Death in the Rockies Ch. 04

When we left the swim club, the Navigator was still sitting at the curb, still on idle, and still polluting the atmosphere. But by the time we were climbing up to the summit of the ridge of the Rockies near the Coors beer plant at Golden on Route 58, the Navigator was roaring past us on all gazillion cylinders and leaving us in its dust. We didn't see it again until we'd taken 40 west off 58 and were passing the small commuter airport at Granby. A sleek corporate jet seemingly too big to be landing there had just landed and was taxiing toward the postage stamp-sized operations building. Two camouflaged Hummers, idling, with their lights on, were sitting out on the tarmac by the building. The Navigator was off on the side of the road, still idling, and Arcardi and one of his goons were standing, leaning up against the limo on the fence side and watching the plane taxi. I only got a brief glimpse in passing, but I could have sworn Arcardi wasn't wearing any trousers. For that matter, neither was his bodyguard.

The Navigator swept past us again as we were turning into the ranch and passing under the arch with "Big O" in flashing neon lights over the entrance. About as subtle as the sign over the Denver Swim Club, I thought. But this was the West. They also led with their chins and their wallets out here—or so I'd heard. I didn't usually go farther west than Philadelphia. I'd had to do a lot of studying about Chicago as I was packing to come out here, though—seeing as how that was where I was from.

Arcardi and his goons were already out of the Navigator when our limo pulled up to the main building at the ranch. Arcardi, who definitely was missing his trousers and his briefs too for that matter—but who had an admirable staff and set hanging between his legs—was ranting about something.

The name Rapino hit and sizzled on my brain, and I was all ears now.

"That bastard, Mario Rapino, flying right on up here. Gettin' in my face with that. Well, I—"

I didn't catch any more because the gaggle of Arcardi and goons was heading for the porch of the main house now, one of the guys trying to hand Arcardi his trousers and skivvies. I didn't need to catch any more, though. The plot was thickening here. That must have been who was in that corporate jet the Navigator had pulled over to watch—Mario Rapino, Lorenzo's little brother. Arcardi must have recognized the plane as belonging to the Rapino clan.

Great, now I had a range war on my hands in addition to trying to keep Jenks alive to testify at a trail—if, of course, any of the accused were still alive to get to trial. But, on second thought, maybe this wouldn't be so bad. If I could just keep Jenks and me out of the line of fire, who cared if the Rapinos and Arcardis shot each other to oblivion? Better they do it here out in the wide-open spaces than on the street in my city.

I couldn't luxuriate in that thought any more, though, because Butch had shown the three customers from the limo where they were supposed to go to check in and, for punishment, had snapped his fingers at Chuck and told him he could get the customers' luggage inside all by his lonesome, and was back by my side—attracted by the same sound that now was arresting my attention.

The sound of weak moaning.

We both headed for the Navigator, the back doors of which were still yawning open.

The moaning sound was actually the best sign we could have hoped for. A naked and crumpled Little Sandy—Jess—was strung out on the back floor of the Navigator. Both an arm and a leg were bent at impossible angles, and, as far as I could see, so was his neck. Only the moaning was a signal that the lad was still alive.

"Christ almighty, Jess," Butch exclaimed. "This was why I didn't want you in the Navigator. Hey, help over here guys," he called out to a couple of guys in low-slung jeans and cowboy boots and not much of anything else who had been sitting on the railing on the porch and watching us arrive. "Get a stretcher—and fast—and someone roust out Doc."