Deadlock by Robert Liparulo

8/14/2019 Deadlock by Robert Liparulo

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Deadlock

Robert Liparulo


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To Mark Nelson

Thank you for being a great friend all these years


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A scar nobly got is a good livery of honor.

William Shakespeare,All's Well That Ends Well

Battle not with monsters

lest ye become a monster;

and if you gaze into the abyss

the abyss gazes into you.

Friedrich Nietzsche


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1

Eureka, California

8:32 P.M.

The mission was simple: kill everyone.

The complications came in the details, such as the directive to keep it quiet. So

when a guard stepped around the corner of the house, Michael had to stop him

from firing the pistol he was reaching for. Michael brought up his sound-

suppressed shotgun and put a sabot slugwhich became shrapnel only upon

hitting fleshinto the mans chest.

There was no way he could have missed. His helmet contained a facemask

that enhanced the quality of everything he viewed through it. A blue set of

crosshairs showed him where his weapon was pointed. The system recognized

humans, and the facemask crosshairs turned red when his aim was dead-on.

The man flew backward and struck the corner of the house. But instead of

rebounding off it, he continued falling, passing through the bricks as if he were a

ghost. The break from reality startled Michael, but only for the five heartbeats it

took him to remember another of the helmets technical capabilities: it could

insert avatarsdigitally constructed charactersinto his field of vision.


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Unless the system glitched, as it had just done, it was impossible to tell

avatars from the live actors cast to make these training missions as authentic as

possible. The facemasks screen rendered people, real or drawn, as photo-realistic

cartoons. Sketchy black lines outlined them. Their skin was too perfect, too

creamy.

Crap, Michael said, disappointed in himself for letting the glitch startle

him. His teammatesnot to mention the officers watching in the Command

Center via a live satellite feedwould have caught his hesitation. That was all he

needed, being the newest and youngest member of the team.

Here on out, he thought, make it perfect.

He felt a nudge on his arm, and the team leaders voice came through his

headphones: That was the warm-up.

Of course. The designers of these tactical games always pulled the same trick:

They sent an enemy to confront the team right away. It got the players adrenaline

pumping, their hand-eye coordination aligned, their minds into a kill-or-be-killed

mentality.

Michael glanced back. He nodded at his own helmeted reflection in Bens

black facemask. Beyond, at the curb, Anton occupied the teams transportation, a


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van commandeered for the mission. Emile, the last member of their four-man

team, would be coming through the back.

Dont shoot him, Michael reminded himself. That would completely blow their

chances of outscoring the other teams. Hed never live that one down.

Get moving, Ben said.

Michael moved quickly up the front porch steps, knelt in front of the door,

and pulled a lock-pick gun and tension wrench from a pouch. He felt the

deadbolt disengage. He unlocked the door handle and replaced the tools. He

rose, readied his weapon, and waited. A red light on his display indicated that

Emile had not yet bypassed the homes security system.

Michael considered the scenario they were playing: A rebel leader, whose

planned coup would harm U.S. interests, had holed up with guards in a

suburban community. Michaels team was to eliminate everyone and make it

look like a murder-suicide. That meant no evidence of forced entry, and when

they terminated the leaderthe High Value Targetthe shooter had to be close,

the shot placed just right so the wound would appear self-inflicted. Theyd been

told the HVT had access to the type of shotguns the team was using. The

weapons smooth-bore barrels would make it impossible to prove different

weapons had been used.


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Ben gripped his shoulder, reassuring him. It only made Michael more

nervous. This was Team Bravos last chance to edge ahead of Team Charlie in frag

points, or successful kills. He didnt want to mess up.

On his screen, the red light changed to green. Three deep breaths, and he

opened the door.

He stepped into a foyer and buttonhooked around the door. Clear. A living

room opened to the right. Farther along the left foyer wall was a French door,

partially open. Light shone through the glass panes.

