Entry #3 in the "A Year in the Life" series. The Brillows clan takes a somewhat unplanned family vacation, and run into trouble in a little mountain town called Jackpot. You know the drill -- CSI is not my sandbox. If it were, guest stars would be utilized more effectively.


99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall
by Alice Day


CHAPTER EIGHT

From the outside, the pile of boulders appeared to be one of the natural outcroppings of glacial debris that dotted the local scenery, leftovers from the last Ice Age. About nine feet tall at its highest point, the black hulk merged into the nighttime monochrome of the surrounding hillside.

Sterling guided Ellie to the small stand of pines on the pile's downhill side, showing her how to slide between two of the prickly evergreens. From this viewpoint, the pile was something completely different -- an arrangement of slab-like stones tumbled against each other in a natural henge, with a narrow gap between two stones opening onto a sloping central area approximately five feet wide.

"This is the fort," the vet explained, propping the item he'd brought from the Jeep against a slab wall before easing her down to the ground. "Unless you know what you're looking for, you'd never find this place. The walls are pretty good at blocking noise, too, so we can talk as long as we keep it quiet."

"Great," Ellie gritted, fumbling with the laces on her boot.

He saw what she was doing and put his hand over hers, stopping her. "I'm sorry, but you can't take it off."

She glared at him. "My fucking foot is killing me," she growled. "I've gotta get this thing off."

He shook his head. "If you take the boot off now, your foot will swell even more and you won't be able to get it back on," he said, his voice apologetic but firm.

Suddenly she understood -- in case they had to run again. "Shit," she moaned, leaning back against one of the cold slabs. "This night is just getting better and better."

"Tell me about it," Sterling said absently, hunting around in the upslope part of the fort. He picked up a folded square and shook it out, revealing an old army blanket. "Looks like Wilson Point isn't the only makeout spot anymore."

He refolded the blanket into a pad and brought it over to Ellie. "Good -- I'm freezing my ass off," she said.

"That's exactly what we're going to use it for," he said, putting the folded blanket on the ground. "Sit on it."

"Excuse me?"

"You lose up to thirty percent of your body heat if you sit or lie on the ground without insulation," he explained. "If you don't want to literally freeze your butt off, get on the blanket."

Frowning, she shifted around until she was seated on the musty old fabric. She had to admit, it was warmer than sitting on the ground.

"Move forward a little," he said.

"Let me guess -- you were a Boy Scout," she snapped, but did as he asked.

"Not exactly." To her surprise, he crawled behind her and sat down, his legs bracketing hers. "First off, don't worry, I'm not making a pass at you," he said. "But we're going to lose a lot of heat if we sit separately. Take off your jacket."

"What?"

Behind her, she could feel him opening his own coat. "Take off your jacket, and drape it over yourself like a blanket," he said patiently. "Then lean back against me."

Trying to keep her throbbing foot as still as possible, she slithered out of the leather jacket and did what he said, almost moaning in relief from the increased warmth. He tucked the ends of the jacket securely between them, then wrapped his open coat as far around her as possible, resting his hands on his bent knees. "Warmer?"

"Yeah," she admitted, trying to ignore the fact that she was pretty much cradled in his arms. And legs. This should feel a lot weirder than it does. I dunno -- maybe I'm just too tired to care.

He touched the thin leather of her coat and tsked. "You need a real winter jacket," he said.

She snorted. "Yeah, next time some nutcase with a gun chases me around in February, I'll make sure I wear a parka."

His chest vibrated, and she realized he was laughing. "You did good for a city girl," he admitted.

"Thanks." She glanced at the stick leaning against the slab wall. "What is that thing? I thought it was a shotgun, but you weren't shooting back."

He hesitated. "I don't like shotguns," he finally said. "That's a hanbo. It can be used as a walking stick -- comes in handy when you're running down hills with an armed maniac on your tail."

She shuddered. "God. Why was he shooting at us?"

"I have no idea--"

A distant boom rolled through the night, and a dim flash lit up the inside of the fort for a few seconds. Ellie tensed, staring up at the rough circle of night sky framed by the stone walls. "What was that?"

"I don't know." Sterling fumbled in his coat pocket for his cell phone. "But it's time to call in the cavalry."

He hit a number and waited. "Voicemail. Of course," he muttered. "Alan, this is Dale. Look, I've got Ellie Brass with me -- someone shot out my Jeep on Snake Eyes Road, and we had to run for it. We made it to the fort, but the shooter's still out there, and from the sounds of things something got blown up nearby. If you could send someone to get us, I'd appreciate it -- thanks."

