Free Blue Heaven by C. J. Box Page A

cracked a drunken smile. “I’d guess L.A. Like half the new fuckers up here.”
    “Right you are,” Gonzalez said, stepping toward Boyd as if to assist him into the UPS truck. Newkirk saw the stun gun in Gonzalez’s hand and caught a glint of the metal electrodes wink in the lamp’s light. Gonzo plunged it into Boyd’s neck, and the electricity arced and snapped like furious lightning. Boyd dropped like a sack of rocks half-in and half-out of his driver’s door.
    Boyd’s muscles twitched violently as they pushed him all the way into the truck and dragged him between the rows of parcels in the back. Boyd’s leg kicked out spasmodically, and his boot caught Newkirk on the shin, nearly dropping him. Newkirk could smell the awful stench of burnt flesh in the truck from Boyd’s neck. The stun gun had short-circuited Boyd’s neurotransmitters, so the UPS man had no control over his muscles and limbs. Or sphincter, which released.
    “Strong motherfucker,” Gonzo grunted, rolling the body over and cuffing him. “Stinky, too.”
    “You drive,” Singer said, handing Gonzo the keys to the UPS truck. “Follow me.”
    “Cool. I’ve always wanted to drive one of these things,” Gonzo said.
    In his white SUV, with the headlights of the UPS truck filling the rearview mirror, Singer turned to Newkirk, said, “This was a gift. Now we can control the situation.”
    Newkirk had no idea what he was talking about. He shoved his hands under his thighs so Singer couldn’t see them shaking.

DAY TWO

    saturday

Saturday, 8:45 A.M.

    A FTER PULLING two calves during the night, feeding his cattle at 5:00 A . M ., and a big breakfast of steak, eggs, and coffee, Jess Rawlins showered and put on a jacket and tie and his best gray Stetson Rancher and went out to start his pickup. The sky was clear of clouds, although mist from the rain the night before hugged the grass and sharpened the smell of alfalfa and cow manure from the hayfield. The clouds would move in again in the afternoon, he guessed. He carried a boot box full of documents and put it on the passenger seat.
    JIM HEARNE was waiting for him in the lobby wearing a sport jacket, tie, slacks, and boots. Jess still wasn’t used to the new bank building even though it had been there for five years. The new building was impressive, with its big windows and modern furniture, but he preferred the old one, the elegant, cramped, two-story redbrick structure on Main, with its dark interior, muted lights, and hardwood floors. It had once been called the North Idaho Stockman’s Bank. That was three name changes ago, before it became First Interstate and was now open on Saturdays.The Rawlins family had banked there since their initial homestead in 1933.
    “Jim.”
    “Jess.”
    Jim Hearne was in his late forties, stocky, broad-faced, with thinning brown hair and sincere blue eyes. He had once been the exclusive agriculture loan officer, but his duties and titles had multiplied. A bareback rider who had qualified twice for the national finals, he still had a bow-legged hitch in his walk as he led Jess toward his office and shut the door behind them. The Rawlins Ranch had been his college rodeo sponsor.
    Jess sat in one of the two chairs facing Hearne’s desk and put his boot box of documents in the other. He removed his hat and placed it crown down on the floor next to him. On Hearne’s desk was a thick file bound by clips with a tab that read RAWLINS .
    “Plenty of moisture lately,” Hearne said, sitting down. “That’s got to help.” Despite the fact that he was now president of the bank, Hearne still handled his old customers personally, and lapsed easily into the old banter. Jess had known him for thirty years, had watched him grow up to become a community leader.
    Jess nodded. They both knew why he was here and that Jess wasn’t good at small talk.
    “Jess, I’m just not sure where to start,” Hearne said.
    Jess owned and operated a three thousand-acre ranch, one