The layout of the housetwo stories, central hall on the ground level with

rooms on either sidewould force him and Ben to separate.

As Ben rushed toward the lighted room, Michael moved into the living room.

He panned the gun across the area. Clear.

Behind him came a scream. It was cut off by the distinctive sound of his

teammates weapon: Thoomp! Thoomp! Something crashed. Michael fought the

urge to rush back.

The scream had been high-pitched, like a womans, then changed to a deep,

guttural growl. Either his headphones had glitched or the guard had shrieked in

surprise, then slipped into youre-not-going-to-get-me mode as hed gone for his

gun.


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Had to be an actor. What computer-generated avatar would do that?

He ran through the room, toward an archway. Beyond, the surfaces of a

kitchen gleamed. A door in the kitchens back wall swung open. As a figure came

through, the sensors in Michaels helmet identified the intruder as another team

memberEmile.

Michael turned, absently noticed a table cluttered with the remnants of a

meal: dirty plates, silverware, glasses. He started past it and spotted a man. He

was standing in a den, on the far side of a couch. Facing Michael, he reached into

his jacket.

Michael fired. The man left the ground. He crashed into a television, which

rocked but stayed on. The system added spatters of black game-blood to the front

of the TV. Cartoon animals danced and sang on the screen, their voices high and

merry.

Thousand points right there, Michael thought. Im going to be top dog on this one.

Emile rushed to a sliding glass door off the den, opened it, and stepped out.

Michael went to an opening on the opposite side of the den. The foyer: hed

circled back around. Ben was making his way up a staircase. Michael fell in

behind him. At the landing, Ben turned left and swung into a bedroom.

Thoomp!


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Michael turned right. At the end of a hall, a man stood in a doorway. Michael

snapped his shotgun up. The computers facial recognition software identified

him as the HVT. Michael ran for him. The man slammed the door.

Michael rushed up to it, then remembered why the guy was the High Value

Target: rebel leader, preparing a coup. No doubt he was armed, leveling a

machine gun at the door. Michael slammed his back against the wall beside the

door.

Kick it in. Duck out of the line of fire. Dive back in. Blast away.

Glass shattered within the room.

The window!

Michael kicked open the door. He saw a flash of movement at the shattered

window.

No, no!

He jumped onto the bed, over it, stopped beside the opening. He glanced

through, pulled his head back. The patio roof extended out from the house below

the window, glass and pieces of wood all over it. He stuck his head through to

check either side. Nobody.

Emile was just there. Hed gone out the door to the backyard patio.

Emile! Hes in the backyard! Do you see him?


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Michael stepped through the window and scrambled down the incline to the

roofs edge. The yard was dark, except right below him, where the light from the

house splashed out. A rain gutter had broken away, swinging from one end. He

leaped for the grass. His ankle twisted and he rolled. Pain flared up his leg. He

brought his gun up, swung it in a complete circle, rotating his body on the grass.

The sliding door into the den was open. Could the HVT have gone back in?

Through the house to the front door? Hiding? Again, he spun around. He saw no

other clues to where the man had gone. He got his feet under him. His ankle gave

out, and he fell to one knee. Felt like glass grinding around inside him.

Forget it. Push it away.

He rose and limped through the door. Swinging his weapon back and forth,

he crossed to the foyer. Ben was stomping down the stairs. The front door was

open. Emile came through it from outside. He shook his head.

What happened? Ben said.

The garage.

Michael started for the door in the kitchen. As he passed another door

narrow: a pantry or coat closetit opened. A mannot the HVTbolted out,

screaming. He was on Michael, hammering at him with something, cracking it

against the helmet.


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Static flickered over Michaels screen. The mans image flickered with it, his

face seeming to change. He went out of focus, then became sharp again, all eyes

and nose and teeth. Michael couldnt get his gun around. He pushed, but the

man was clinging to him with one hand while the other continued beating the

object into his helmet and shoulder.

