Chapter Five

Amistad Reservoir, TX.

---

An hour and a half north, past the border town of Del Rio, Whicher sees the great expanse of lake—a vast oasis in the bleached-out scrub.

The road starts to dip toward a gravel shoreline—low sun picking out steel struts of a railroad bridge.

Boyd Harris. Known as 'Jug Line' Harris. From Quemado, north of Eagle Pass.

Someone from the sheriff's department reckoned Harris an associate of Randell Creagan. Harris was operating a hunting, fishing concession seventy miles north. Shooting deer and turkey, hooking Gaudalupe bass and catfish out at the lake.

The battered highway mounts a concrete pontoon. The road crossing a stretch of water, wind picking up. Surface of the rippled lake like molten steel.

An hour till sunset. If he could find Harris, maybe there was still a chance with Creagan.

He steers to the end of the bridge where the road makes landfall on a scrubby headland. Railroad kicking out on a bank of stone.

Whicher follows the highway into low hills of brush and mesquite. He checks the note from the sheriff's department, sees the shack, the bait fish sign—beyond it, an unmarked turn.

He steers from the highway, shifts to low, tires kicking up dust.

The lake is barely visible, the land stretched out in long grades. The rough track passes solitary trailers till it's nothing but faint marks in the hard packed sand.

Whicher slows the truck. He stops where a rail-tie marks the end of the line. He cuts the motor. Steps out, straightens his hat.

A path snakes into the brush, he sets out down it, smell of the lake water in the air, grit lifting in the wind. The path descends, scarcely more than an animal track. The marshal works his way down—a hundred feet, all the way to the water's edge.

Inlets cut in and out of the shoreline. He stares at a crude boathouse made of painted ply and tin sheet. In back is a steel cage filled with propane cylinders. There's no sign of any fishing skiff or bass boat.

He circles the place, it's locked, deserted. He takes off the Resistol, runs a hand through the sweat in his hair.

Cooled air moves off the surface of the lake. He stands a moment—scanning the inlet.

The channel curves back into the headland, sides steep, the creek flanked with rocky cliffs. He re-fits the hat, takes a few paces. Picks a way along the creek—pushing through a tangle of reed.

Set high in the face of the rock, maybe fifteen feet above the ground is a hollowed out-bowl—a natural overhang.

He stops. Stares at it. A ledge runs beneath the overhang, he looks around for a handhold. He pulls himself up into a cave overlooking the creek. On the walls are faint carvings, painted symbols, animals in a red stain, dark as blood. He studies them a moment. Turns to survey the creek—a view straight up and down the inlet.

A man is watching him.

A man standing entirely still.

He's in the reeds at the side of the creek, holding a shotgun. Dressed in camo pants, a worn denim jacket, ball cap over straggling hair.

Whicher drops to his haunches, edges over the lip of the overhang. He scrambles down, jumping the last few feet to the ground.

He straightens up. “Looking for a man name of Harris...”

No response.

The marshal steps in closer. “Your name Harris?”

“You ain't supposed to be up there. This here is private land.”

“I'm a law officer. US Marshal.” Whicher eyes the shotgun. “Hunting season's over. What you doing out with that?”

“After rabbit and hare.”

“That right?”

“Ain't no closed season on them.” The man squares his chin.

“Well,” says the marshal. “I guess you must be Harris.”

“What if I am?”

“You know a man name of Randell Creagan?”

Harris swallows. His eyes slide away.

“Not many people seem to know the guy,” Whicher says. “But your name came up.”

“What do you want?”

“You do know him?”

“Might have met him.”

“He come out here to hunt and fish?”

Harris stands hunched over the shotgun.

“I'm going to need an answer.”

“I've met him a couple of times, what of it?”

“You know where he's at?”

Harris shakes his head.

“Know where I might find him?”

“I don't guess.” He stares over Whicher's shoulder.

The marshal wipes a line of sweat from beneath his eye. “So, you're out here with a shotgun. You follow me here?”

The man says nothing.

“Getting dark. Not easy, shooting at night. You hunt deer?”

“In winter I’ll hunt 'em.”

“Got a rifle as well as the shotgun? I guess you do. Where were you last night?”

“I camp out,” Harris says. “I got the boathouse yonder.”

“Anybody see you?”

Harris shifts his grip on the gun, eyes quick in the failing light.

“Well,” says Whicher, “maybe it ain't going to matter.”

The man steals a look at the marshal, despite himself. “What ain't?”

