Chapter Twenty-Five
Dimmit County, TX.
The highway is empty. Truck windows rolled. Whicher drives the Chevy by a high-fence pasture outside Carrizo Springs. Sun behind the bull mesquite.
Del Rio—an hour and more it had taken. Through dark country, nothing moving on the wet roads. Taxista, silent, chewing on a match.
They'd crossed the bridge at Del Rio. No interest either side, US or Mexican. On home soil, a second cab ride all the way back to Eagle Pass. Eric strangely energized, limbs snapping, eyes full of light.
The marshal thinks again of the Grand Marquis blocking off the bridge approach. In the pocket of his suit he feels for the notepad, pictures the names written there, the names of two women.
Carmela Ramirez. Sara Pacheco.
He steers the Chevy down a spur for town. Red-eyed, fatigued from a night in the truck. Eric had offered him the couch, he told him no. He drives by a brick church—thin spire cutting the air. Thinks of Lucila. The young woman in the bar.
Lucila reckoned Carmela Ramirez from Sabinas—barely an hour from the border. Last thing she knew of her, she was leaving to cross to the US. To meet with a cop.
He slows at a stop light in the center of Carrizo Springs. Hits the blinker, makes the turn for the courthouse square.
It's early, plenty of spaces. He parks up, puts on his hat.
Somebody followed them last night. He turns it over in his mind as he locks the truck.
He crosses the square, reaches the entrance of the courthouse. In the lobby, a female officer regards him. Hispanic, black-rimmed eye glasses. He hasn't seen her before.
“Can I help you?”
“Working the Williams-Creagan homicide. For US Marshals Service.” He takes out his badge. “I need to see the custody officer, ma'am.”
“On the upper floor, marshal.”
“I go up?”
“You know your way?”
He nods, crosses the lobby, moving to the set of stairs in back.
He climbs to the next floor, finds a uniformed officer—the short deputy with the horseshoe mustache. “I need to talk to Lindy Page.”
The man checks a clipboard.
“She's down at the end,” Whicher says. “Last cell.”
“No can do, marshal.” The officer shakes his head. “Lindy Page got out last night. Late last night.”
“Who released her?”
“Releasing officer signed as Deputy Benita Alvarenga...”
In the back office Whicher sits at the desk. He takes out the notepad from his jacket. No Lindy Page.
He finds the number for Miguel Carrasco in Eagle Pass—he can call INS about the girls.
He keys the number in—it starts to ring.
INS could call the Mexican side—police, federal law enforcement, either of the names might get a hit.
There's a clicking sound, the call switching to answer machine. The marshal clears his throat.
“This is Whicher, over in Carrizo Springs. Do me a favor, have somebody check out two names for me—Carmela Ramirez—and Sara Pacheco.” He pauses. “Both women are missing. Last known working out of la zona in Piedras Negras. Could be the female victims I got at the ranch.”
He puts down the phone. Shoots his jacket sleeve.
Carrasco would want to know where he got that.
He turns to the file cabinet, pulls out a folder. The phone starts to ring.
He picks up; “Carrasco? That was fast...”
“It's Scruggs. You're in early. You get home last night?”
Whicher eyes the empty office. “I stayed with a friend. In Eagle Pass.”
“I need you to meet with me this afternoon. East of Guerro,” Scruggs says. “A horse fair out there. Out in Jim Hogg county.”
“A horse fair?”
“I got a call last night from Border Patrol. Merrill Johnson's going to be out there. You have a pen?”
Scruggs reels off an address south of Laredo, Whicher notes it all down.
“I have to head out for court,” Scruggs says, “I'll tell you about it this afternoon. Before you come out, be sure and talk with Lindy Page. Just soon as she gets a lawyer.”
Whicher stands. “Lindy got released.”
“She done what?”
“I just found out. I just got here, custody officer told me Deputy Alvarenga released her last night.”
“Sheriff said he was going to keep her.”
“That's what I thought.”
“You talk to Alvarenga?”
“No, sir. She's not here.”
Scruggs is silent at the end of the line. “I want to know what the hell that's about.”
The younger marshal nods.
“Damn wheels are starting to shake on this, we're not even rolling...”
Whicher stares at the wall.
“Last night,” Scruggs says, “Quint Lassiter told me Jim Gale's been called out to LA.”
“LA?”
“Lassiter didn't want it coming out in the meeting, front of the sheriff an' all. But looks like some of the folk drafted for the riots might have gotten a little trigger happy.”
“Law enforcement folk?”
“I'm just getting this off of Lassiter. He said Gale was stationed down in South Central, it's a Latino area. A bunch were killed.”
Whicher thinks of the coverage. “Is Gale accused of something?”
“I don't know.”
Whicher sits heavy on the side of the desk.
“What I do know is, he cain't pick up Jug Line Harris.”
“You want me to go get him?”
“I put out a stop order—Highway Patrol or any PD spots him, they're going to notify Dimmit County Sheriff.”
“Alright, sir.”
“I got to head for court, but meet me out in Jim Hogg this afternoon. Around three. Guerro, check the map, there'll be signs...”
Whicher stands in the center of the office, phone hanging from his hand.
Gale in LA. A shooting charge.
He runs a hand across his face. No clear idea what to do.
He puts the phone back down on its cradle.
No Lindy Page, no Jug Line Harris. No Benita Alvarenga.
Think of something—think of one sure thing.
The first night.
First thing he'd seen with his own two eyes—staring down a night scope, a man running, shot down from a pickup in the brush.
Start all the way back. Start over.
Start from there.