Thoomp!

The man gasped and crumpled.

Liquid spattered over Michaels facemask, obscuring his view. Bursts of static

on the screen pierced Michaels eyes. He reached for his chinstrap. His fingers

slipped over it, wet. He tugged off his glove, got the chinstrap unsnapped, and

ripped off his helmet.

At his feet, bleeding out on the floor, gasping for breath, was a young boy.


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2

The child could not have been more than twelve or thirteen years old.

Unfiltered by the computer, the cartoon aspects were gone. The blood was not

black, but bright red. And everywhere. It spurted out of a hole in the boys side.

The kid looked up at Michael, fear and disbelief making his eyes wide. He tried

to talk, hitched in a breath. His head pitched back. His chest stopped rising and

falling. The air hed taken in eased out.

Michael dropped his helmet and fell to his knees. He touched the boys face.

The flesh under his fingers was soft. Michael slid his hand down to the wound.

Wet, sticky, warm. His finger slipped into the hole. He felt bone.

What? he said. He looked up at the helmeted soldier whose shotgun still

oozed smoke. This is real!Hes real! Just a . . . just a boy.

Michael. The voice was muffled by the helmet, but he recognized it as

Bens. Put your helmet back on.

But . . . cant you see? This is real. Hes dead. We killed him.

Put it on, now. Ben shifted his aim from the boy to Michael.

Michaels chest tightened. Wait! he said. This is real! Its not an exercise,

its not a game! He felt sick. Had he really believed it was all just a game?


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Realistic, yes . . . thats what made the Outis Corporation the best at training

soldiers. Thats why hed chosen to go with it right out of high school.

But real? No, no . . . not now, not here. They had not been deployed. They

were still on U.S. soil, he was sure of it. They often traveled, or pretended to

travel, to training facilities Outis maintained all over the country. And they had

traveled this time, but not far.

Whats going on? he said. His eyes stung, clouded up. He wiped at them.

Ben was a statue, unmoving except for the finger tightening against the

trigger.

Emile darted forward, putting himself between Michael and the team leader.

He held his hand up to Ben. No! He swiveled his helmet around to Michael.

Put your helmet on. Michael! You have to.

For the first time, Michael saw not his helmet but his own pale face staring

back at him from the surface of teammates facemask. He was accustomed to the

helmets, their uniformity and anonymity. But now, with his own off, and a dead

boy in front of him, they seemed alien and wrong.

Out of the way, Emile. Ben sidestepped, reclaiming his target. You have till

three, he said to Michael. One . . .

Michael! Emile said. Put it on!


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small. He had shot another child, maybe a few years younger than the one at his

feet.

He groaned. What have we done?

Emile stepped toward him, his hand out, calming him. Its all right, he said.

Its not what it looks like.

Not with the helmets on, Michael agreed. Take them off, youll see. Youll

see whats real.

Weve all had them off at one time or another, Michael, Emile said. He

edged closer. Its all in the timing, man. You took yours off a little too soon,

thats all.

Michael looked around Emile. Ben, who did you shoot in that room over

there? Who screamed? Whod you shoot in the bedroom upstairs? He started to

weep. Who did you kill?

Emile sprang and seized Michaels wrist. His other hand came around from

behind, holding a pistol.

No, nonot a gun, Michael realized. It was the CO2 injection pistol the team

leader carried for hostage-taking.

Michael punched at Emile. He struck his helmet, his arm. He stopped him

from swinging the syringe closer.