He clicked the phone shut. "That explosion's should have the cops and fire department up here pretty soon. With any luck, we'll get picked up in an hour or so," he said.

"Good." She leaned her head back against his shoulder, trying to relax. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Everything -- your Jeep getting shot up, you having to drag me through the woods. I should've told my dad to shove it and gone back inside, then none of this would've happened. It's just -- God, he just pisses me off so badly sometimes."

Sterling was quiet for a moment. "What happened in the parking lot?"

Ellie stared into the dark. Well, he accused me of whoring it up on the dance floor -- oh, and apparently you're an abusive slimeball. "It's...complicated," she said.

"Family usually is. Well, we have time. If you want to talk, I mean."

She shook her head gently. "Trust me, I'm gonna need more than an hour to explain it all," she said. The fucked up life of Ellie Brass, volumes one through twenty-six.

But you know what? I'm tired, and cold, and my foot hurts, and we almost died tonight, and he asked. And if I talk, maybe I won't feel like crying so much.

She closed her eyes, wishing he'd put his arms around her. "Okay. See, there was this guy named Mike O'Toole, and he had an affair with my mom..."

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Brass leaned heavily against the side of the SUV, watching Brooks direct the deputies on their new search. Up on the hill, a team of firefighters with hoses from a pumper truck worked on putting out the blaze in the cabin.

His fingers clutched the soft fabric of Ellie's purse. All those years, I kept thinking that you were going to get killed on the streets by a john, or a dealer, or some coked-out bum. So what do I do? I bring you up to the ass end of Nevada, and now you're off in the woods with that freaking vet, and a survivalist whackjob is hunting you down.

And it's all my fault. You were right to want to stay in LA -- every time I come into your life, something gets fucked up. Jesus Christ, why can't I ever do right by you?

His misery was interrupted when Brooks jogged up. "Okay, the troops are going to start working the roads back into town," he said. "I can't send them into the woods, not with Moses out there, but at least they're patrolling. Dale isn't stupid -- if he and Ellie are okay, he'll get them somewhere safe."

Brass gave him a bleak look. "Yeah. If they're okay."

"We didn't find any blood in the Jeep," the lieutenant reminded him. "I'm working on the basis that they're both upright, breathing and intact. Now we just gotta find them."

The Homicide detective pulled out a cell phone from the purse, hefting it. "Would've been good if she actually had this on her," he said.

Brooks stared at the phone, then dug in his jacket pocket. "I'm a frigging idiot," he muttered, pulling out a cell phone and turning it on. The small device chimed, and its screen lit up with a tiny graphic of a cassette tape. "Yes. It's from Dale."

He hit the Connect button and listened to the recording. "Ha. You sly sonofabitch," he said, finally snapping the phone shut. "They're at the fort -- it's this hangout we had when we were kids, not fifteen minutes from here."

Something seemed to loosen in Brass's chest. "Is Ellie okay?"

"He didn't say she wasn't." Brooks thumbed his radio. "Okay, people, get on back here and form up with me -- we're heading towards Round Rock Road to pick up the doc and his dance partner. Stay on my tail, and keep an eye out for Moses -- the night ain't over yet."

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The man crept through the scrub, trying to find the trail. The men of the Greater Nevada Militia prided themselves on their tracking skills; Willard Moses liked to think he was pretty damn good at it, but the dark and the low level of moonlight weren't helping one bit.

"Fucking cops," he said softly, staring at the ground. "Think they can push you around, make you do whatever they want. I'm a man of the land, goddamn it. Nobody tells me what to do -- not that bitch Janine, not her pig daddy. And not you, you spying, nosy fuck."

Of course, Janine and her little brat of a kid were dead, judging from that hellacious boom he'd heard. His truck was probably long gone, too, and the money hadn't even been at the damn cabin. Janine kept whining that her daddy hadn't told her where the money was, but he knew better. Cops were too stupid to keep secrets from their womenfolk. Hell, Jones had told her about the $75,000 in the first place, right? He would've told her where to find it.

"You just had to tell me where it was," he muttered. "But no, miss high and mighty, you were too good for that. You were gonna keep it all for yourself, weren't you?"

