Black River by G. M. Ford Read Free Book Online

was old and hot and empty. In the right front corner of the space, a gas-fired stove poured too much heat into the room. Behind the scarred counter, an orange NO SMOKING sign loomed over a pair of gray metal desks, whose tops were awash in a rainbow of paperwork. The walls were covered with yellowed posters. Several had come partially loose and curled at the edges: CATERPILLAR , PETERBILT , BRUNSWICK BEAR - INGS . An Arcadia Machine Shop calendar featuring a spectacularly endowed blonde wearing little more than a surprised expression and a red polka-dot thong. At the back of the room, another door stood ajar.
    “Hello!” she called. She waited and then called again, louder this time. Nothing. The spring-loaded gate squealed as Dougherty pushed through. “Hello,” she called a third time. Still nothing. And then, from somewhere in the bowels of the building, she heard a noise. Not words, more like a squeal. A dog, maybe.
    She walked behind the desks and pulled the rear door open. Big as an airplane hanger, the building smelled of old grease and cheap cigars. The walls were lined with workbenches and tool cribs. The floor was littered with machinery in various stages of repair. Along the far wall sat a road grader, its blade removed and lying next to the huge tires. A pair of dump trucks were parked bumper to bumper in the center of the space. Across the way, a rusted bulldozer lay in pieces, its parts scattered about the floor like the skeleton of some ancient beast.
    The noise reached her ears again, high-pitched and unintelligible. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom and then began to pick her way forward, moving toward the sound, stepping carefully around the debris on the floor. Skirting the dump trucks, she opened her mouth to call, then heard the word and swallowed it.
    “Please,” someone blubbered. “Please.”
    She stood still. The fear and desperation were palpable. She could feel the tension on her skin, as she steadied herself on a filthy fender and took another step forward. She was close now. She heard a hiccup and then a sniffle.
    She peeked around a pile of oil drums. He was in his mid-forties. Bald. Kneeling in the middle of the floor, twenty yards away, his hands clasped in silent prayer. His lips quivered as he mouthed some silent litany. And the tears. His cheeks were wet with tears. “For God’s sake, man, I got three kids,” he whined.
    “Shoulda thoughta that before,” another voice said.
    “Before you fucked up your end,” yet another voice added.
    The kneeling man waved his folded hands in front of his body like he was ringing a bell. “How was I supposed—”
    “You take money to bury a truck, the truck better stay buried.”
    “You fuck up, you become a loose end,” the second voice said.
    “We leave loose ends, we become loose ends,” said the third.
    “Please,” the guy chanted. “Please.”
    “Shut up.”
    “No way I coulda—”
    Dougherty heard a single flat report. Saw the kneeling man rock backward. Watched as his clasped hands came undone and his arms spread like wings. She gasped as the small red flower bloomed in his right eye and a single rivulet of blood ran down across his face. She stood transfixed as he fell over onto his side, his lips silent now, his single lifeless eye staring down at the floor.
    She clamped a hand over her mouth and began to backpedal.
    “Strike him out,” the second voice said.
    She heard a grunt and two more silenced shots. As she spun on her toes and began to run, her arm hit something and sent it spinning off into space. She didn’t wait for it to land.

7
    Tuesday, October 17
    4:16 p.m.
    R amón Javier stepped forward, placed the silencer against the back of the victim’s head, and pulled the trigger twice. The head rocked back and forth as if saying no to the floor. Satisfied, Ramón pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe the weapon clean when he heard the sounds. The sound of metal hitting the