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3

Denver, Colorado

Three days later

The place was called Casa Bonita. It was the closest thing the Mile High City

had to a true theme restaurant, the kind that pocked the landscape around

Disney World like acne. Mexico was done here en una manera grande: lava-rock

walls, thatched-roof gazebos, fake palm trees festooned with holiday lights, what

appeared to be an entire street lifted out of Puerto Vallarta. The centerpiece was a

lagoon into which cliff divers plunged, alongside a three-story waterfall, every

half hour. Diners sat at tables in aristocratic dining halls and waterside cabanas,

in the caves of the Sierra Madres, even in the darkness behind the waterfall. Kids

played games in one of several arcade rooms and crept through Black Barts

Hideaway, a cavern of passageways where lights flashed on to reveal monsters

hidden in the walls and where air, accompanied by shrill alarms, shot out at

unsuspecting passersby. Parents got caricature portraits made near a wishing

well and passed time in the cantina. Somehow, this tour ofla Tierra Azteca fit in a

single building that, from outside, mimicked an oversized Spanish mission.


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Laura Fuller gazed up at the black-painted ceilings, where tiny lights

twinkled like stars. I thought our flight was taking us to Denver, not Mazatln,

she said, sipping a margarita.

Great, isnt it? John Hutchinson pushed his plate away and leaned back in

his chair. He plopped a hand on his belly, groaning. These all-you-can-eat meals

should be illegal.

I had three plates of enchiladas, said Lauras son, Dillon. He didnt bother

to look up from the sopaipilla he was dousing with honey.

It was a long flight, and we didnt get up in time for breakfast, Laura

explained.

Hutch was familiar with the journey.

The day before, Laura and Dillon had taken an eight-passenger commuter out

of Fiddler Falls, a speck of a town in northern Saskatchewan. The stomach-

tossing, six-hour flight alone was enough to lay seasoned travelers low, but then

they had spent the night in Saskatoon and caught a 6:30 A.M. commercial flight to

Denveranother five hours in the air.

Hutch caught the eye of a wandering trinket salesman and waved him over.

The man stepped up to the table, bearing lighted spinning butterflies, glowing


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rabbit ears, and swords that shlinged when wavedapparently pirates and

conquistadors used the same bladesmith.

Whats your fancy? Hutch asked Dillon.

Im too old for that stuff, the boy said around a mouthful of food. His eyes

sparkled at the goodies all the same.

Ten is not too old for a light saber, Hutch informed him. Green or blue?

Hutch, really, Laura said, you dont have to.

If youre going to explore the caves, you gotta have a sword. He pointed at

one and handed the man a twenty. He turned the saber over to Dillon.

The boy, all eyes and teeth, accepted it. He swung it around, then held it

vertically in front of himself. Its blue glow radiated over his face.

Hutch remembered those eyes, at once vibrant and sad; the mouth that when

it smiled made dimpled cheeks and revealed Chiclet teeth and a little tongue that

seemed not to know quite what to do with itself. Itd been over a year since hed

seen Dillon. Hutch had bought Laura a satellite phone, the only kind that worked

in the wilderness she and her son called home. Hed burned through a few

paychecks worth of airtime minutes, but it wasnt the same as being with them.

Theyd met a year ago when hell had staked a claim on Fiddler Falls. A young

man named Declan Page and a homicidal gang of youthful followers had


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attempted to take over the townfor not much more reason than because they

thought they could. Lauras husband, Tom, Dillons father, had died fighting

them.

Hutch and three friends had been camping in the hills above town. They had

inadvertently crashed Declans party, and through dumb luck, according to

Hutch, or through survival skills and heroism, according to some news media,

they had managed to stop the siege. Hutch had saved the boys life. In turn,

Dillon had returned Hutchs life to him, reminding him that despite the nasty

divorce he was going through, life was worth living and the children his ex was

trying to keep from him were worth fighting for.

Hutch leaned across the table to run his fingers over Dillons hair and cheek.

Im glad youre here.

Dillon rolled his eyes. Finally! He looked anxiously at his mom. How long,

a week?

We head home next weekend, she said.

Dillon frowned. He gazed at Hutch, and his eyes got a little watery.

Hutch felt the same. A week was too short, but he said, Hey, we can do a lot

in a week. Youll see. In a week, youll be so beat youll want to go home just to

rest.


