Chapter Twenty-Seven

Whicher brakes to a standstill. Neither of the two Hispanics move.

They're dressed in sport shirts, the man on the left in pale blue, second man in white. The square-looking pistols in their hands are semi-autos. The man in blue moves first.

Whicher's hands are on the steering wheel, he thinks of going for the Glock.

The blue-shirted man's already at the driver window.

The man in white walks forward, reaches the passenger door. He opens it. Steps up into the cab.

“I'm a US Marshal,” Whicher says, adrenaline coursing. “Policia...”

He glances at the man beside the driver window, compact SIG between his hands.

The man in the white shirt reaches over, takes the Glock from Whicher's holster. Sweat's running down the side of his face. He sits. Closes the door. “Drive,” he says.

The man at the window moves off, walking fast to the Dodge Ram, climbing in.

“Go by him. Go on in front.”

The Dodge Ram reverses into the brush, opening the way.

Whicher steadies his breathing, thinks of flooring out the gas. He steers through the gap, the Dodge Ram already turning in behind, dirt billowing beneath its wheels.

The man in the white shirt holds the pistol steady.

Whicher glances sideways, catches his eye.

It's unblinking.

Fifteen minutes later. Headed roughly north-east. The mesquite opens out, Whicher stares through the windshield at a building above the line of scrub. He's seen it before. It's built from faded brick, abandoned-looking, tall palms rising above it.

Beyond, he can see the edge of a highway. He checks the rear-view, the Dodge Ram is right behind.

The man in the passenger seat points to a spot in back of the building. “Over there.”

Whicher slows. He pulls up at a wall of sun-bleached brick.

The day he'd called on Reba Williams, he'd passed the place, with Benita Alvarenga. Ghost hotel. That's what she'd called it. Left to hunters and drunks.

The man in white pushes open the door, slides out. He stands looking in at Whicher—pointing the marshal's own Glock.

The Dodge Ram pulls alongside.

“Get out, now.”

The man in blue climbs from the truck, SIG in hand.

Whicher cuts the motor, steps from the Chevy.

“Inside,” the white shirted man says.

Whicher steps to a rotting service door. The two Hispanics behind.

Ahead is a corridor, paint peeling, plaster crumbling, the ceiling half down.

“Go ahead, move...”

The floor's littered with empty beer cans. Cigarette butts, peeling linoleum.

Whicher walks in, reaches a set of narrow stairs—bare boards broken.

“Up the stairs. Go ahead.”

Whicher feels a push in the back. He climbs, legs heavy, mind racing. If they're traffickers, he's running out of time.

At the top of the stairs is an ante-room—stripped out, the windows smashed. A set of double doors bars the way to the next room.

The white shirted man opens it. “Through there,” he says.

The marshal pushes the door wide.

On the other side, a big Hispanic is standing in a derelict room. Arms folded on his chest, head tilted as he stares at Whicher. Curled hair. Gold hoops in his ears.

Whicher sees the image of a Grand Marquis. Piedras Negras. The bridge. He waits for the man to speak. A second image flashes in his mind—a Chevy Caprice, garnet red, parked beneath trees. In Eagle Pass. Outside Randell Creagan's apartment.

The man unfolds his arms, steps by him, out of the door.

Whicher stares down the full length of the room—a ruined space, thirty yards long, bright light glaring from broken windows.

Graffiti. Broken glass. Ripped up floor. At the far end, in shadow, he can make out a man.

Staring out the window. Blond-haired. Suited. Dane Vogel.

Neither man speaks.

For the longest time the only sound is the wind outside, blowing in the mesquite.

Whicher thinks back to the first morning after the shootings, six days back. Looking to serve out a bench warrant. The big Caprice parked under the trees.

Vogel finally turns from the window.

The marshal starts to walk down the room.

“Those floorboards are pretty weak there, in the center,” the FBI man says.

Whicher feels his hand close in a fist.

“Slow down...”

“Slow down?” Whicher stops. He stares around the empty space.

“Last night, you were in Piedras Negras,” Vogel says.

The marshal feels a prickling sense of danger.

“Strange place to be?”

Whicher reaches for the pack of Marlboros in his shirt pocket. Takes one. Lights it.

“Were you working?”

The marshal draws the smoke down.

“Against the law for you to do that.” Vogel studies him. “You've been going a lot of places. Last night, Piedras Negras. The night before, a farm—west of Crystal City.” He leans against the graffitied wall.

Whicher thinks of driving back from the Tutton place—dropping Shanon Summers. The Buick Le Sabre coming after him.

