Dirty Weather

  Experience a heart-pumping and thrilling tale of suspense!

  Originally published in THRILLER (2006),

  edited by #1 New York Times bestselling author James Patterson.

  In this intense Thriller Short, New York Times bestselling author Gregg Hurwitz once again explores justice versus the law. Here his research for his deputy US marshal character, Tim Rackley from The Kill Clause and Troubleshooter, comes into full focus.

  Laura Hillman runs a bar near a prison, and she is also quite lonely. When Brian Dyer arrives to have a drink, she’s enamored with his charm and sense of honor. An attempted robbery puts a bullet in Brian’s foot, but he’s able to force the thief to flee. But from all appearances, the thief is going to come back, and this time lives will be on the line.

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  Dirty Weather

  Gregg Hurwitz

  CONTENTS

  Dirty Weather

  GREGG HURWITZ

  As a deputy U.S. marshal tasked with transporting inmates and hunting down fugitives, Gregg Hurwitz’s protagonist, Tim Rackley, finds himself in and around prisons on a daily basis. The Kill Clause, Rackley’s first thriller, begins with Rackley learning about his seven-year-old daughter’s murder. From there, he’s drawn into a shadowy commission of men seeking justice outside the law. The Program brought Rackley inside a deadly mind control cult, when he was tasked with retrieving the missing daughter of a powerful Hollywood producer. For research, Hurwitz went undercover into mind control cults and submitted himself to cult testing.

  Troubleshooter, the next Rackley thriller, opens with the leader of an outlaw biker gang pulling off a daring freeway escape while being driven from sentencing to prison. Clearly, the Rackley series grapples with issues of vigilantism—justice versus the law—each book offering Rackley’s ever-evolving perspective. In the course of researching each of the Tim Rackley books, Hurwitz himself spent time behind bars, getting to know the men and women who keep the prisons running.

  Dirty Weather was inspired by them.

  DIRTY WEATHER

  He was handsome in a dirty sort of way, lank hair shoved back over his ears, muscles firm beneath a white button-up shirt he wore untucked with the sleeves cuffed past the forearms. He’d slipped into Frankie’s Furlough quietly, a swirl of biting wind from the still-closing door conveying him to the far end of the bar. The rickety building stuck out from a snowdrift off the interstate as if hurled there. The interior smelled of sawdust, which layered the floor, soaking up spilled booze and the melted sludge of tracked-in earth.

  Home to truckers, twelve-steppers who’d fallen off the staircase, and most often, correctional officers, the Furlough had been something of a roadside institution ever since Frankie had taken his pension from the big house and parlayed it into four walls, a roof of questionable efficacy and a red-felt pool table. He’d done well for himself, too, though it wasn’t apparent from the looks of the place.

  The surrounding landscape had been stripped bare by winter, trees thrusting like forked sticks out of gray rises of snow. Few signs of life persisted in the stretch of Michigan freeze: a liquor store across the frontage road, a long-closed diesel station, a sloped gravel turnoff for runaway semis. And then a stark ten-mile crawl north to the only employer of significance in the county, the Upper Ridgeway State Men’s Correctional Facility, which rose from behind a stark shelf of white cedars like a secret no one had bothered to keep secret.

  Laura finished twirling a pint glass on a towel, her attention drawn back to the stranger at the end of the bar. He’d walked with a slight limp, which interested her. Also, he kept his gaze on the lacquered birch veneer instead of on her breasts (her most attractive feature were she to judge by the eye traffic of Furlough’s fine patrons) or her rounded but still-firm thirty-six-year-old ass. Her face wasn’t bad either, this she knew, but it had collected age around the eyes and at the line of her jaw. And the skin of the neck. Nothing to be done there. His face, by contrast, was more youthful—she put him in his late twenties—but it was quite pale, almost unhealthily so, as if he were used to living in a warmer climate.

  Between small, measured sips, he turned the bottle in his hands as if he’d never seen a beer before. Contemplativeness, in Frankie’s Furlough, was something of a rarity. In contrast, Rick Jacobs was all swagger, shooting solids against Myron’s stripes. Barrel chest, thermal undershirt, beard, weekend game-hunter—Rick was a carbon copy of a carbon copy. Ever since he’d joined up with the Asphalt Cruisers, Rick asked people to call him Spike. Despite his efforts, the nickname hadn’t taken. He had a penchant for racist jokes and loud belching, and the tremors hit him if he got forty waking minutes from a bottle of Glenlivet. That’s why he was here, even during a blizzard that kept the entire county shuttered in except for Laura, who would’ve burrowed through snow with her bare hands to get some fresh air after playing nurse, and Myron, who Rick had no doubt bullied into playing sidekick. Just good country people, Rick and Myron, quick with a grin and a left hook.