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I do chores at home, Dillon said.

He does, Laura said. Its amazing, how much he helps.

Dillon hung his head. He found the switch on the sword and turned it off.

Laura smiled at Hutch. Were tired, thats all.

Im sorry, Hutch said, bringing his watch up. I should have thought about

that. You need a nap more than you do a crazy place like this. He moved a

napkin from his lap to the sauce-smeared plate in front of him.

No, Dillon said, perking up. Thats all right. I want to see more. As if to

prove it, he turned the swords light on again. Can I . . . uh . . . ? His finger

pointed this way and that; his eyes roamed elsewhere.

You sure? Hutch said. Getting an enthusiastic affirmation, Hutch looked to

Laura. She shrugged, as if to say Kids. He tossed Dillon a plastic baggie of tokens.

Dont spend it all in one place.

Dillon hefted it in his hand. His smile grew bigger. He stood and looked

around, unsure which direction to head first.

Dillon, Hutch said, gesturing for the boy to draw closer. He whispered,

Check out the area under the bridge in Black Barts. Its really cool. He pointed,

and Dillon ran off. Hutch called to him: But dont get lost. Its easy to do in this

place. To Laura he said, This is Logans favorite restaurant.


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Logan was Hutchs twelve-year-old son.

Once, when he was about seven, he ran off like that and disappeared. We

couldnt find him anywhere. Cops came, started interviewing people, checking

the security tapes. Janet was freaking out.

You werent? Lauras eyes had grown big.

Hutch smiled. In my way. Thing is, I should have known. Ive been coming

here since Iwas a kid. Finally, I had a revelation. He laughed and took a swig

from a bottle of Dos Equis. Black Barts Hideaway. Theres a plank bridge in

there. If youre mischievous enough, you can slip between the rocks and get

under it. Almost no way to see under there, its so dark, even with the lights on.

He got stuck? Laura said. She looked over her shoulder the direction Dillon

had gone. Why didnt he call out?

Uh-uh, Hutch said. Not Logan. He was hiding.

That whole time?

Thats Logan.

Well, it is called Hideaway.

Exactly. Hutch drained the bottle into his mouth. He reached for the flag

attached to a tiny pole on the table. Raising it beckoned a server. Then he stopped

and withdrew his hand. Hed promised himself no more than two beers at a


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single sitting. After returning from Canada, hed had trouble with that. It was

just too blasted easy to keep going.

He said, Of course, theyd turned the lights on and even flashed a light

under the bridge. Whenever they did, Logan would squeeze himself into a

corner.

Oooh, Laura said.

His rump was red for a while, Ill tell you, Hutch said. But worse, as far as

he was concerned, we didnt come back for six months.

No more hiding?

You gotta hide when youre here. Only not for three hours.

So, she said, shifting in her chair, sizing him up, where are they, Logan

and Macie? Not your week?

It is, actually. Janet will bring them to the house this evening. You know Ive

always wanted the two of you to meet them. I think Dillon and Logan will have a

blast together. When you see him, ask to see his grill.

His what?

His braces. Not really what the rap kids consider grillz, but close enough for

a twelve-year-old suburbanite.


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She shook her head. Im still trying to get my head around the idea that

youre not the Grizzly Adams guy I met in Canada. Of course, I knew you lived

in Denver, but I cant shake the thought that you belong in the woods, in some

cabin you built yourself. Instead of stalking lynx through the wilderness, you

write newspaper columns. Now you tell me your son talks like a . . . whaddaya

call em . . . gangsta?

They laughed.

Something like that, Hutch said. He tried to remember if hed ever seen her

smile in those few weeks hed spent in Canada while the authorities up there

conducted their investigation. Probably she had, if only forcing it for Dillons

sake, but he couldnt recall.

Laura said, How is it, having them back?

