CHAPTER 40: Get Me A Plane

At The Ranch, Seamus Boyle woke late and let Skye mother him with a big breakfast. Then they shared a fat reefer of home grown on the front porch, sitting in a pair of rocking chairs, their feet up on the railing, listening to Tom Petty.

Let me run with you tonight / I'll take you on a moonlight ride / There's someone I used to see / But she don't give a damn for me

But let me get to the point, let's roll another joint / And turn the radio loud, I'm too alone to be proud / You don't know how it feels / You don't know how it feels to be me

People come, people go / Some grow young, some grow cold / I woke up in between / A memory and a dream

The view to the old barn and padlocks and beyond was pleasant enough. A backdrop of mountains gave the place a rugged and lonely feel.

“Can see why you love it, Skye,” said Boyle, taking a toke and passing the joint back. “The Ranch is way cool.”

“I want to make a working ranch out of the place,” said Skye. “Could use your help, Seamus.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Boyle. “A few more years and I should have enough. Maybe sooner. Think you’ll still be interested?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah. You know I will,” said Skye, taking a long draw. “I’m thinking there’ll be a lot of people wanting elk and bison meat what with everyone caring about the land and all. Methane,” he said. “Cow farts contribute to climate change.”

And elk and bison farts don’t? thought Boyle, but he said nothing.

“Montana’s gotta hang onto its open space,” said Skye, handing Boyle the joint. “I’m getting pretty good at growing ’shrooms and weed. Could scale that up.”

“This is yours?” asked Boyle. Skye nodded. “Good stuff,” said Boyle, taking a hit and handing it to Skye.

“What we need to do,” said Skye, taking another toke, and passing it over, “is set aside huge areas for wildlife, not worry about the economics of it all. Not so human centric.”

“Wilderness designation can do that,” said Boyle, exhaling and handing the joint back to his friend.

“Yeah,” said Skye, finishing it off with a long toke. “But, you know, the industrial complex can’t coexist with nature, never mind protect it. Governments and industry are partners in environmental crimes. We need to move from a human-centered ecology, to a deeper, all-species centered ecology, move away from industrialism to zero-growth.”

Boyle was impressed. “You always did have a handle on this shit, amigo.”

Skye smiled, a lovely smile. The two friends enjoyed the high together and dreamed about the future, oblivious to the rest of the world as the wind forced the grass to wave and a grove of quaking aspen to shiver.

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The clerk at the counter stopped doing her crossword. “I see you found the pears, Skye,” she said, as he set four pears, a bottle of rum, some veggies and the local paper on the counter. “They’re especially good this year,” she added as she rang them up. “$84.59,” she said.

Skye swiped his card, filled his canvas bag, and glanced at the newspaper. Seamus Boyle’s military photo was on the lower half of page one, next to the picture of a smiling Ginnie. Skye scanned it, …all points bulletin issued…wanted for questioning, arson, rape, murder. Skye felt dizzy, gasped, turned the paper upside down and gripped the counter to steady himself.

“Yeah, I know,” said the clerk. “Everything seems to cost more nowadays.”

“The high cost of living dangerously,” said Skye, placing the newspaper in the bag.

Outside in his truck he set the bag on the floor of the cab, slid in behind the wheel and laid out the newspaper across the bench seat. He read the article, all of it.

He Googled the story on his phone. Ginnie’s smiling face and Boyle’s military photos were moving rapidly through cyberspace. Bloggers picked up the story, adding a photo of Ginnie with Cheryl and Shaka in front of a Christmas tree Ginnie had cut and hauled home. The story was trending on Twitter, and podcasters moved it further with their commentaries.

The shock showed on Skye’s face as he turned out of the parking lot and drove slowly back to The Ranch where Seamus Boyle, aka Robert Patton and Mark Reading was waiting for his next meal.

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“How? Who the fuck?” asked Seamus when he saw the newspaper. Skye put away the groceries while he watched him.

Only Warren Jonah knows all those things about me, thought Boyle. Son of a bitch sold me out, gave everything to the police. Probably got a reward too! What a snake! I’ll rip his fuckin’ heart out!

