Devil's Pass by Sigmund Brouwer Page A

progress on his walkie-talkie every thirty seconds. Webb hadn’t seen any sense in trying to shut him up. What was he going to do, turn and hurt the kid if he didn’t?
    Not Webb’s style.
    Besides, Webb could see some humor in the situation as the kid kept repeating the same message.
    â€œThis is Corey. Come in?” Crackle, crackle, pause . “Yeah, he’s still headed your way. Out.”
    â€œThis is Corey. Come in?” Crackle, crackle, pause . “Yeah, he’s still headed your way. Out.”
    â€œThis is Corey. Come in?” Crackle, crackle, pause . “Yeah, he’s still headed your way. Out.”
    As Webb came to the end of the path, he took his backpack off and leaned it against a tree. He walked toward Brent’s truck. Slowly.
    â€œSee what you did to my face?” Brent asked.
    â€œI thought it was all a misunderstanding. You fell into the luggage. Isn’t that what you said at the station?”
    â€œThe cop was right. That was crap,” Brent said. When he breathed, a strange whistling sound came from his nose. It looked—and sounded—painful.
    He was swaying some, and Webb hoped he wasn’t too drunk to listen to sense. He held up his iPod, switched it to record video and pointed it at Brent.
    â€œFour thirty-five,” Webb said clearly. “Standing here on—” Webb turned to the kid on the bike. “What’s this road?”
    â€œDon’t know. Down at the corner, though, if you turn toward the river, that’s where the school principal lives. Does that help?”
    â€œStanding just down from the principal’s house,” Webb said. “Just for the record, we’ve got full video happening here.”
    â€œPut that away,” Brent said. “Or I’ll rip it out of your hands.”
    â€œNot too interested in that,” Webb answered.
    Brent took a lumbering step toward Webb. “I said give it to me. It’s payback time.”
    Brent charged.
    It didn’t take much effort to step aside. Brent’s momentum took him past Webb like a bull missing a matador. Difference was, Webb wasn’t using a red cape and didn’t have a short stabbing sword to finish Brent off when he got tired.
    Webb kept the camera on Brent. He had lots of memory left. Could probably video the next half hour if he had too.
    Brent swung around, grunted and charged again, swinging his arms in a futile attempt to wrap them around Webb.
    Webb could have tripped him but just let him go past again.
    Brent almost fell into his truck but caught his balance in time.
    â€œHow about we just call this quits,” Webb said. “You have better things to do. Same with me.”
    â€œAnd let people talk about how some long-haired-musician type busted my nose and got away with it?”
    Brent obviously thought he was clever, charging again as he finished speaking. Like Webb would be so dazzled by his insult, he’d forget to notice. Thing was, Webb had his eyes on the center of Brent’s chest. Anybody can fake moves, but no matter how good the fake, the center of the chest was where the body went. Another thing he had learned the hard way.
    Brent blew past Webb and took a few more steps to stop. Already getting tired.
    He leaned on his knees, near Webb’s backpack.
    â€œLook at this,” he said. “Somebody left something behind.”
    Clever, Webb thought, as Brent hefted the backpack and said, “What a shame we need to see what’s inside.”
    Really clever.
    Brent lifted the flap and turned the pack upside down, like he was expecting Webb to get mad.
    What Brent didn’t expect were rocks. A lot of them, each about the size of a fist.
    â€œRocks?” Brent was dumbfounded. “Rocks?”
    Webb almost laughed. Brent had successfully identified the dull round objects polished smooth by centuries in the river.
    â€œRocks,” Brent said one more time. “What kind of