Chapter Nine
The Rio Grande. Maverick County, TX.
At the river, the sun is low behind the trees—honey mesquite and blackbrush block the way. Seeing more than ten yards is next to impossible, there's no sign of any hunting camp.
The Chevy's parked a mile back, where the last track gave out. In one hand, Whicher holds the scrawled map drawn by Deputy Benita Alvarenga.
In Carrizo Springs, at the courthouse, Scruggs had been happy—the interview with Reba Williams linked Todd Williams, Randell Creagan and Jug Line Harris. Plus they had word of an auto yard. Scruggs had to head south, in the morning there was testimony to give, an appearance in court in Laredo. Whicher said he'd stick around, catch another night at the motor court.
Deputy Alvarenga told him about the hunting camps, she'd sketched out a rough map. Then finished her shift.
The map was laying on the table in the office. After everybody'd gone.
He folds the paper sketch, puts it inside his jacket. Pushes back the Resistol, wiping a hand across his forehead.
In the scrub there's signs of foot traffic—signs of people passing through.
He turns in the direction of the river, picking out marks in the earth.
The vegetation is dense green, strips of fabric tied in some of the trees. He follows the trail along a thin track through the brush. Till he's standing at the river bank in a muddy clearing—staring at a flow of fast, brown water.
Scores of footprints line the bank on both sides. There's pieces of old tire, an inner tube, worn out shoes abandoned in the grass.
He stares across at the other side. Mexico. In twenty eight years, he's never been over.
The water's deep-looking, the river current swift. He rubs at his chin.
People passed through, a lot of people. A stream of human traffic. He thinks of hunting camps, men like Creagan and Harris and Williams, with rifles. How long would it take them to think of money to be made? A guy like Todd Williams knew every inch of country, every piece of the ground.
He takes out a Marlboro, lights it, walks along the bank, staring at the river. Checks his watch—it's coming on seven. Hour and a half till full dark.
Did they move in daylight—the people crossing? Would they always wait for night? He stands, smokes. Stares at a clump of spiny hackberry. Looks up and down the river, listening for any sound.
He slips off his jacket, unclips the Glock, pushes it beneath the spiny hackberry. Then places his jacket and hat over the gun. Strides to the river in his shirtsleeves.
He waits at the water's edge, cigarette trailing from his hand. Not the first time he's crossed lines he shouldn't. He thinks of Iraq, the ground war, scouting ahead of an armor column. Puts a boot in the water, another. The current pulls at his feet.
He takes a hit off the cigarette, throws it upstream, watching the speed. Then launches himself into the river, cold weight dragging.
He kicks hard, swimming fast, adrenaline flowing. Working to keep his head high, boots like weights. He gulps down air, reaching through the racing water. Pushing down primal alarm.
His foot hits something—soft mud, the bank. He scrambles out to his knees, lungs heaving.
He stands, lets the water drain from his shirt and pants. Pulls off a boot, then the other. Tips them out.
Everywhere there's scraps of clothing, plastic bags, empty water bottles. Trails lead to the river, coming from a big track in the brush. He pulls his boots on, moves toward the opening in the scrub. The same thick vegetation is everywhere, tangled willow and mesquite.
He follows the track twenty yards back from the river, through a bank of lotebush. Something catches at the back of his throat—a sick smell, high and rancid.
He stops. Looks around in the shade-dappled light. Another waft hits him—he recognizes it from boyhood trips in the canyons. An animal must be laying someplace nearby. Decomposing in the heat.
He pushes down a side trail, toward a thin-grown copse. Light streaming through the canopy of branches.
In a small clearing is a sight that makes him stop in his tracks. The body of a man lies bloated, clothes tight on his swollen limbs. His skin is blackened, face crawling with flies.
The stench hits him. Whicher steadies, puts a hand across his mouth.
He scans the shadow-streaked clearing, nobody around—not another living soul. He's out of his legal jurisdiction, no telling where the nearest village might be.
Days the body must've lain there. Why had nobody come?
He thinks of all the empty land, hundreds, thousands of square acres, the vast deserted space. The US side, Carrizo Springs must be thirty miles away—the Mexican side, he can't think of a single place worth the name.
He stares out, motionless, across the clearing. At a man left to rot in plain sight. Like garbage. Unheeded.
He lets some time pass, breathing shallow. Birds rustling in the trees. And then he backs out, moving slow, mind turning, retracing his steps. All the way to the main trail, till he's at the river. Staring at the flow of water.
For a moment he stands—light fading. Wet clothes clinging to his skin. He sees himself as a boy, eleven years old—walking down to the Brazos River, sun high in the sky—to be immersed in the water, los Brazos de Dios, the arms of God. To be baptized. He thinks of smiling faces, songs, the water green between the banks; coming up for air, sky like fire, exhilaration, confusion.