Boyle’s anger grew until it was replaced by fear. His mind raced through his options. There weren’t many. An alibi, money, an exit route, a disguise. He ran his hand over his chin stubble. Better not shave, he thought. Get away. Far, far away. Out of the country away.

“Is it true?” asked Skye.

“Of course not,” lied Boyle. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. This was yesterday, early morning. I was on my way here from L.A.—so it wasn’t me.”

Skye looked relieved. “Can you prove that?”

“Not sure,” said Boyle.

“If you need an alibi, man,” said Skye, “just ask.”

“Wow, man,” said Boyle. “You’re a real friend.”

“Always, brother,” said Skye.

“Look, I’ll head back to L.A. and clear this up,” said Boyle. “But, hey, let’s eat. What’d you get? Oh, good, you remembered the rum!”

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After lunch, Skye waved to his old friend as Seamus Boyle turned left at the road, heading west, the route he’d take if he were going to L.A. A mile down the road, he pulled over behind a stand of aspen, splashed mud on the license plates and up the side of the rental car. Looks nice and natural, he thought.

He rummaged around for a Dodgers’ cap and sunglasses, checked maps. He chose a lonely route and followed it north, then headed east. He continued for fifty miles, pulled over for gas at a self-serve, paid cash. He traveled another 50 miles, then parked in a spot hidden from the road. He used a burner phone to call Warren Jonah and cursed as the phone rang one, two, three times.

“Seamus?” asked Jonah, picking up on the fourth ring.

“You lying, cheating, two-faced, son of a bitch!” said Boyle. “You fucking sold me out!”

“What the...?” asked Jonah. “What are you talking about?”

“You smooth mutha fucker!” he yelled. “If you think I’m gonna go down without you, you’re wrong! I’ll tell ’em everything. We’ll be cell mates and then I will fuckin’ kill you.”

“I wouldn’t sell you out,” said Jonah. “I’d be screwing myself.”

Boyle paused. “Then who? They’ve got three of my identities! Three! My picture is on the front page of the newspaper, for Christ’s sake. I’m fucked.”

“Front page? For what?” asked Jonah.

There was silence and then Boyle said, “Arson, rape, murder. Fuck.”

“Rape? Murder?” Jonah’s silky voice lost its smoothness. He twirled his college ring anxiously. “Who?” he asked.

“The blonde bombshell at the burn site.” He paused. “You’re the only one I told.”

“Not me,” said Jonah, “so you’d better think again.”

“Well, I didn’t kill her!” lied Boyle. “The cops want to question me.”

“She must have told the cops about seeing you at the burn site,” said Jonah. “An old boyfriend kills her and you’re from out of town at a suspicious fire, so…” He paused. “How they pieced together who you are, I don’t know. Those aliases were bullet proof. I set them up myself.”

Both men were quiet for a moment, thinking.

“Were you with anyone when it happened?” asked Jonah.

“I’m in the middle of nowhere,” said Boyle. “Alibi? Maybe. Been on the road, spent time with a friend.” He went quiet, then said, “I need to get out of the country, Jonah.”

God, thought Jonah, if Seamus self-destructs, Trinité will have my head. “Seamus,” Jonah said, “I can help. I can make the arrangements, get you to a safe place. Where are you?”

Boyle sucked in his breath. “Montana,” he said. “Get me a plane.”

“That’s good. That’s fine,” Jonah soothed. “Can you get to Chicago? Philly? Or New York? We have a great plane in New York, a jet. It’s got a range that is spectacular. You’ll love it.”

“OK, yeah, yeah,” said Seamus. “Yeah, New York. I can do that. It’ll take me a while on the back roads, but I can get there. Make it happen and if you fuck up, I swear, Jonah, I’ll take you with me to hell,” he said, ending the call.

Warren Jonah pushed his silky hair from his forehead with his pale, delicate hands. He chose a burner phone from the top drawer of his desk, pulled off the packaging. He broke into a sweat as he activated it and called his contact in Bonn.