forty-three
The rain had stopped. That was the only good thing. It was still gloomy and overcast. The wind still whipped the clouds across the sky. The windmill atop the well still creaked as it spun like a Spitfire’s propeller. Or a helicopter’s rotor.
Grant pulled into the turnaround in front of the burned-out hacienda and parked. The jeep was angled towards him next to the well. Open ground lay between them like a showdown at high noon. Grant turned off the engine and got out of the pickup. Tripp Macready got out of the jeep. He was alone. There was no sign of Sarah.
The smell of burned wood was stronger after the rain. Like cigarette butts in a wet ashtray. It was as if the fire had only recently been put out. As if Macready had only just torched the house that Pilar Cruz grew up in. The desert smelled different too. Grant couldn’t put his finger on it. Not as dry and parched. That much was obvious. What wasn’t so obvious was Macready’s intentions.
Grant took two steps towards the Texan.
“Nice of you to wait.”
Macready didn’t move.
“Well, I figured you’d be coming. Why put it off?”
“You reckoned this was the place, huh?”
“It’s why you came to Texas. Right?”
“It’s where I came to visit. Not why.”
“To see a broken-down Mexican you’d never met before.”
Grant could feel his pulse beginning to race.
Macready turned the screw.
“Father to a fallen hero.”
Grant clenched his teeth but kept quiet.
Macready noticed the muscles of Grant’s jaw tense and knew he was winning.
“I’ve been doing my research. So you came to Absolution looking for peace.”
Grant flexed his neck one way and then the other. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He slowed his heart rate. Relaxed his muscles. Refused to let Tripp Macready wind him up. Keeping his voice calm, he took a step towards the surly Texan.
“There is no peace. Only acceptance. Then you move on.”
Macready hardened his stare.
“I’m from Texas, and I am not so accepting. And you are gonna pay.”
He stepped away from the jeep, the machete hanging loose from one hand. He began to twirl the blade in a sweeping arc. Slowly, like a martial artist going into his warm-up routine. The cutting edge was bright in the gloom. It stood out against the man in black’s clothing.
Grant didn’t take his eyes off Macready’s stare. The twirling blade was a secondary consideration. If he was going to attack, the first sign would come from the eyes. Grant used his peripheral vision to check the jeep and the surrounding area. No movement. No Sarah. That was worrying.
Grant took another step towards Macready and tried to buy some time.
“One thing I’ve got to say about Texas. The welcome has been consistent.”
He hooked his thumbs into his belt, fingers covering the heavy buckle.
“About as friendly as the one those Mexicans got who visited the Alamo.”
Macready moved sideways, away from the well. The machete began to twirl faster. Smooth and deadly.
“They weren’t invited.”
Another step sideways.
“And neither were you.”
Grant didn’t sidestep in the opposite direction. He moved towards Macready. The secrets of facing a man with a knife were to either keep your distance or get in close, inside the fighting arc. Keeping your distance meant you were safe from being cut, but it didn’t get your man. Grant was like the Mounties. He always got his man. Deft fingers unbuckled his belt.
“How do you know?”
The twirling blade stopped.
“I know Doc Cruz didn’t invite you.”
Grant let the belt fall open and shrugged the tattered orange windcheater off his shoulders.
“His daughter did.”
Macready tightened his grip on the machete.
“That must have been just before she died.”
He smiled.
“You’re not having much luck with girlfriends, are you?”
Grant noticed the rope for the first time. Fastened to the back of the jeep and extending to the well. Stretched tight.
Macready nodded.
“I’ve been researching Yorkshire too. Want to know what I learned?”
Grant forced his eyes away from the rope. Thunder rumbled in the distance to the north as the storm moved on past Absolution. The clouds overhead were still moving fast but weren’t as dark as before. There was a hint of brightness in the sky. There was nothing bright about the confrontation at Adobe Flats. At this stage, keeping Macready talking was the best defense. Grant kept his voice soft and even.
