Half a block from the courthouse, at the roadside eatery, Whicher buys coffee, passing a cup to Scruggs. He lights a cigarette off the still-lit end of the last.
“You fixing to smoke yourself to death?”
Whicher stares down the block at store-front law offices, loan companies, banks. “I spoke to Lindy Page this morning,” he says. “Drove out to Crystal City. Before you came in. I think she was telling the truth.”
Scruggs looks at him.
“I think somebody in law enforcement told her not to talk to us.”
The older marshal takes a pull at his cup of coffee, eyes hooded.
A semi rolls along the street, compressed air hissing from its brakes. Whicher waits for it to pass. “I think it was Dane Vogel,” he says.
“Lindy Page tell you that?”
Whicher takes a draw on the Marlboro. “Dane Vogel followed me, yesterday morning.”
Across the street at the Western wear store, a man steps out, hat box cradled beneath an arm. He stares at the two unfamiliar men—suited, unsmiling. The weight of the sky upon them.
“I went out to where Saldana was shot,” Whicher says. “Before I met you at the horse fair yesterday.”
“What the hell for?”
“It's where a man died. There hasn't even been a regular search.”
The wind scours dust along the cross-town highway, swirling spirit dancing in the air.
Scruggs looks out across the street. “You never mentioned this yesterday. You're telling me Dane Vogel followed you?”
At the courthouse, Deputy Alvarenga steps out, hand to her brow.
She scans the square, starts across to Meg Wheeler at the pickup.
Scruggs steps into the roadway.
Whicher follows his boss over the street. He glances at the sheriff's window—sensing the big man looking down.
Alvarenga spots them, she calls out; “Sheriff's asking to speak with you, marshal...”
Scruggs turns for the main entrance.
Alvarenga heads for the rear door, color at her face.
Whicher crosses to the forensics van.
Officer Wheeler watches him. “Trouble?” she says. “Everybody's spring seems like its wound a little tight.” She turns back to working a brush above the door handle of the truck.
Across the street, the Latino boys sit eating from a paper bag of churros.
“Some pretty clean prints,” she says. “Three, at least.”
“Three?”
“We'll need to move to an inspection bay if we're looking for blood or gun shot residue.” She angles her head at the door. “We're talkin' trace evidence, honey. Microscopic...”
“Three distinct sets of prints?”
“I can call for a tow vehicle? Homicide investigation, it ought to be okay...”
The door of the courthouse flies open. Scruggs is out again, hat down.
“I want to move this,” Officer Wheeler calls out. She steps from the Toyota, holding the jar of powder.
Scruggs's eyes are gimlets.
“I want to move to an inspection bay,” she says. “You want me to check with the county? Or will the Marshals Service pick up the tab?”
“Move it, do it. Put it on the federal tab.” Scruggs turns to Whicher, stabs a finger at the blue and white Ford Ranger at the end of the square.
Whicher throws down the cigarette. Follows Scruggs to the truck.
“Jim Gale's flying in from LA,” Scruggs says, over his shoulder. “Sheriff Barnhart had the balls to ask me to meet with him, you believe that? Meet Gale. Brief him. Then hand him the God damn reins...” He rips the keys from his pocket. “You'll have to do it. I told the sheriff I'm going the hell up to Houston. I'll take it to Buddy Riggins. I'm going up right now.”
“Sir, can't it wait?”
“Hell it can.”
“What about Vogel?”
“Screw Dane Vogel.” Scruggs jams the keys in the lock. He snatches open the door.
Whicher's throat is dry. “There's something you need to know...”
“If I want to know what the God damn FBI are doing, I'll ask Gerry Nugent...”
“I don't know if Houston even know about this...”
Scruggs turns. The skin at his face mottled with anger.
“Dane Vogel's running some kind of investigation.”
“You want to get the hell out of my way?”
“He's investigating US Marshals Service.”
“He's doing what?” Scruggs stands one foot in the truck the other still on the sidewalk.
“Yesterday, he practically accused me of disturbing a crime scene.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The site of Saldana's murder—he said I could be trying to dispose of evidence.”
Scruggs's mouth works, silent. He shakes his head, body taut.
He pulls himself into the driver seat of the Ford. Locks out his arms on the wheel.
“Let me see if I got this straight.” He stares out through the windshield. “I got a sheriff trying to throw me off a case for bringing up the names of two dead hookers. My deputy's being followed by an FBI internal affairs agent. And you're telling me US Marshals Service is under investigation?”
“Sir, it was me found out the names of those dead girls.”
“It was Miguel Carrasco. At INS.”
“No, sir.”
Scruggs twists his head around. “You told me your damn self—it was Carrasco.”
“I crossed into Mexico. Piedras Negras, night before last. I found out.”
The older marshal's knuckles are yellow-white on the steering wheel.
“Vogel knows I did it, he had me followed.”
Scruggs stares at the backs of his hands. “You know what a jurisdictional boundary is?” His voice is tight in his throat.
“Sir, I know.”
“You employ illegal means it's inadmissible. You screw the whole thing up...” He sits, stares out through the windshield—eyes alive.
“I'm supposed to stay quiet, Vogel thought he had enough on me...”
Scruggs doesn't respond. The muscles in his face flex, working beneath the skin.
Whicher takes off his hat. Now that it's out, there's no point holding back. “I think a lot of things are wrong with this case,” he says. “I think the women at the ranch could've had ID—maybe the men too. I think they could've had ID—and it was taken from them.”
A dry bark of sound catches at the back of Scruggs's throat.
“The bodies were moved, no justice of the peace, nothing done right. You said so yourself...”
Still his boss won't look at him.
“If Dane Vogel's investigating the Marshals Service, I think it's 'cause of Jim Gale. He was there, close by, he had free rein. The guy's on a shooting charge in LA. Plus, I found his number in Creagan's apartment—the day right after Creagan was killed.”
Scruggs's arms finally flex from rigid—his shoulders slump.
“He tried to get to Harris, soon as we started looking, Gale went after him.”
His boss cranks his head around, puts out his hand, eyes shining. “I want your badge. I want your gun.”
Whicher looks at him.
“You're off the case. Suspended from duty.”
The younger marshal stands numb on the sidewalk.
“Go the hell home. Be there when I call.” Scruggs turns the ignition. The motor fires up under the hood. “Badge and gun.”
Whicher reaches in his jacket pocket. Fingers touching the leather holder.
“I'm driving this truck to Houston,” Scruggs says, eyes flat. “This thing is all over.”