“Last night, down river,” Whicher says. “Had a multiple homicide, a bunch of wets. Looking like a high-powered rifle was used. Hunting rifle. Sure hope it don't turn out to be a problem. You being here.” Whicher nods. “If I need to take a look at any rifle, or any other gun you might have. This be the best place to find you?”

Jug Line Harris only stares back. Mouth working. No sound coming out.

Laredo. Webb County, TX.

---

Three hours later, Whicher leaves the Chevy at the back of the district courthouse in Laredo, the night still warm, wide streets busy with traffic, downtown brightly lit—the white limestone of the courthouse glowing.

He crosses the sidewalk, enters the building. Takes the terrazzo stairs two at a time.

On the second floor is the US Marshals Office. Inside, Scruggs is seated, straight-backed, behind a wooden desk.

He glances up from his writing. “You find Harris?”

“I found him.” Whicher pulls out a chair.

Scruggs puts down the pen.

“He claimed he didn't know anything.”

The older marshal studies his face. “Does he know Randell Creagan?”

“He knows him. That's it.”

Whicher takes off his jacket, slips it on the back of the empty chair.

Scruggs's desk is covered in typed pages, hand written notes. A Xeroxed photograph—the runner, Alfonso Saldana, on a mortuary slab. “I'm putting together a report. For Marshal Lassiter.”

Whicher knows the name, he tries to place it. “Lassiter?”

“Head of Marshals Service, western district. Channing Ranch is in Dimmit County—that's part of western jurisdiction. He wants to know what went on.”

“Is he coming out here?”

“Already in the building.” Scruggs leans forward in his chair, eyes sharp beneath the thick black brows. “He stopped by Laredo Coroner's Office. There's been word on Saldana. Turns out he was arrested in Brownsville, attempted break-in at the hospital. Before he was deported, last year.”

“I had him pegged as a regular campesino. He after drugs?”

“I don't know. Border Patrol took custody, kicked his ass out back to Mexico.” Scruggs looks at the notes on his desk.

“What are we telling Marshal Lassiter?”

“What we saw, what we know.”

“I think Jug Line Harris knows something,” Whicher says. “I leaned on him, asked where he was last night. Told him I saw a man shot dead with a hunting rifle, asked him did he own one. He said he owned a bunch.”

“Man runs a hunting concession,” Scruggs says. “Don't be getting ahead of yourself.”

“Saldana was hit multiple times at four hundred meters. Running. In the dark.”

Scruggs turns the pen in his hand. “Coroner's office confirm Saldana was shot with full-metal-jackets.” He clears his throat. “Anyhow, it ain't our case. We find Randell Creagan—that's it.”

Whicher slips off the shoulder holster. He crosses the room to a steel gun locker. Hangs the weapon inside. Through the half-open window the sound of a siren carries in the night air above the noise of the city.

“I called Houston this afternoon,” Scruggs says. “FBI. Account of that guy Dane Vogel—out at Creagan's place.”

Whicher looks at his boss.

“I spoke with a guy I know—name of Gerry Nugent. Asked him did they have the place under surveillance? He said he didn't know a thing about it.”

Whicher closes the door on the gun locker.

“Nugent reckoned Dane Vogel works some kind of IA detail. Internal Affairs.”

The younger marshal pictures the big Caprice beneath the trees. Hispanic, with two gold earrings. Vogel fronting it out behind the shades.

There's a knock at the office door. A man enters—lean, wiry, the classic build of the cowboy. He's wearing a bootlace tie, a cowhide waistcoat. In one hand he holds the crown of a fine gray cattleman hat.

Scruggs pushes back his chair. “Marshal Lassiter.”

“Reuben,” the man says.

Lassiter's good-looking, craggy—a kink in his silvered hair. At sixty-something there's not an ounce of fat.

Scruggs gathers the papers on his desk, placing them in a cardboard folder. He tucks in the photograph of Alfonso Saldana. “I'm just finishing up the preliminary report, marshal.”

The tan skin around Lassiter's eyes crinkles. “District likely won't investigate. But best I know what went on.”

“We wouldn't have been anyplace near that ranch,” Scruggs says. “Except we were manning a couple of the sweep zones.”

“Looking for some coyote—according to Sheriff Barnhart.”

“Yes, sir—a man named Randell Creagan.”

Lassiter nods, reaching for the folder. He turns to look in Whicher's direction.

“This here's my new assistant,” Scruggs says. “Deputy Marshal Whicher—my new trainee.”

