I LEAVE CARLOS at the back of the building and run to the front, where Ava has moved Llewellyn Carpenter from the fence to near my truck, his hands cuffed together behind his back.
“There’s no way in there,” I say. “Carlos is gone.”
“Goddamn it,” Ava says, her voice cracking and her eyes threatening to spill fresh tears—and not from the smoke in the air.
I hate keeping her in the dark, but Carpenter has to believe Carlos is dead. Ava’s reaction is going to make it believable.
Carpenter, blood still dripping from his nose, chuckles at the idea that he got at least one of us.
“I should never have shot you in the arm,” Ava growls at him, her emotion showing through uncharacteristically. “I should have put the arrow through that psychopathic brain of yours.”
I hold her by the arm, afraid she might take a swing at him.
A fire truck arrives along with a whole host of police vehicles. While Ava keeps guard over Carpenter, I run up to talk to them. Keeping my voice low, so neither Carpenter nor Ava can hear, I tell the responders that the building is vacant as far as we know.
When the first ambulance arrives, we ask a paramedic to wrap Carpenter’s arm up. The wound is swelling, and we have to undo his cuffs.
“This man needs to go to a hospital,” she says.
“Not yet,” I say, and my tone keeps her from arguing.
We put Carpenter in the back of a Tigua cruiser. The rear doors won’t unlock and a thick Plexiglas barrier separates the front from the back. Even then, we station one of the Tigua officers by the car.
“If he tries to break out in any way,” I say, “shoot him with every bullet you’ve got in your gun.”
The officer nods, unsure if I’m serious.
Ava adds, “Then reload your gun and shoot him again.”
With Carpenter safely locked away, I walk Ava away from his car as we watch the firefighters dousing the building with their hoses.
“You told them there’s someone inside, didn’t you?” Ava asks.
“I need to let you in on a secret,” I say, “but you have to show no physical reaction that Carpenter can see.”
She nods.
“Carlos is alive.”
Her eyes dart toward me and then settle back over the firefighters. I’ve got to hand it to her—she can hide her emotions well.
“You’re lucky I can’t show a reaction,” she says, “or I’d smack you.”
“I’m sorry for lying,” I say, “but the deception was Carlos’s idea.”
I explain to her what Carlos’s plan is, and once she’s on board, we ask the Tigua officer if we can take his car, with Carpenter in the back. Five minutes later, Carpenter is sitting in the Tigua Tribal Police station’s interview room. With the bandages, we can’t cuff his hands together, but we latch his good hand to the eyebolt in the table. He sets the other arm onto the surface of the table. Red spots are starting to leak through the bandages.
“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing,” Carpenter sneers. “You need to take me to a hospital.”
“We will,” I say. “Soon.”
“I want a lawyer,” he barks. “This ain’t justice.”
“Justice,” I say, “would be injecting you with heroin and letting men pay to rape you. I’d say talking to you for five minutes before taking you to see a doctor is mild by comparison. Especially,” I add, waving dismissively toward his arm in an effort to bait his anger, “for such a minor injury.”
“Minor injury?” he cries, holding up his bandaged arm. “Does this look fucking minor to you?”
I’m glad he’s angry. This might be the only way to save Marta Rivera. Ryan Logan had said that none of the people they’d arrested from any of the raids were willing to say a word about the criminal organization they worked for.
I have to get Llewellyn Carpenter to talk.
Ava and I sit across from him as if this is a normal interview. There’s nothing normal about it. We’re still wearing our guns, still covered in soot and stinking of smoke, interrogating a suspect who should be in an ambulance right now.
“Don’t waste your time, Ranger,” Carpenter says. “I ain’t saying shit.”
“We’ve got you for kidnapping and attempted murder,” I say. “You’ll do a good bit of time. A decade at least. Maybe less, if you’re lucky.”
He stares at me, trying to see where I’m going with this. I made sure to give a low estimate of his future incarceration. I want him to think about the possibility of freedom in ten years.
“But,” I add, “killing a police officer is capital murder. A death sentence.”
He smirks, but I can tell my words are having an effect.
“If this was any other state, you’d grow old on death row,” I say. “You’d have a nice cell all to yourself away from other prisoners while your lawyer filed appeal after appeal. That wouldn’t be a bad life, actually. But this is Texas, where the average time spent on death row is less than ten years. That means, a decade from now, you won’t be walking out on parole, smelling the fresh air. You’ll be lying on a slab while a doctor shoots you up with potassium chloride. If you’re lucky, you won’t be conscious when your sphincter lets go and you shit your pants.”
He glowers at me with his one good eye, burning like a green flame. It gives me satisfaction that I’ve managed to wipe the smirk off his face.
“That’s what’s going to happen,” I say, “unless you cooperate. If you help us out, on my honor, I will testify in every court hearing you ever have that you shouldn’t be given the death penalty for the murder of a Texas Ranger.”
I don’t mention that I know for a fact he didn’t kill a Texas Ranger—that Carlos is alive and well, and on his way to the station now, if not here already.
“We’re not waiting for a lawyer,” I say to Carpenter. “We’re not waiting for the FBI. This is a deal between you and me. It’s a onetime offer, and it expires in two minutes.”