Hutch nodded. He wished he could say, We went camping last week and saw a

bear! Or, You should have seen Macie in the school play. Eight-year-olds everywhere gave

up their dreams of stardom, what with her talent sucking up all the accolades. But truth

was hed won joint custody, and it hadnt gone much farther than his kids

bouncing from Janets home to his every week.

He hadnt done all the things with them hed thought he would. No bike rides

or circuses. No taking Logan to the skate park or fishing with Macie. Going out to


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the movies or the ice cream parlorevents hed imaged as everyday occurrences

had become rare. He sometimes wondered, when his mind paused long

enough to consider it, whethergetting time with them had been more important

to him than spending time with them.

But instead of addressing it aloud, he said, Both Janet and I come from

broken homes. When we got married, we promised ourselves wed break that

cycle. Guess that didnt work so well.

A spotlight illuminated a stage beside the waterfall, about halfway up. A

cowboy spun a six-shooter and spoke into a microphone: Well, howdy, folks. Im

sheriff of these parts, and Im looking for Black Bart. Anybody seen that

varmint?

A chorus of kid voices yelled that the evildoer was right there, sneaking up on

the sheriff from behind the waterfall. He was a cowboy bad guy: black hat,

bandolier, and Snidely Whiplash mustache.

Laura said, I thought Black Bart was a pirate.

Hutch shrugged. Depends on the context, or what costumes are handy, I

guess. He sat up in his chair and saw Dillon run up to a rope barrier on the

other side of the lagoon. Hutch waved, but the boys eyes were too full of the

show. He said, I bet hes never seen anything like this before.


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I never have, Laura said. She touched his arm. Dont feel that you have to,

you know, show us the sights. Thats not why we came.

Oh, come on. Skiing. The Rockies. Mile High Stadium, I mean, Invesco Field.

My dad still calls it Bears Stadium, and that goes back to 68. Lets see, what else .

. . ?

John Hutchinson, she said. You, thats what we came for. Im just happy

you could make time for us.

He nodded. Got a couple columns banked, so readers wont miss their

thrice-weekly dose of The Spirit of Colorado.

His column, which ran in the Denver Post, profiled Coloradoans who had

triumphed over adversity. Everyone had made a big deal over his entering the

ranks of these victors by surviving in Canada. In fact, the story had been picked

up by the national media.

Before he had realized what was happening, theyd dubbed him a hero. The

story of Declan, the scion of the Page fortune, gone bad and the man whod

stopped him had made it to the pages ofPeople magazineand Readers Digest.

Heck, even 60 Minutes had given the drama a twelve-minute segment. Three

publishing houses had contacted him about writing a book, but they wanted a

heros tale, and that didnt interest him.


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He simply couldnt take credit, when all he had done was live through it, and

when so much tragedy had resulted despite his best efforts. Besides, he was flat

broke and couldnt find time for his kids. What kind of hero let his life crumble

like that?

Dillon was hoping the two of you could do a little archery, Laura said.

Hes become a regular Robin Hood.

I hope not the part about

The James Bond-like opening of Led Zeppelins Kashmir emanated from

his breast pocket. He pulled out the mobile phone.

robbing from the rich to give to the poor, he finished. The call was

coming from a pay phone. Hello?

John Hutchinson?

He didnt recognize the voice, strained, rushed.

Speaking.

Dont say my name.

That would be a little difficult, since I dont know

The voice said, It adds up to a dime or more.

Nichols. Dr. Dorian Nichols.


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Hutch stood so quickly, his chair toppled backward. I thought you were . . .

He started to turn away, remembered where he was, and held an index finger up

to Laura. She had stopped his bottle from toppling over when his legs had hit the

table. He turned away from her concern.

Hutch said, The cops . . . everyone is looking for you. Your family . . .

They slaughtered them, all of them. Nicholss voice broke on slaughtered,

rose in pitch.

They? Who?

Dont use any names!

You think what? My lines bugged? Yours? Youre calling from a pay phone.