“Quinton Lassiter.” The man offers his hand. Blue eyes piercing. “You be sure and listen to Marshal Scruggs, he's one heck of a criminal investigator.” He squints. “You the ex-army feller? I heard about you, you were out in the Gulf?”

Whicher nods, flattered. “With 3^rd Armored, yes, sir.”

“Korea, my day, 6^th Tank Battalion. Semper in Hostes. Know what it means?” He looks the younger marshal up and down.

“Always—something?”

“Into the enemy...” The district marshal cracks out a laugh. “We need more grunts in the service. How you like being a US Marshal?”

“Just fine, sir.”

Lassiter glances at the folder in his hand. He turns to Scruggs. “This Saldana guy sounds like a serial border-jumper.”

“Yes, sir, marshal. That's what they say.”

“The other shooting victims, there's only one ID. According to Cole Barnhart, in Carrizo Springs.”

“We were up there earlier.”

“I heard.” Lassiter shakes his head. “Five dead in one night is a hell of a thing for the county. Hell of a thing.”

“My concern is over the bodies getting moved. Any case they want to bring...”

“Nobody's happy about it,” Lassiter cuts in. “Way I heard it, Border Patrol insisted, account of the rabies risk.”

Scruggs nods, a little stiff.

“A thing like this is going to run its course,” Lassiter says. “They're just getting started. Cole Barnhart will see it done right, give him a chance.” He turns to Whicher. “Sheriff reckoned you got a pretty good look at what happened in Webb?”

“I had a scope,” Whicher says.

“What kind of scope?”

“Image intensifier.”

Lassiter sits on the edge of Scruggs's desk. He places the hat crown down. “This a military thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hot damn.”

The younger marshal glances at his boss. “The shooter had a hunting light. And a rifle.”

“A jacklight?”

Whicher nods. “He was firing from a pickup, the rounds were full-metal-jacket—passed clean through. The victim kept on running, I've seen it before, out in the Gulf.”

Lassiter sucks air over his teeth. “Hell of a time finding any lead. Webb County took possession of the body, they run any kind of search?”

“Basic search,” Scruggs says. “They didn't find a thing.”

“The rounds would deflect,” Whicher says. “They could be anywhere.”

“How about the vehicle?”

“I couldn't get an ID.”

“You get a look at the shooter, with that scope?”

“No, sir. I couldn't see that kind of detail.”

“Well,” Lassiter says. “It's a strange one.” Turning to Scruggs. “Ever hear of one like that?”

“Not that I recall.”

Lassiter looks at Whicher. “Marshal Scruggs been bustin' heads here since the seventies. Been here myself since '58.” He picks his hat off the desk. Flips it over. “You don't have a cigarette?” he says. “I know your boss don't.”

Whicher stands awkward. Scruggs gives the faintest nod.

The younger marshal breaks out the pack of Marlboro Reds. Lassiter takes one. Whicher lights him.

“Ain't you having one?”

Scruggs looks over.“Go ahead,” he says.

Whicher takes another cigarette from the pack. Lights it. Steps to the half-open window, opens it wide.

Lassiter takes a draw, holds it. Lets it out. “Ain't supposed to do this no more. According to Mrs Lassiter. And the doc. But what's a feller to do, he cain't have a little something?”

Scruggs sits at the desk organizing his papers.

“Used to be a whole lot more fun,” Lassiter says. “The job, the border. Back in the old days.” He grins, eyes far away. “Place for wild men, it was then. Wilder women, y'all know what I mean?”

Whicher smokes silent by the window.

“It's changing,” Lassiter says. “Changing fast.” He looks at Whicher. “You’re not from around here?”

“North Texas.”

Lassiter angles his head.

“You wouldn't have heard of it...”

“Try me.”

“Briscoe County.”

“In the panhandle?”

“Quitaque, there's nothing to it.”

“Say, you want head out, find some place to get a drink?”

Whicher doesn't answer. He looks at his boss.

“Feeling alright, army?” Lassiter says.

“Yes, sir. I think we have an early start in the morning...”

The district marshal shakes his head, grinning. “Alright. Well, I guess I have to head on back to San Antonio.” He stands. Turns to Scruggs, taps the folder. “'Preciate you all doing this, short notice.”

“Not a problem, marshal.”

Lassiter settles the hat over his silver hair. “Good meeting you, army,” he says to Whicher.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

He taps his hat rim. “I'll say goodnight fellers.” He steps from the room.

Whicher grinds out the cigarette on the window sill.

Scruggs sits. Back flat as a board. He opens another folder on his desk.