  Rick paused, his ass in front of the fire that Laura persistently kept going. Her father had built the brick hearth with his own two hands, an act of masculine creation he reminded her of at least once a week, even though he’d rarely gotten around to using it when he was running the show. He didn’t believe in burning resources; this was a hewn-featured man, powerful even in his decline, who still banged about the house wearing the Shetland wool sweater he’d bought on a trip to Montreal during the 1967 Expo.

  The stranger caught her next glance and flared a finger from the bottle. She headed over, trailing a soft hand along the bar. “Another?”

  “Nah, just a pack of Reds, please.”

  “No boozing and cruising,” she said, sliding the cigarettes across the bar. “Smart choice. You’ll wind up on the other side of the bars.”

  He leaned back, a faint grin etched on his face. “Is it that obvious?”

  She leaned over the bar (giving him a chance for an eyeful of cleavage, which she was pleased he didn’t capitalize on) and peered at the baton ring protruding from his belt. “Plus the Galls boots. Dead giveaway. I been working here a long time. And though you’re cute”—this widened the smile—“I know the template. Newjack or transfer?”

  His eyes, faded blue, took on a hint o
f playfulness. “How do you know I’m new here?”

  “Because I haven’t seen you. Hell, we are called the Furlough. Even the prisoners know about us. That’s what we get for being on the thoroughfare.” She tossed the stale popcorn into the trash and slotted the wooden bowl back into the cupboard. “So, I’ll ask you again, hotshot—Newjack or transfer?”

  “Newjack.” He extended a callused hand. “Brian Dyer.”

  “Laura Hillman.” She pointed at the neon sign hanging over the rust-stained mirror. They hadn’t had it serviced in years, so it read, F nk e Furl gh. “Frank’s daughter. Been around a few blocks a few times.” She cocked her head, letting a tangle of hair cross her eyes. “Still embarrassed?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “No blazer, no bad maroon tie, no gray slacks. You changed after shift in the lockers even though the draft in there can make your”—a delicate tip of her hand—“retract inside your body. It can catch you a lot of static in the world, being a correctional officer, so you’d rather leave the uniform behind the gates.”

  Again he smiled, and she felt something inside her warm. A part of her that hadn’t felt comfort—or hope—in a long time. Though the fire was a good fifteen feet away, a drop of sweat hung at his hairline. She liked that he sensed the heat so keenly.

  He bobbed his head. “What else? I mean, aside from the fact that you’re clearly smarter than me. Is there a Mr. Laura?”

  Rick strolled to the near side of the pool table, overchalking his cue. Myron had stumbled out, heading home to get his nightly tongue-lashing from Kathy over with, so Rick was burning his remaining quarters chasing trick shots. He’d started staying right up until last call ever since Laura, in the wake of her father’s latest heart attack, had taken over weekends.

  A loud click of the pool balls and Rick cheered himself heartily.

  Laura leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I look bad in blue, so I married into the family tradition instead. Fresh out of high school. Mr. Laura had just graduated the Academy. And you know what they say are the first three things you get when you become a CO.”

  “A car, a baton and a divorce,” Brian replied.

  “We gave it the obligatory two years. Since then, I’ve been a lonely girl.”

  “Not so lonely,” Rick offered from where he was leaning over the thirteen, which had evaded the corner pocket for three shots running.

  “Thank you for that, Spike.”

  He grumbled something and got back to chalking.

  “What’s with the tattoo?” She rested a hand on the faded blue ink on Brian’s forearm, and he jerked ever so slightly at her touch. His skin was warm and soft, and the feel of it against her palm was inexplicably thrilling.

  Behind them, the pool cue clattered to the worn velvet, and Rick said, “Fuck this, then.” A brief howl of wind as the door banged the chimes, hard, and then they were alone.

  “The tattoo,” Laura said, tracing the dip of the inked woman’s waist with a thumb.

  “I don’t remember getting it.”

  “Sounds like a sailor story.”

  “Not quite.” Brian looked away, his mouth firming, and she sensed sadness there, and anger. “It was during an eight-day drunk…”

  Her voice was quiet and a touch hoarse with the premonition that she might regret her flippancy. “After what?”

  “My wife. Three months pregnant. Drunk driver. High-school sweetheart, for what that’s worth. We’d been together four years, were just starting to really fight good—you know, baby’ll help things—but she was part of me.” He tilted his beer bottle to his lips, but it was still on empty. “Another sob story. Just what you need in a place like this.”

  Her hand still rested on his arm and it felt awkward to withdraw it now. She liked the feel of their touching, the feel of him. The seam of their skin was slightly moist, their sweat intermingling. She struggled for words that wouldn’t sound trite. She thought about fetuses, the crunch of car metal, Brian’s faint limp. “How do you get back from that?”

  “Am I back?” He laughed a real laugh, like he was enjoying himself. “It put me down for a good while and when I got up, I enrolled in the Academy. You can go either way after a thing like that. The line is—” he held up his hand, thumb and forefinger, measuring a quarter inch. “I thought a little order would help me pull it together and I was right. So order I’ve got. I spend my time in a place where guys keep Clubs locked on the steering wheels of their cars that they park in the shadow of a wall tower. Guy I work with—Conner?”

