about?” Ramage asked. “That crazy woman with the long black hair and the snake?”

  “Don’t speak that way about my wife,” Maverix and Spencer said in unison like they’d practiced. Their visceral connection was getting annoying.

  Before Ramage could decide which question to ask, his phone vibrated, and he pulled it free. The name Rex appeared in the incoming call bubble. He tapped the green answer icon. “Can I call you back?” Ramage said as he peered through the shattered rear window, the glow of the motel’s lights fading.

  “Sure thing. Everything O.K.?” Rex said. Sounded like he had a cold.

  “Hunky-dory,” Ramage said, and clicked off.

  Maverix and Spencer had gone as contemplative as clams out of water.

  Pursuit and bullets, two husbands, one wife, a chimp couple. Ramage said, “You boys are both married to the snake lady?”

  They nodded.

  “I thought Mormons gave up the polygamy stuff a ways back?” Ramage said.

  “Shit,” Spencer said. He slapped his palm to his head like a really bad actor. “That reminds me. She’s going to send Butch. Now that we didn’t just slip away.”

  Maverix nodded vigorously.

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Ramage said. “Butch is also married to snake lady?”

  “Her name is Marie,” Spencer said.

  “She must be… quite the woman.” Ramage let them think on that for a couple of heartbeats, then said, “Why the change of heart?” Ramage looked at the chimps.

  Maverix took a hand off the wheel and put it on Spencer’s shoulder. “We’d had enough of the Zoo. We wanted out and this little trip to sell Ralph and Alice seemed like the perfect time.”

  “Until you showed up,” Spencer said.

  “Ralph and Alice? The Honeymooners?”

  Maverix and Spencer said, “Uh huh.”