“If you wanted the recipe for Yorkshire pudding, you should have asked.”
Macready’s voice feigned friendliness but couldn’t disguise its hard edge.
“There’s more to Yorkshire than Eccles cake and Yorkshire pudding.”
“Eccles is in Greater Manchester.”
Macready dismissed the interruption with a wave of the machete.
“But you’ve got a dark side. Over there in the English countryside.”
Grant kept his dark side under control. Not prepared to unleash the fury until he was certain where Sarah was. Macready used the machete as a pointer, punctuating each piece of information with a little jab of the blade.
First jab.
“It was the training ground for the 7/7 bombers. Bradford University teaching them how to blow up trains and buses in London. I bet they didn’t advertise that as part of the curriculum.”
Second jab.
“You had that American who shot the cop at Christmas.”
“Boxing Day. David Bieber. The American.”
“Still an English cop killed by an American. A bit like here.”
“Cats and old men for you.”
“I’m not finished yet. I want you to feel at home.”
The hard edge still behind the conversational tone.
“What was Yorkshire’s biggest claim to fame, do you think?”
A rhetorical question. Grant didn’t answer.
“Got to be the Yorkshire Ripper, wouldn’t you say?”
Grant was getting worried for Sarah now, if Macready was going to use Peter Sutcliffe as inspiration for punishing Grant. Grant kept quiet. Macready did not. The Texan made sure Grant got the point.
“Killer of prostitutes and loose women. How many was it?”
Grant kept half an eye on the rope while focusing on the machete.
“I didn’t count.”
Macready pointed the blade to his stomach, then made a gutting movement.
“A lot. Between 1975 and 1980. With a hammer and a knife.”
He carefully ran a finger along the cutting edge.
“Makes you feel kinda homesick, don’t it?”
Grant wrapped the windcheater around his forearm for protection and flexed his shoulders. He scrutinized the gleaming length of the machete. It was clean; there was no blood. If Macready had wanted to make a point using the ripper, he’d have left Sarah’s blood dripping from the blade. That meant he hadn’t cut her yet. He’d made his intentions clear, though. Mentioning the man from Hanging Garden Lane was just setting the scene. The Texan was going to gut Sarah like a fish, and he wanted Grant to know about it beforehand. That’s what Grant reckoned from all this talk.
Grant was wrong.
Macready sidestepped some more, already halfway around a semicircle from the jeep. Grant didn’t mirror his movements. This wasn’t two boxers in the ring sizing each other up before closing in for the fight. Grant took two paces towards the twirling machete and raised his covered forearm as protection. He brought his other hand across his waist. This was going to happen soon, and it was going to happen fast. Grant put added steel in his voice.
“You going to shit or get off the pot?”
The blade stopped spinning. Macready stood still. He feigned disappointment.
“There’s no need for that kind of talk. I haven’t got to the good part yet.”
He glanced at the blade, then back at Grant.
“I could never do that to Sarah. I’m just pointing out that Yorkshire isn’t all it’s made out to be. All that rain. It must cultivate the inner darkness.”
He held a hand out, palm upwards.
“But it’s stopped now, so let’s talk about that other Yorkshire legend.”
Grant waited.
Macready drew the moment out before speaking again.
“The Black Panther.”
Grant knew where this was going and what it meant for Sarah. “In the ’70s. Robbed post offices.”
Macready nodded.
“Shot people.”
The clouds slowed in their race across the sky. They began to thin and let watery sunshine filter through. The hacienda brightened in the background. The windmill atop the well slowed down. Grant looked towards the jeep, still dripping water from its river crossing. He spoke almost absentmindedly.
“Branched out into kidnapping and ransom.”
Macready looked pleased that Grant had made the connection.
“Kidnapped Leslie Whittle in 1975.”
The sun broke through the clouds and shards of light glinted off the jeep, picking out the weave of the rope all the way to the well. The rope thrummed with tension. Macready nodded.
“And hung her from a wire in a drainage shaft.”