Chapter Four

Back outside in the courthouse square, Whicher leans against his truck.

Scruggs is making his way over, dust blowing, palm fronds twisting in the hot wind.

At Sheriff Barnhart's window there's no sign of the man himself, King Cole with the big cigar— he'd be briefing the press.

Whicher takes the truck keys from his pocket. They could head south, regroup, maybe get home an hour. He'd catch a shower, get a change of clothes.

Scruggs slows as he approaches. “I just spoke with Laredo Coroner's Office.”

Whicher pushes up off the side of the Chevy.

Cars and trucks from the sheriff's department are starting to pull out—the square emptying, town returning to a regular tempo.

“They found a match, a fingerprint match on the runner. FBI database came up with a name—Alfonso Saldana.”

The younger marshal watches a Border Patrol truck pulling out onto the two-lane highway—into a steady mid-day flow. “They think they know who he is?”

“Alfonso Saldana. Arrested and printed around a year ago. Subsequently deported to Mexico. Looks like he came back.”

“Did you tell the sheriff?”

“Man's real busy.” Scruggs cuts a look at the upper floor window.

“You didn't tell him.”

The older marshal doesn't answer.

“So what now, we head back to Laredo?”

“Not you,” Scruggs says. “I want you to head back into Eagle Pass. Park your ass at the jail, or at INS, or wherever you need to be to get an interview with that group of mojados from last night. We have a name now,” Scruggs says. “One of them wets might've known Saldana.”

“Alright, sir.”

“Talk to Carrasco, Miguel Carrasco—he's lead intel, it was his sweep, he coordinated the whole deal. I'll head on down to Laredo.”

“Are we investigating Saldana's death?”

A cloud passes behind Scruggs's eyes. “I'll see what I can dig up in Laredo. If the guy was deported last year, there ought to be a record on it. Find Miguel Carrasco. Stick with it, get in his face.”

Eagle Pass, TX.

---

Reception at the Maverick County Sheriff's Department is practically deserted—compared with the scene the night before.

At the main counter, Deputy Medrano watches the marshal coming in—metal-frame glasses resting on the top of his head. “Back again? I do something for you?”

“I'm here to see the detainees,” Whicher says. “Everybody from last night.”

Medrano leans his shirt front against the counter top.

“We have an ID on one of the shooting victims. I need to get in, with an interpreter.”

The deputy shakes his head. “They all VR-ed.”

“They did what?”

“Voluntarily returned.”

Whicher's face is blank.

“They waived their right to a hearing in a US immigration court. We put 'em on a bus back to Mexico,” Medrano says. “Couple hours since.”

“Is Miguel Carrasco here?”

The deputy searches through the piles of paper on the counter, finds a list, traces a finger down it. “He didn't sign out of the building yet.” He picks up the phone, keys in a number.

Whicher runs a hand across the stubble at his chin.

“Miguel? I have a deputy from the Marshals Service at the front desk...” Medrano listens to the response. Puts down the receiver. “Down the hall. Fourth door on the left.”

Whicher touches a finger to his hat. He strides by the counter, enters a door into a featureless hall. Strip lights. Gray carpet. A feel of stale air.

A short Hispanic man is standing partway down the hall. Early-thirties, cropped hair, flattened nose like a boxer.

“You're not with Jim Gale?”

“No,” Whicher says. “I'm out of southern district. Laredo.”

Carrasco leads him into a small office, no windows, a desk strewn with carbon-backed paper forms. There’s a telephone and three plastic chairs.

Carrasco's tough-looking, wiry. Ink-black eyes of a Mexican-Indian.

“I came to see the detainees from the sweep. Deputy Medrano says they're not here?”

“Why'd you want to see them?”

“I witnessed a murder last night. Man named Saldana. One of the people in the jail might have been able to help.”

“You serious?”

Whicher holds the man's gaze.

“You want to fill me in, ese?” The INS agent points at one of the plastic chairs.

Whicher sits.

Carrasco settles at the desk.

“Last night,” Whicher says. “I was working one of the zones—on the sweep.”

“Didn't know we had any marshals out of southern...”

“Late addition, my boss volunteered. We were down in Webb County, southern end of the line.”

“This is about the ranch shootings?”

“About a mile and a half from there. A guy out on his own, running.”

Carrasco picks up a pen. “The pollos we brought in were arrested in Maverick County. That's like, ten, twelve miles from Webb.”

“Somebody might have known Saldana. But you let 'em all walk.”