Too late now. The money was nowhere to be found, and his truck was gone, and the cops would probably pin the deaths of the Jones family on him. At least he'd take out two more pigfuckers before their buddies caught up with him.

He spotted a gouge in the dry, sandy topsoil. It pointed downhill, towards a field littered with old glacial boulders. Carefully, he made his way downslope, rifle at the ready. They were probably hiding behind one of the boulders, or maybe near the trees. Didn't matter -- he'd find them, one way or the other.

He stopped next to the biggest pile of rocks, peering around the small stand of pines downslope from it. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," he crooned.

Lights flashed farther down the hill, and he heard truck engines headed his way. He grinned into the cold night air. Maybe he'd get to take more than a couple of cops out, after all.

He slid down towards a boulder that was low and long, a perfect cover for a righteous man of the land. Kneeling behind it, he aimed his rifle towards the flickering lights and waited.

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The first shot was just shy of the windshield. Cursing, Brooks slammed on the brakes, the SUV fishtailing along the gravel road. "Hang on," he roared, yanking on the wheel. With a shudder, the vehicle straightened out and he hit the gas. Something pinged hard against the rear end.

"Oh, I don't think so," he growled, grabbing the hand brake and spinning the steering wheel. The SUV slewed around in a J-turn, coming to a stop just short of a stand of trees. He slapped the light switch and the vehicle went dark.

Brass stared out at the shadowed countryside, trying to pick out Moses. All he could see were shapes on a dim hillside. "Where are we?"

"Maybe 300 yards past the intersection with Snake Eyes Road," Brooks said, pulling a rifle from the rack behind them. "I saw the muzzle flash -- sonofabitch is uphill. Get on the horn and warn our guys."

The Homicide captain grabbed the radio handset. "All units -- our shooter is about 300 yards past the intersection with Snake Eyes Road," he said. "He's uphill and has a good view of the road -- stop before you hit the clearing and take up defensive positions."

"Yeah, we're the only idiots with our asses hanging out," Brooks muttered, handing Brass a rifle. "Let's do this."

The lawmen opened the SUV doors and crouched behind them, aiming their weapons upslope and waiting for the next bullet.

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"What was that?" Ellie said, panicked.

"Sounds like a rifle." Sterling slid out from behind her and went to the fort entrance as another shot cracked.

Buttoning his jacket, he moved silently into the pine stand, using the needled branches as cover. About twenty feet downslope, something man-sized moved in front of a low boulder. He could just make out a rifle barrel as it tracked the bouncing headlights of what looked like a Jackpot PD SUV on the road below, then fired.

The SUV swerved, plunging behind a thicket. Its lights abruptly went out.

Dammit. It had to be Brooks down there, coming to pick them up. From his position, on a night with a quarter moon, there was no way he'd be able to pinpoint Moses' location. When the rest of the police department arrived, the situation would undoubtedly turn into a blind shootout straight up the slope, in the hope of hitting Moses.

And directly uphill of Moses was the fort. It was unlikely that a random shot from a police rifle would make it into the enclosed area, but...

But you're not willing to take that chance, not with Ellie in there.

Not when there was a simple way of stopping it. Sterling pulled out his cell phone and punched in a text message, then hit Send.

For once in your life, Alan, just do what I ask. Please.

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"Can you see him?" Brooks demanded.

Brass studied the dark slope. "I can't see shit."

"Dammit. This is gonna turn into a fucking siege if we can't figure out where he is--"

The lieutenant's words cut off as he twitched in surprise. Digging into his jacket, he pulled out a vibrating cell phone. "Text message," he muttered, reading it. "Oh, hell."

"What?"

Brooks flipped the phone, showing the screen to Brass.

ELLIE'S SAFE. DON'T SHOOT -- UPHILL FROM SHOOTER. DISTRACT HIM.

The first two words were pure relief. But the rest of the message-- "What the hell does 'distract him' mean?" Brass asked.

"It means that my coroner is about to do something stupid," Brooks said, squinting into the dark. "And I'm gonna have to help him, goddamnit."

He leaned into the SUV and pulled out the bullhorn, aiming it up the hill. "Willard Moses? This is Lieutenant Brooks of the Jackpot Police Department," he said, his words echoing up the foothills. "Put down your weapon and come down with your hands up."

A shot pinged off the road.

"Well, that got his attention," Brooks growled.

Brass forced himself to think. If Sterling was uphill from Moses, he had the tactical advantage, but only as long as Moses didn't know he was there. They needed a damned good distraction. "What really pisses these GNM types off?" he asked.