The younger marshal studies the street, noise of the city rumbling. “Do we start over in the morning?”

Scruggs searches through a folder, taking out a plastic jacket. Randell Creagan's bearded face stares out from a photograph on the first page.

“Right now,” Scruggs says, “we need to find this son of a bitch.” He compresses his mouth. “While you were up at the lake I made a bunch of calls trying to get this thing to roll. I spoke with Border Patrol here in Laredo. Somebody put up another name—someone else linked to Creagan. Merrill M. Johnson. A customs broker. Freight forwarder.”

“What's the connection?”

“Creagan's a former truck driver—Merrill Johnson handles freight, he's a middleman. The freight business is how they know each other.”

“How come he's known to Laredo Border Patrol?”

“Johnson organizes a lot of cross-border transactions.”

Whicher looks at his boss. “Cross-border...”

“Yeah. Could be of interest. You want to go take a look for him?”

All the way down Matamoros Street, Whicher follows the LPD cruiser—light bar flashing, no siren.

They pass Santa Rita Avenue, the cruiser signals, pulls over. Whicher follows to the curb in front of a small cantina—lit with blue and white neon.

The driver of the cruiser, Martinez, steps out. He walks the few paces back along the sidewalk to the Chevy.

Whicher rolls the window.

“A lot of the rail guys hang here,” Martinez says. “I'll go ask inside.”

“You want me to come?”

Martinez shakes his head. “Might as well wait. If Johnson's in there, I'll bring him on out.” He hitches the belt on his uniform. Steps toward the entrance of the cantina. A guy on security raises himself from a bar stool by the door.

Whicher leaves the engine running in the truck.

He slips a cigarette from the pack, lights it. Across town, traffic's still moving, the sound of music drifting from inside the cantina. Tall palms wave in the night air. Ragged fronds rippling above the sidewalk.

The people out are loose and loud. Groups of young girls, college kids, a few drunks.

The marshal checks his watch. Eleven-thirty.

Merrill M. Johnson.

Jug Line Harris maybe knew something. But a freight guy—what were the odds?

According to Officer Martinez, Johnson was known to work late—irregular hours a normal part of organizing loads at the switching yard. Whicher takes a pull on the cigarette. Thinking on trains. Freight loads moving back and forth in and out of Mexico. He feels the emptiness in his stomach. When did he last eat? Up at Eric's place—in Eagle Pass, six hours back. Seven?

He stares down the street, blows a stream of smoke out the open driver window. Thinks of Alfonso Saldana. The murdered mojados at the Channing Ranch, the long haired girl against the foot of the wall.

Martinez is walking back out of the cantina. He stands in the doorway—speaking with security. Then crosses the sidewalk, back to Whicher. “He's not here, marshal.”

“Anybody know where he's at?”

“No, sir. You could try at the switching yard, he could still be there. You want me to ride along?”

The marshal shakes his head.“It's just a few blocks down, right?”

Martinez nods. “The rail spurs will still be working. They'll be loading at the cross docks, off the main line. There's a few of them. He could be anyplace around there.”

“I'll take a look before I turn in.”

Martinez touches the peak of his cap.

Whicher clamps the cigarette in his mouth. He sticks the truck in drive, pulls out into the street. Johnson wouldn't be there. If he was, the most he'd get would be another address. He takes a last pull on the cigarette, flips the butt end out the window. A shower of sparks burst in the rear-view.

Six people shot to death. Close on midnight—chasing a guy on a stolen vehicle charge.

He reaches the end of Matamoros Street. The far end of town, older houses give out to down-at-heel warehouse units—motels, dispatch offices. Sand blown lots.

At the intersection, he drives over to a parking lot, barely lit. Tractor-trailer combos are locked up side to side. The rail lines stretch north-south across the hard pan.

Whicher parks beneath a solitary overhead light. He steps out, locks the truck, surveying a line of flatbeds full of steel plate, pipes and beams.

Nothing's moving. There's the smell of thick oil, burnt grease. Noise of the city faint. He walks toward the tracks, they're open, unfenced. Primer red box cars stretch off into the darkness—the cars covered in graffiti.

He picks his way across the polished rails.

The track's lined with old brick and cinder block rentals. Dumpsters, used tires, general garbage. He thinks of night scouts on Iraqi soil, oil installations—factory grounds; places fast abandoned, an edge in the air.

At a raised platform he spots a brick office, a metal hangar, sodium lights. A forklift is on the platform, swinging a giant sack. The driver's a black guy, two-hundred pounds. He's backing the forklift from the side of an open box car.