Carrasco flashes his teeth. “You think Sheriff Owens wants to house them, ese? Feed them? In his county? These are farm hands—entering without inspection.”

“No Caucasians?”

“A few OTM. Other-than-Mexican. No Caucasian.”

“You get names?”

“I have a list of names,” Carrasco says. “Whether any of them are real...” He spreads his hands.

“We waited half the night, how come we couldn't get to see them?”

“Not your business.” Carrasco watches from across the desk.

“You always let 'em go?”

The INS agent turns the pen in his hand. “You new to the border, ese?”

“How about DEA,” Whicher says, “were they part of this?”

“We weren't looking for narcos.”

“Just illegal crossers? Now everybody's gone.”

“They were pollos—no coyotes. We drive them back, give them to the Municipales.”

“We formed a patrol line fifty miles long—for that?”

Carrasco doesn't respond.

“You guys were looking for somebody you didn't get?” Whicher sits back in the chair.

“Tell me about the shooting at the ranch?” Carrasco says.

“So far, we have the name of a local kid, Todd Williams. And a single ID—on the runner, Alfonso Saldana.”

Carrasco clicks the pen, scrawls it down. “Why you want to know if we picked up any Caucasians?”

“We're looking to serve a bench warrant,” Whicher says. “A man named Randell Creagan.”

“What you want with him?”

“Laredo court wants him. Charge of felony auto theft.”

“You think he would've been with a bunch of pollos?”

“That's all we heard.”

“Well. I'm sorry you had a wasted trip, ese.”

“I'd like a copy of that list of names, all the same.”

Carrasco looks at him.

“The detainees. From last night.”

“They're most likely all fake.” Carrasco regards him a moment. Then he opens up a folder, picks out a typed list—twenty to thirty names. He hands it over, flashing the grin. “Let me know if you find any of them, ese.”

“Count on it,” Whicher says.

Out in the parking lot, Whicher starts the Chevy, cranks the A/C. Then stands by the cab, studying the list from Agent Carrasco.

None of the neatly-typed names mean a thing.

He reaches in the truck—grabbing a leather tote from the passenger seat. Takes out a copy of the file on Randell Creagan. Plus the bench warrant still sitting in the plastic jacket. Two days old.

The photograph of Creagan shows a rough-looking guy, bearded, heavily tattooed. Thirty-five years old. Former truck driver from Port Arthur—east Texas.

The marshal stares across the parking lot. Stuffs the file back in the tote, tosses it on the seat. Creagan was a waste of time, waste of space. Flea on the dog.

A man like that, base-level criminal, was depressing to pursue.

Scruggs said FBI tipped the Marshals office about him. Why would that be? They had somebody watching the place in Eagle Pass—Dane Vogel, with the white blond hair. The garnet red Caprice.

The marshal feels the afternoon sun on the back of his shirt. He reaches for the pack of cigarettes, lights one. Climbs in the truck, cold air streaming.

He drops the truck into drive, turns out onto the highway, scowling at himself in the rear-view.

Ever since arriving in the town of Eagle Pass, a feeling's been nagging at him, no sign of letting up. No matter how he tries to ignore it.

He steers the truck south, reaches the four-lane, headed down town.

Driving on. Grim faced, toward the heart of it.

Way down Main, past the county lake and the rail tracks, past the gas stations and the grocery stores—almost to the river itself, Whicher sees the little street between the loan company and the liquor mart—he turns down, into not much more than a lane running parallel with the river.

Junk-filled plots are set among the skinny trees. He drives a block to a wood-frame house, a Trans-Am parked in the yard.

A man sits in the shade on a front porch.

Whicher pulls over at the curbside.

The man finally looks up, notices him. He's wearing board shorts, a crumpled vest. Hair almost down to his shoulders. Sipping on a long-neck bottle of beer.

Lieutenant Eric Kessler. 3^rd Armored Cavalry.

Whicher steps from the Chevy, looking up from the street.

The man puts the neck of the bottle to his mid-length goatee.

Whicher crosses the little yard.

“Holy shit, Which. I don't see you in six months, you turn into fuckin' Wyatt Earp.”

Whicher takes off the Resistol. “What do you think?”

The man looks him up and down. “Shoulder holster don't look right on a cowboy.”

The marshal spins the hat on a finger. “Everybody says that.”

He mounts the steps to the porch. Stands awkward.

Eric Kessler pushes up out of the seat. “What's going on, what you doing here?”

“I was in town.”

“Working?”

The marshal nods.