"You name it," Brooks said. "Democrats, our new president, gay marriage, uppity women, the military, Reno and Vegas. Why?"

"Got an idea. Can I borrow that thing?"

"Be my guest."

Brass took the bullhorn and pushed the button. "Moses, this is Captain Brass from the Las Vegas Police Department," he said. "I dunno if you noticed this yet, but you're in a world of shit right now."

Another bullet ricocheted off a nearby tree.

"Man, your aim sucks ass," Brass mocked. "Guess I can't be too surprised, though -- you militia types don't really know how to target an enemy, do you? Too bad you were never in the Marines -- you might've learned something about proper sniper technique."

A volley of bullets hit the trees this time, and Brooks ducked lower behind the shelter of the SUV. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.

"I'm distracting him," Brass said, bringing the bullhorn back up. "Oh, come on -- you think more is better? My little girl can shoot better than you, you pissant."

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Sterling slid back into the fort. "Sounds like Alan and your dad are here," he said. "Unfortunately, so's the guy with the rifle."

Ellie sucked in a breath when she heard her father's amplified voice taunting someone named Moses. "What is he doing?"

"What I told him to do," Sterling said, picking up the stick. "Wait here until one of us comes to get you. It'll be all right."

Her stomach went cold. "Doc--"

He leaned down, surprising her when his lips brushed across hers. "Thank you for the dance, Miss Brass," he said.

And then he was gone.

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Some things you never really forgot.

Dale Sterling had been roaming the foothills around Jackpot for decades. Playing at the fort with Alan, Leland, Marty and his brothers when they were kids. Camping out and hunting when they were older. Bringing Doris to Wilson Point after prom, and that whole wonderful summer after graduation. And then, years afterward, the almost compulsive hiking, because it was the only thing that exhausted him to the point where he couldn't hear the screams in his sleep.

He moved silently, testing each footstep before putting weight on it. The solid length of red oak was comfortable in his hand, serving as a counterweight. Stealth was something he'd learned early on; smaller than the other boys, he could move quickly and easily across rough terrain. Many years later that skill was taken and focused, sharpened on those weekends with the men he'd saved, the ones who decided that it was a matter of honor to teach him their skills.

Test, step. Test, step. Fifteen feet.

One of them was a martial artist, skilled with the hanbo. He'd received one as a going away present, when it was time to return to Nevada and a patiently waiting Doris. A year later, when Alan took away the shotgun, he started keeping the hanbo in the Jeep instead.

Test, step. Test, step. Ten feet.

He could smell the other man, now, the rank sweat of fear and anger sharp in the cold air. He remembered the lessons; one sharp blow between the C2 and C3 vertebrae would shear them away from the base of the skull. Death was instantaneous, and everyone would be safe.

Test, step. Test, step. Five feet.

Of course, he wouldn't do that. He wasn't a murderer. The screams he heard in his nightmares proved that, if nothing else.

But he would make sure Ellie was safe. That much, he could do.

Test, step. Test, step.

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"Oh, yeah, you're a big man," the amplified voice taunted. "Hiding behind a woman and a little kid, beating an old man to death. But that's what you militia types are like, right? You're all pansy-ass wannabes who were too stupid or weak to make it into the real military, so you play around in the woods and pretend to be heroes, then attack people who can't defend themselves. Yeah, real impressive."

"You fucker!" Moses screamed, finally goaded into blind rage. "You don't know shit about us! It's weak-ass faggots like you who are running this country into the ground, you hear me? We're the real patriots! We're the ones serving our country, not you! The founding fathers would spit on you, you mother--"

A loud whistling crack cut off the diatribe. Moses dropped the rifle and collapsed onto the ground, twitching from the blow to the back of his skull.

Above him, Sterling lowered the hanbo. "You don't know anything about serving your country, you dumb shit," he said tersely, picking up the rifle.

Almost as an afterthought, he peeked over the boulder. "Hey, Alan?" he called.

Silence. Then, "Yeah, Dale?" drifted up the hill.

"You might want to get up here and read your prisoner his rights."

A pause. "Yeah, I think I might do that. Uh -- he's still breathing, right?"

"Yup. Gonna have one hell of a headache when he wakes up, though. Thirty feet up from you, behind the long low boulder. You can't miss it."

Hefting the rifle, he turned and headed back up the hill. Ellie could safely take off her boot, now.