Free Blood Trade: A Sean Coleman Thriller by John A. Daly Page B

knew the answer himself or was just being aloof. He pivoted
to stare out into the night in the same direction as Oldhorse. As a frosty breeze
brushed along his face, Sean thought about Toby and what it might mean to him to
have a man back in his home after so many years. Like Sean, Toby’s father had abandoned
him at a young age. Sean knew it had to be tough for Joan to raise a boy with autism
on her own, but it was clear that she had done a good job thus far. He just hoped
that she had thought through bringing someone like Oldhorse into their lives. After
a few moments, he spoke. “That boy’s special, you know?”
    Oldhorse nodded his head and took another drag. “That’s why his mother doesn’t want
you around him.”
    Sean let a conceding chuckle escape his lips. “I know,” he said. “I guess that’s
what makes her a good mom.”
    About a minute went by without either man speaking a word. They just stood there
in conjoined silence as delicate flakes of snow dotted their bodies.
    “You need a ride?” Sean offered, aware that Oldhorse didn’t own a car. “Or are you
staying here tonight?”
    “Staying here.”
    “All right.” Sean headed for the car when Oldhorse unexpectedly spoke again.
    “I’m meeting with Lumbergh in the morning.”
    It was unlike Oldhorse to prolong any form of small talk. From Sean’s experience,
a conversation with the man was typically like talking to a brick wall. It made no
sense to Sean why his brother-in-law would need to talk to Oldhorse, a man who had
no interest in town business whatsoever. He wasn’t even sure the two had spoken since
the Montoya shooting. He glanced back. “Lumbergh? Why?”
    Oldhorse shook his head, his gaze still trained forward. He took another drag before
saying, “Don’t know. He left a note on my door. He wants to meet. I’ll find out tomorrow.”

Chapter 5
    P olice Chief Gary Lumbergh’s exhausted eyes burned a hole through the thin computer
screen that was propped up along the center of his redwood desk. His dark, thinning
hair was uncharacteristically frazzled. A light green, button-up shirt that had been
neatly pressed that morning now hung off his short, thin, 135-pound frame in a rumpled,
dampened mess. Half of it was untucked, dangling over the edge of his pleated pants
following a hasty trip to the restroom.
    His left arm was suspended below his chest in a wide sling. It was an irritating
but necessary companion following his recent shoulder surgery, glenohumeral joint
reconstruction. He hoped it would be the last time he would have to come under the
knife.
    The past six months hadn’t been easy for the chief. The hail of automatic gunfire
that had left him with a collapsed lung, a broken humerus, and a family of lead lodged
under his flesh was a memory he had hoped to one day leave behind. His small, damaged
body, however, seemed determined not to let him forget.
    He recalled sitting next to Oldhorse that fateful July day, drooped over in the passenger
seat of a car as they sped down a twisty mountain road, desperate to make it to the
hospital. He’d been a bloody mess, with cloth strips torn from an old sweatshirt
holding his arm together. He’d been shot up badly by Alvar Montoya and was fading
in and out of consciousness. He’d barely made it to the hospital alive.
    As if the surgeries weren’t reminder enough of that day, recent revelations were
now playing a far more cruel game on his psyche. He had learned at the beginning
of the month that Alvar’s older brother, Lautaro Montoya, had escaped from a maximum
security prison in Chihuahua, Mexico. He’d been serving time for drug trafficking
on top of a murder rap for taking out a rival dealer. His escape route was an underground
tunnel that he’d been working on over what local authorities believed was a span
of two years.
    “He was a committed man,” the warden of the prison had told Lumbergh in a thick Spanish
accent over the phone.
    The tunnel, thirty-five inches in