“You a regular lawman, now?”

“Finished training a couple of months back.”

Whicher studies the man in front of him—M1 tank commander, a man who went to war at his side. The change is deeper than the long hair, the beard, the clothes. His face is someone ten years older.

“You want a beer?” Eric says.

“I could use something to eat?”

Eric crosses the porch, pushing open a screen door. “Come on inside.”

Whicher follows into a kitchen—dishes piled in the sink, empty bottles crowding the drainer.

“Kind of a mess. Sort of just me right now...”

“Karen not around?”

Eric pads to the refrigerator in his bare feet. He yanks it open, bottles clink in the door. “I can fix a chili dog. Some nachos, jalapenos...”

“You want a cigarette?” Whicher takes out two from the pack, lighting both.

Eric finds a plate, shakes out a couple of hot dogs from a pack. Slow—like he has to think about it. He spoons chili sauce and jalapenos over the dog, sticks the plate in a microwave oven. “I quit a whole month. Smoking two packs a day now.”

Whicher grabs an overflowing ashtray, knocking it empty in a garbage can.

Eric opens a beer—fumbling the bottle opener. Puts out a bowl of nachos, spilling half. “Don't mind the mess. Remember how we used to get the guys to clean out latrines, end of a day?”

“Mix it up with diesel fuel, set fire to everything.”

“Sometimes I think it could work for this.”

“Check your house insurance,” Whicher says.

Eric smokes on the cigarette. The microwave dings, he takes out the plate, grabs a bag of Wonder Bread from the side.

The two men step back out on the porch. They sit at a little table. Whicher scarfs the food.

“You lost some weight,” the marshal says.

“Man, let's not talk about me.” Eric takes a slug out of the long-neck. Gaze shifting to stare across the lane.

“Pretty good view of the river.”

“Ain't it?”

“You like being this close? It don't flood?”

“Sometimes it floods.” Eric swings the long-neck side to side between his fingers. “I grew up here, I like the border. Guess sometimes I feel like taking off.”

Whicher looks at him. “You all done? Finished with the army?”

The man nods. “Active service obligation, I'm done.”

“Thought you still owed 'em?”

“Couple years I could do with the reserves. If I could do any damn thing of use.”

Whicher finishes up the chili dog. Picks out a handful of nachos from the bowl. “You had any more of them tests?”

His friend slumps lower in the chair, eyes dull as he answers. “Couple of specialists reckon exposure. Some kind of toxin. We breathed some shit out there, fires burning all the time, weapon dumps, all kinds of things...”

Whicher mops up the last of the jalapenos with a corner of bread. “I remember.”

“How you like being a marshal?” Eric says.

“We got to sleep at the sheriff's department, in a bunch of chairs.”

“Here—in Eagle Pass?”

“Supposed to be picking up a coyote.”

“Come back any night of the week, man. You'll hardly move for 'em.”

Whicher nods.

“This somebody important?”

“Wouldn't know.”

“You didn't get him?”

The marshal shakes his head. “A bunch of people got killed, though.”

Eric stubs out his cigarette. He sails the butt end across the burnt brown scrub of grass in the yard. “Soon get enough of that,” he says. “Dead people.”

Whicher pushes away the plate. “How's Karen?”

Eric's face changes, expression hardening.

A young Hispanic in an El Camino rolls by. Chopped suspension. Body work painted up in primer.

“She's hardly ever here. She's working all the time.”

Whicher studies the table.

“She thinks I'm gone in the head.”

Wind is blowing from the river, heat pressing in the late afternoon. Eric wraps his arms about himself, as if from the cold.

“I have to call my boss,” Whicher says. “I use your phone?”

“In the kitchen.”

He picks up the empty plate, carries it inside.

The phone is on the back wall, Whicher dials the office number in Laredo. On a cork-board, among the bills and letters is a photograph of Eric with a bunch of grunts, in front of a Bradley. Whicher in a corner of the picture. They're dressed like guerrilla fighters, not one of them had a full set of anything. It'd rained the night before the picture, he remembered. In the desert. A hard February rain. Fog set in that morning, visibility was terrible. They had new phase lines to reach, they didn't look worried. They all looked so sure.

The phone's ringing at the office in Laredo. Scruggs picks up.

“It's Whicher.”

“You still up to Eagle Pass?”

“All the prisoners were...”

“Voluntarily returned, I know.”

“You want me to get back down there?”

“Matter of fact, no. I don't. There's somebody I need you to go find...”