He steps forward. Launches himself at the water—cold shock on his body. He kicks hard, swimming with all his strength.
At the far bank he scrambles out. He stumbles to the clump of spiny hackberry, reaches in, pulls out the hat, the jacket, the gun. He sits, takes off his boots, empties them.
He turns back into the brush, along the trail north—an ember like a hot coal in his chest.
He moves through the matted brush, twisting, turning. Sees black flies on a dead man's face. Alfonso Saldana in the light of a road flare, bleeding out by a cattle trough.
Ahead is an open place, a game trail. An animal sensation grips him, he stands dead still.
Stepping from a copse of chittamwood is a man in a bush hat—he's carrying a scoped rifle.
He swings the barrel.
Whicher draws the Glock. “US Marshal. Get that thing off of me...”
The man swallows—lowers the barrel, eying Whicher's soaking clothes. “This private land here.”
“Put down the gun.”
The man lets the butt swing out. He props the rifle against a tree. “I ain't broke any law.”
Whicher moves from the brush, around the man, catching hold of the rifle—a Browning A-Bolt. Walnut stock.
“You come a-stepping out on me, I ain't done nothing.”
“You threatened a law officer.”
“Got no right to hold a gun on me...”
Whicher flicks the barrel of the Glock. “You hunting out of one of the camps?”
“What if I am?”
“Show me.”
The man takes a step. “How about I get a look at your badge? If you’re a marshal...”
“Just get walking.”
The man stares at him. Then turns for the scrub.
Whicher follows him a hundred yards along a game trail west—Glock in one hand, rifle in the other. The brush is thickening, the trail leading toward a grove of elm. He sees the outline of a metal shipping container—one end fitted with a door.
There's a water tank, a bunch of chairs, an earth bank levee. Two men are standing in a clearing, one short, balding, in a wife-beater vest—the other wearing a ball cap, a denim jacket.
“Whoa,” the short man calls; “what the hell's going on?”
“US Marshal...” Whicher holds the Glock out, where everybody can see. He fixes a look on the man in the ball cap. “You're a hard man to find, Harris.”
Jug Line Harris peers through narrow-set eyes.
The marshal scans the clearing—no plan, just a fuse inside burning.
“He come out of nowhere,” the bush hat man says. “Pulled a God damn gun. Took my rifle.”
The short man turns to Harris. “You know him? The hell is this?”
At the back of the camp Whicher sees a rusted frame for dressing out deer.
He steps to the far side, climbs the dirt levee. Behind it is a pile of heads—animal heads. There must be thirty, maybe more. Long jaws, sharp teeth. Javelina.
Whicher swings the barrel of the Glock round to Harris. “Get walking,” he tells him. “You and me are taking a ride.”
Carrizo Springs.
Twenty minutes later, lights show in the Dimmit County courthouse as Whicher pushes Harris along a path toward the main door.
Harris has his hands out front, a pair of silvered cuffs at his wrists. Head down, he's barely spoken.
In the lobby, Deputy Hagen's eating a burrito—napkin at his collar.
They step to the counter. “Who do I need see to book a man in?”
Hagen lowers the burrito. “He's under arrest?” He looks to Harris. “What's the charge?”
“Illegal hunting. Shooting javelina out of season.”
“You moonlightin' for Fish & Game?”
“Can you take custody?”
Hagen puts the half-eaten burrito on the counter. “I done picked the wrong week for night detail.” He pulls the napkin from his collar. “You want to speak with an attorney?” he says to Harris. “You get one phone call.”
“I don't got no lawyer.”
“The court can appoint one. You'll have to wait till tomorrow.”
Whicher passes Hagen the key to the handcuffs. “You got this? I need to make a call.”
“I got it.”
“You have a number for Border Patrol here?”
Hagen scratches his head. He writes a number on a square of paper. Whicher takes it, turns from reception, heads down the corridor to the back of the building.
At the office, he shuts the door. He picks up the phone, dials the number.
“Border Patrol. Carrizo Springs station.”
“My name's Whicher, I'm a US Marshal. I need to talk with Raul Talamantes.”
“I'm not sure Agent Talamantes is here. I can check?”
“I'm over at the Dimmit County courthouse. I need him to call if you can find him. Tell him it's urgent. Whicher's the name.”
“Alright, marshal. Let me see what I can do.”
Whicher puts down the receiver. He stands pulling the damp shirt from his chest. The hunting camp would fall in one of the Carrizo Springs sectors, Talamantes knew the area—he had to know what was going on.