A bird appears in the broken window, blur of wings—digging, ripping at the rotten frame. It lands. Stares with glass bead eyes.

Vogel whips a hand toward it, it flies from the sill. “What were you doing just now?” he says. “Out there in the scrub?”

“Searching a murder scene.”

“What murder?”

“Alfonso Saldana.”

“You're not investigating him.”

The marshal feels the tightness in his chest.

For a minute neither man speaks.

Out beyond the hotel, heat warps the horizon. A truck moves along an empty stretch of highway.

“How come you're alone?” Vogel says. “No Marshal Scruggs?”

“He's testifying in court.”

“Pretty convenient.” Vogel stares directly at the marshal.

“I thought to look for lead,” Whicher says. “For bullets. I was there on the night, I was going through it one more time.”

“You were there?”

“I went looking for casings—up on the ridge...”

“You know where the shooter was?”

“I saw him.”

“You saw him—but didn't stop him?”

Whicher smokes the cigarette, the burning tip glowing white. You saw him. But didn't stop him.

The FBI man touches a slim finger to his temple. “Border Patrol had charge of that sector on the night, that right? Agent Talamantes.”

“That's right.”

“Why were you there?”

The heat inside the room presses—stale air trapped beneath the peeling roof.

“Retrieving evidence,” Vogel says. “Or getting rid of it?”

The marshal shakes his head.

“You're part of a homicide investigation,” Vogel says. “A lot of things don't look consistent with that.” He steps from the window. Studies the shine on his city shoes.

“You want to tell me what in the name of hell you're talking about?”

“Maybe I'm going to take a chance,” Vogel says.

Whicher throws down the cigarette. He stands on it.

“You're new. If I'm wrong, it won't change anything.”

Whicher grinds glass and grit beneath his boot.

“The department I work for is running an investigation.” Vogel's voice is flat, hard. “Into US Marshals Service.”

Whicher looks at him. “Say again?”

“I think you heard me.”

“Am I under arrest?” Whicher takes in the man in the dark suit. Out of place, urban, impatient.

Vogel's face is tanned, hair almost white blond.

“If I'm not under arrest, then I'm free to go...”

“That wouldn't be smart.”

Whicher takes off the Resistol. He runs a finger round the inside of the hat band—it's wet with sweat.

Vogel takes a pace forward. “What were you doing in Piedras Negras? We know you talked with a bunch of hookers from la zona. You and that army junkie pal.”

Whicher fits the hat back in place. Suppressing a lick of anger.

Vogel grins. “Let's just hear it.”

“I was searching for ID.”

“What ID?”

“Four Hispanic victims. From the Channing Ranch.”

“You're not investigating their deaths.”

“Dimmit County buried them,” Whicher says. “They were unidentified. I want them disinterred.”

Vogel's mouth twists.

“I want them re-examined. There could be evidence linking to people we're investigating.” Whicher's gaze blurs on the graffiti at the back wall, mind turning. An FBI investigation into US Marshals Service was federal on federal—neither side presiding over the other.

“I want to know what you've been doing.”

Whicher stares at the FBI man.

Gale—Jim Gale, he must be part of it. Was it Gale? He was in LA—were they moving in while he was gone? They had Creagan's place under surveillance, they must know Creagan and Gale were connected.

“I said...”

“I heard what you said.”

Vogel folds his arms over the dark suit.

A hot wind flickers at the broken window.

“I can indict already, make it stick,” Vogel says. “If you were in Piedras Negras on fed business last night, you were breaking the law, you'll be out of the service, minimum.”

Whicher presses his tongue against the sharp edge of his teeth. “Maybe I was there drinking beer with a buddy. Looking to get laid.”

“Think that'll sound more convincing?” Vogel looks at him. “Maybe you're hooked in already. Traffickers use enforcers...”

“They do what?”

“La zona's a hub, maybe you went out to shut somebody up?” He steps from Whicher to the center of the room. With the toe of one shoe he rolls an empty beer can to the edge of a hole in the floor. “Right side or the wrong side? Which are you?”

“I'm a lawman.”

“Then hear this. You keep your mouth shut, cooperate with this investigation. You go about your business. Talk to no-one. Not to Scruggs, not to anybody. I'm taking a chance. I wanted to look you dead in the eye.”

“That's not all you want.”

“You open your fuckin' mouth...” Vogel tips the can into the void. “Your world is going to fall through the floor.”

The can rattles onto the ground below.

The FBI man walks down the room. “Believe it,” he says. He pauses, turning at the door. “You're going to be seeing me...”