Yours, absolutely, but they probably have entire area codes covered for me by

now. They use a keyword program. It can monitor millions of conversations

without anyone having to listen. Thats how they do it now.

A seorita brushed past, leading a family to a nearby table. Hutch picked up

his chair and stepped around it. He faced a lava-rock wall, lowered his voice.

You keep saying they.

You have to ask?

The news said


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I know, that I killed them. Thats what they made it look like. Would you

expect anything different?

Where are you? Why are you calling me? You need to go to . . .

The man jumped into Hutchs hesitation. To who? I cant go to anyone. As

soon as I do, theyll lock me up. Then Page . . . The man pulled air back, as if

trying to take back the word. Put me in a cell and I wont come outtheyll get

me for sure. The only chance I have to . . . to expose who did this is to blow it

wide open.

I dont understand. But Hutch was beginning to. Why dont you go to the

media? I mean, the big guys? Theyd

Theyd think I went crazy, like theyre already saying. First theyd turn me in,

then theyd write a story about how they helped apprehend me.

Hutch closed his eyes. Nichols was right. Hutch had beat his own head

against enough brick walls this past year to know. The man Nichols was talking

aboutBrendan Pagehad insulated himself so thoroughly, was so adept at

using his money and influence, that he was nearly untouchable. And nearly was

only Hutchs hope adding words. If Page had gone after Nichols as ruthlessly as

he apparently had done, the doctor must possess exactly what Hutchs

investigation needed.


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God help me, Hutch thought. Thinking like this. The mans family. Still . . .

What do you have? Hutch said.

Silence. Finally, Nichols said, X no . . . Genjuros.

What? Wait . . . spell that. Hutch patted his pockets for a pen.

Nichols said, Do your research. Ill be in touch.

Hold on. Where are you? I can

A clicking sound came through, as though he could hear the quarters Nichols

had used dropping through the phone.

Hello? Doc He stopped himself. Bugged?His phone? He looked at it, as if

some evidence of it would show. The screen told him the call had been lost. He

slapped it shut and dropped it into his pocket. He turned to the table, picked up

his sunglasses.

We have to go, he told Laura.

What is it? Is everything all right?

Hutched flagged down their server and handed her a credit card. He turned

back to Laura. Im sorry, its just . . . Everythings okay. That was a guy Id been

trying to reach. Hed always avoided me, like everyone else. Now hes in trouble

and wants to talk. I think he knows something, what Ive been looking for.

About Declans father? she asked.


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Hutch had always believed the billionaire military industrialist had

something to do with the atrocities his son had committed in Canada. The

Canadian and U.S. justice departments had ultimately disagreed. Hutch had

been digging for dirtfutilelysince returning to Denver a year ago.

He said, I think so, yeah. He waved at Dillon, still watching the show from

the far side of the lagoon. Dillon!

Black Bart pushed the sheriff off the stage. The lawman plunged twenty feet

into the water. Everyone booed. Black Bart laughed maniacally.

Dillon!

The boy glanced over. He grinned and waved.

Hutch beckoned him. The server returned with his card and the bill to sign.

Hutch scrawled the odd words Nichols had told him on a napkin and shoved it

into his pocket. He said, He wants me to research something. Said hed get back

to me.

Laura said, Hey, at least he had the courtesy to call after we ate, huh?

Dillon ran over. Can we get more of those roll things?

Not this time, honey. Laura pulled his coat off the back of a chair.

Were leaving?


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Im sorry, Dillon, Hutch said. He tried to corral his stampeding thoughts.

Well come back, I promise.

The boy slipped into his coat. He looked around, frowning at all the places he

didnt get to explore.

Hutch patted him on the back. I promise. He slipped around him and

headed for the exit. Hed already started the list of things he had to do when he

got home, the computer searches, the phone calls.

Deadlock by Robert Liparulo

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Transcript of Deadlock by Robert Liparulo