Whicher steps along the sharp gravel. “Merrill Johnson,” the marshal calls out.

The driver sits, not reacting.

“Looking for a guy named Merrill Johnson,” Whicher shouts.

The driver takes a hand off the wheel, pulls an orange foam plug from his ear. “What you want, man?”

“Trying to find somebody called Merrill Johnson. You know him?”

The man shakes his head.

“Anybody around here I can ask?”

The driver jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Down there...”

Stretching a quarter-mile is a row of dirt-streaked rail cars, painted green and yellow. Another set of buildings beyond them, half lit.

Whicher follows along the track, noise of the forklift receding. Light from the town is blocked out by the high-sided cars—to the west it's dark, a mess of unused, weed-filled lots.

He passes a row of hopper cars. Tube-steel ladders welded to their sides. He grabs one puts a toe on a rung, pulls himself up. At the top, the rim of the hopper's lined with steel lugs to sheet off a load. It's empty, an open container. A dark, rusted hulk.

He peers down into it, just enough light to see. Dust is powdered in the corners and sides. He runs a finger round the top rim—holds it up. White gray dust, some kind of mineral. Plus a finer, red powder. He wipes it off against a lug. Notices the red stain on his skin.

He climbs back down the ladder, moves down the track, listening to the sound of the city, voices shouting in the distance—raucous, indistinct.

Lights show across the river in Mexico—from the sister city, Nuevo Laredo. He thinks of moving in urban areas, dismounted from the tanks.

He walks along the line of hoppers, silent now, aware of something, breathing shallow.

A feeling is on him—a familiar feeling. Sixth sense.

He stops—scans around in all directions.

Somebody's close by.

He can feel it, can't explain it, but it's there. He stands a moment, stock-still. Staring along the edge of the hard pan—at the unlit buildings, block walls, fences, private yards.

Somebody's watching. Maybe following.

He moves to the end of the nearest hopper, steps through the gap, jumping the hitch.

The track fans out into a dozen lines; more. There's a noise—dull, metallic. As if something's been struck.

Dark spaces wait ahead between the lines of box cars—ambush country. Maybe it's just some hobo, some kid out tagging with a spray can? He climbs back into the shadowed side of the track. Looks along the line toward the lit-up office.

A man steps from the end of a hopper. Two feet of steel hanging at his leg. He's Hispanic, hair cropped, a canvas jacket, engineering boots. He moves the length of steel—an over-size wrench. “What's going on, mano? What you doing up in that container?”

“Looking for somebody.”

“Looking inside of hopper cars?”

The man takes a step forward.

Whicher stands his ground.

“You need to get your ass out of here.” The wrench moves against the man's leg.

“Looking for somebody name of Johnson.”

“This is private property. Got no business sneaking around this yard, ese.”

“I'll go when I'm done.”

The man raises the steel. Holds it flat between both hands. “You need to listen up, mano.”

“Tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to take a walk on down to that office there. And see if I can't find this guy Johnson.”

The man doesn't answer. He stands directly in the path.

Whicher faces him down—reckless streak oozing out the bottle. He makes to step by, head for the office.

A hand flies to his shoulder, grabbing hold of his jacket.

The marshal hits him side-on—driving him hard into the box-car, both hands on the wrench-arm—weight on the elbow, forcing it back.

The Hispanic twists, hooks a fist to the side of the marshal's head.

He staggers. Hears a shout close by.

Someone's running with a flashlight.

The Hispanic rolls off the hopper—kicking out a steel-cap boot to Whicher's hip.

The beam of the flashlight hits the pair of them. Whicher holds the wrench-arm in one hand, whipping his balled fist to the man's gut.

The Hispanic doubles up, pulls loose—breaks free. He scrambles to the gap between the hoppers.

“Hold it right there,” the man with the light shouts. “I called 9-1-1, police are going to be here any second...” He raises a black baton; a night stick.

“Law officer,” Whicher says, “US Marshal.” He straightens, takes out his badge.

The man's in an ill-fitting uniform. “What the hell's going on?”

Whicher runs for the gap at the end of the hopper car, leaping the hitch.

No sign of anybody on the other side.

The guard follows behind him.

“Looking for Merrill Johnson,” Whicher says, short of breath. “You know him? He working here tonight?”

The guard stares, light reflecting in his thick glasses. “Yessir, I know him. But he's not slated tonight, not on my list.”

Whicher rubs his swollen jaw, hawking excess spit. “I want to know everybody that is...”