The marshal steps from the office, walks the corridor to reception. The place is empty, a janitor mopping the floor.
Hagen would be processing Jug Line Harris. Harris wouldn't talk, not till morning, not before he lawyered up. But he could keep him in jail, turn the screw.
He steps out of the building, crosses the square. At the highway, a few store lights still show.
Half a block down is a Western wear outfitters. He walks fast along the sidewalk, reaches the store, it's still open.
Inside is an old guy in a saw-tooth pocket shirt. Hair like wire across his balding head. “Evenin'.”
Whicher nods. He walks by a rack of boots to a display of plaids and checkers. He spends a minute, picks out a shirt. Blue and white window-pane. With pearl white snaps.
“We got that in your size,” the man says. “Large to extra.”
“I'll take it.”
“Thirty-five bucks.” The man finds a wrapped shirt from a hardwood rack behind the counter.
The marshal pays him. Steps back out.
Opposite the store is a roadside eatery. He heads over to the take-out window, buys a couple of hard shell tacos. He finds a bench, scarfs them down, salsa, meat and beans. Then crosses the square, re-entering the courthouse.
Back in the office, he strips off the damp shirt, hangs it on the seat back. He unwraps the new shirt, slips it on. It fits good. He tucks it in the dark gray suit pants.
He stares at the phone. Takes the pack of cigarettes from his jacket. Sticks them in the new shirt. Heads to the lobby.
Deputy Hagen is back.
“You lock the man up?”
“In the holding cells,” Hagen says, “upstairs.” He hands the marshal's silvered cuffs back to him. “Nice shirt.”
Whicher sticks the cuffs in a pocket. “Anybody call from Border Patrol?”
Hagen checks the log, shakes his head. “Everything alright?”
The marshal doesn't answer.
“You seem a little—agitated.” Hagen puts a pen to the corner of his mouth. “Hunting out of season, that's what you want the charge sheet to read?”
“Harris is a guide, I found a stack of javelina heads at a river camp, he knows it's against the law. I want to see him.”
Hagen takes out a key. “Up the stairs in back. Last cell on the row.” He hands the key to the marshal. “You take it easy, bud. You got that?”
Jug Line Harris sits on the edge of a fold-out cot, staring at the concrete floor.
Standing in the corridor, door open, Whicher takes out the pack of Marlboro Reds. He flicks one loose. “Sooner or later, you're going to have to talk to me.” He lights up. “Start with those two guys you were hunting with. They're legit? They're regular customers?”
From the cot, Harris turns his head a fraction to look at him. “They're out of El Indio.”
“They're what?”
“Up river, it's a place. They just a bunch of ol’ boys I know.”
“What are their names?”
Harris turns his face back to look at the floor. “I'd think I need to get me a lawyer.”
Whicher pulls on the cigarette. “They shoot them javelina?” He steps into the doorway, filling it.
“It ain't me shot 'em.”
“What do you know about Todd Williams?”
The man's head sinks an inch.
“Reba Williams says the pair of y'all spent plenty of time out at the river. Out at the camps.” Whicher takes another hit off the smoke. “Three nights back, Todd was shot dead in the brush. You know that.”
“I don't know nothing...”
Whicher shakes his head. “You ain't going to lie to me a long time.”
Harris stares at his boots.
The marshal smokes the cigarette down.
Harris turns, looks at him. “The hell you want with me?”
“You were buds with Todd Williams, he was a hunting guide, same as you. We found him with a bunch of illegal crossers. Randell Creagan, another friend of yours...”
“I done told you...”
“The only name came up in two days looking for him was your name.”
“That don't make us friends.”
The marshal leans against the frame of the door. “Creagan was found dead yesterday afternoon—at the rail yard in Eagle Pass.”
Harris flinches, his eyes cut away. He sits on the edge of the cot—shrinking inside the denim jacket.
“You didn't know?”
From the corridor is a noise of footsteps in the stairwell.
Deputy Hagen emerges at the top, one hand held to the side of his face. “Phone call—from Border Patrol. Raul Talamantes...”
Whicher glances at Harris, still motionless on the cot.
He swings the cell door shut. Locks it.
In the downstairs office, he grabs the phone. “Yeah, this is Whicher...”
“Hey mano. You needed me to call?”
“I just arrested a guy name of Jug Line Harris. Boyd Harris. A hunting guide—you know the name?” Whicher puts his back against the office door.
“I don't think.”
“I picked him up at a camp ten miles west of the Channing Ranch. By the river. That be your sector?”
No response
“There's evidence of people coming through there, lot of people. I wanted to speak with you about it.”
“You wanted to speak?”