  “Sure, I know Conner.”

  “He welded a hasp to his lunch box so he could keep a tiny lock on there. No shit.”

  “Sounds like Conner all right.”

  “It’s being locked in paranoia. But you know what? I’d be lying to say I don’t take comfort in the metal. All those right angles. And the bells, set your watch to them. I’ll leave someday, I’m sure, head somewhere warm, and I bet I’ll miss it all. It’s like…armor, almost.”

  “And you needed armor.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I did.”

  She found herself close to him, a foot maybe—he’d been speaking quietly and drawn her in, and there was an instant where she thought she’d just keep leaning until their lips met. His heaviness seemed to match the weight of her disappointments. A single child raised motherless in a frozen plain. She’d tried to get out, even to Detroit, but she’d chosen young and then her marriage had dissolved, leaving her mired like a shot bird. Twenty years old then and she’d never found it in herself to risk again.

  She’d gone to Florida once—Disneyworld with Sue Ann—but as for spreading her wings, well, she’d always stayed in her childhood bedroom, except for during her brief marriage. And even then she’d made it not ten miles, just across the gully. A decade and a half ago, now. And so she’d spent her years since laughing with the truckers, shooting stick with the COs and taking the occasional roll in the sheets just to get some warmth inside her. Her indiscretions bought her snickers in church and criminating looks from her father, exaggerated into a kind of horror now by his palsied left cheek and the white film ringing his lips. It stung her deep and hard, the murmur that preceded and followed her, but she’d long resolved herself to getting what sustenance she could where she could, and to hell with the rest of them.

  She’d been saving up though, a few years now, and maybe that money would get her out of Upper Ridgeway or at the very least out of her father’s house. Or maybe—a notion almost too painfully hopeful to entertain—it would help her get a house with someone else someday. But her radar was off, as her father liked to say. She saw what she wanted to see in men and sometimes these days she didn’t even see that.

  Brian raised a hand to her cheek (impossibly, impossibly warm), his elbow braced on the bar so she could give his palm the full weight of her chin and then the door smashed open and a man with a gun charged them, screaming so loud flecks of saliva dotted the bar.

  “The safe—I know there’s a fucking safe get it open now.”

  Laura backed against the glass shelves, a bottle of Triple Sec bouncing twice on the floor and clattering to a quiet roll. Brian remained on his stool facing forward, enveloped in an intense calm that spoke of experience, his hands spread in view on the bar. His eyes stayed straight ahead; he seemed to be tracking the man’s movement in the mirror behind her.

  The gunman wore several long-sleeved T-shirts, one on top of the other. Snow and sweat had matted his wispy blond hair to his skull. He fumbled a credit-card-size block of what looked like beige Play-Doh from his pocket, his stare level on Laura.

  “You’d better move, bitch.” The gunman shoved Brian’s shoulder with his gun. “And you, get up against the—”

  Brian pivoted on the stool and drove his fist into the man’s gut. The gunman doubled over and the gun barked once. Brian grunted and staggered forward.

  The man shuffled backward toward the door, screeching, “Dammit, Goddammit. You s
tupid idiot,” and then the bells shivered, the wind rushed, and he was gone.

  Laura vaulted the bar. Gritting his teeth, Brian fought off his boot and hurled it into the fireplace. His sock, drenched with blood, made a peeling sound as he slid it off. This too went the way of the flames.

  The bullet had pierced the outside of his right foot, two inches back from his little toe. The shock had just caught up to Laura, moistening her eyes. The comforting smell of the fire drifted in, further disorienting.

  “You’re okay.” Disbelief tinged her voice, and not a little relief. “You’re okay.”

  “It’s fine. Passed through the side, here.”

  “I’ll bandage it and we’ll get you to the hospital. I have a first-aid kit…”

  “Lock the door first. And check the parking lot, make sure he’s gone.”

  She did, bending the cheap venetians over the window. The interstate was an oblivious white strip. A wall of snow encircled the empty parking lot, white fading into the white trunks of the firs. A white Subaru was parked at the side of the frontage road, though she had to press her face flat to the glass to see it. The headlights shot twinning beams into the snowfall, but the car was apparently empty. “No one. But there’s a car still there. Lights on.”

  “It’s gotta be his. No one else out here. And he’s not going far on foot.”

  “He could be hiding in it. Or in the trees.”

  “Call 911.”

  She ran behind the bar and snatched up the phone. Dead. “He cut the line.”

  “Okay. We’re isolated here. You have a gun?”

  “No. You think he’ll come back, this guy?”

  “Looked like he had C4 with him. For blasting a safe.”

  “Jesus Christ,” she broke in, “C4, like action-movie C4?”

  “I spooked him, but maybe he settles himself out in that car, realizes that we’re holed up and injured. Plus, we’re riding the aftermath of a blizzard—not exactly the best time for a speedy police response even if he hadn’t cut the phone line. I say we split.”