Whicher searches the desk, finds a block of notepaper, a pen.
“You're not from the border, mano? You new to this work?”
“What if I am?”
“Es bien sabido,” Talamantes says. “Everybody knows. There's no way to stop it.”
“There were trails everywhere. I crossed the river, I found a body.”
“You crossed?”
Whicher jams the phone against his neck.
“Did you tell anybody? Let me give you some advice, mano. You don't cross the border...”
“Anyone can cross.”
“Not you, not law enforcement. You break the law, you do that.”
“There's a body in a copse near the river. It's by a crossing place...”
“Listen, mano...”
“No, you listen. That body's been laying there days, you call whoever you need to call on the Mexican side, you tell 'em it's there, you tell 'em to get the hell out and recover it. Or do it yourself. You hearing me?” Whicher stares at the wall.
The Border Patrol agent's voice is cold when he speaks again. “I'll do what I can do.”
Whicher nods.
“But you better hear this,” Talamantes says. “You tell no-one. Nobody.”
“That's it? That's all you got to say?”
“Tell nobody. Don't think of doing it a second time. I'm putting down the phone now, mano. Don't call me again.”
Back upstairs in the holding cell, Harris sits with his boots on the edge of the cot, his knees drawn up. “You fixin' to charge me?”
Whicher leans against the wall. “Those heads weren't taken from any animals killed in winter.”
“Who says I shot 'em?”
“That's your defense?”
Harris yanks the ball cap down. “Fuck it, man. I'm a hunting guide—ain't up to me what folk do. They get to drinkin', and foolin'...”
“I'll keep you here on the hunting charge. Look for vehicles, anything you drive, anything Creagan might've supplied. I'll check every federal firearms licensee...”
“I can buy a gun anyplace...”
“And I can ask the judge for time.”
“Y'all cain't keep me in here.”
“You're not afraid?”
“Of what,” Harris says, “you?”
Whicher steps from the wall. “Not me.” He grabs the cell door. “Afraid of ending up like them.”
Harris stares.
“First Williams. Then Creagan. You next?”
Whicher stands by the Chevy outside in the square. He stares back at the courthouse—uplighters streaking the block stone walls.
Harris would sit tight, he'd be arraigned in the morning, enter a plea.
The men back at the river camp would likely ditch everything in the Rio Grande, he should've taken the heads as evidence. All he'd wanted was Harris—all he’d felt was anger. He pictures the body of the dead man in the copse.
He leans on the cab roof. Wind ragged. Talamantes under his skin. Watches the highway, ink sky arching overhead.
A half-ton GMC pickup turns into the square. It pulls in to the curbside at the end.
Marshal Jim Gale steps out. He sets his hi-crown hat—strides across the strip of watered grass.
He stomps fast, reaches the courthouse, shoulders open the door.
Whicher feels a tightness at his scalp. He crosses the dark square, enters the courthouse. Inside, Deputy Hagen and Gale are speaking—their conversation stops.
“I need to speak with Harris.” Gale tries a grin—like a dog fixing to bite. “I heard he was here. Been looking to find him.”
“You heard?” Whicher glances at Hagen.
“This here county is part of my jurisdiction. I've been looking to take Harris in for questioning.”
“Well, you can't. I just arrested him, I'm investigating two homicides.”
“I'll take custody in Eagle Pass,” Gale says. “You can question Harris, after I'm done.”
“That's not going to happen.”
Gale's arms are out at his sides, barrel chest huge. “You're charging Harris?”
“Shooting javelina in the closed season.”
“That some kind of joke?”
“It's not a joke.”
Gale draws himself to his full six-feet five. “Alright. You and me need to step outside.” His eyes are dark with anger. He stiff-arms the door.
Whicher feels his blood rise. He follows the man out.
Gale's walked to the center of the square—to stand in the shadows. “The hell's your problem? Where's your boss, where's Scruggs?”
“Laredo.”
Gale steps his feet wide. “I'm going to say this one time—I need to speak with Harris. And you can talk to him. After I'm done.”
“Harris stays in my custody.”
“Listen you little pissant...” Gale's hand is balled into a fist. “You need to get your head out of your ass. I bring you out here, it's so the sheriff's department don't get to see you make a God damn fool of yourself...”
The younger marshal cuts a look across the square, at traffic in the street.
“You get cross-wise of me, you’re going to wish you didn't.”
“That it?”
Gale's hand opens and closes. “God damn, boy...”
Whicher steps forward. “The answer's no.”
He stares at Gale, feels the boiling power, the big man itching to take a swing.
“Your truck is over yonder,” Whicher says. He touches the brim of the Resistol. “I'll say goodnight. We're all done.”