Chapter Thirty-Three
Scruggs's blue and white Ford Ranger reaches the intersection—it pulls out fast, tires catching on the hot road. It chops a lane, turns for 85 east. Whicher watches it down the highway, heart thumping in his chest.
He spins around. Surveys the square.
Meg Wheeler's dusting the inside of the Toyota for prints. She's kneeling, shirt stretched across her back. She's seen nothing.
The three Latino boys watch, dark-eyed.
He turns for the courthouse, head down, walking fast.
At the main door he pushes into reception, crosses the lobby, reaches the stairs.
In the corridor, Benita Alvarenga's approaching.
“I'm signing Harris out. Into my custody.” Whicher hits the stairs, starts to climb.
“Wait,” she says. “Where do you want to take him?”
“Out,” he barks back.
The marshal reaches the landing, hears her footsteps coming up behind. He turns. “I'm a federal law officer, I can take custody of a prisoner.”
“I didn't know about any of this. About Sheriff Barnhart, about Lassiter...”
“I never said you did.”
“Is Lassiter taking over the investigation?”
“Right now, it's ours.”
She shakes her head. “I can't let you have him.”
“You can't stop me. I'm taking Harris to the Channing Ranch.”
“What for?” Her eyes are hot beneath the line of her brow.
“I want him to see where five people were shot to death. And stand there tell me nothing, like I'm shit for brains...”
Her hand moves to her hip. “We take a cruiser.”
“We do what?”
She pulls out a set of keys. “We take a car from the county pool. Harris stays in my custody.”
“We?”
“The three of us. I'll drive.”
Jug Line Harris is handcuffed in the back of the sheriff's department cruiser—chained to a D-ring in the floor. Whicher sits alongside him. Benita Alvarenga at the wheel.
Harris stares out the window at the south Texas brush.
“You know this country,” Whicher says.
The man doesn't answer.
“You and Todd Williams used to hunt it.”
Benita Alvarenga slows the cruiser as the track worsens.
“Only thing Todd was good for was right here,” Whicher says. “Cutting out. Vanishing.”
The land is covered in thorn scrub and mesquite—the brush menacing, a physical presence.
Whicher sees the outline of a ruined building. It sits beneath a bleached out disc of sun.
The track curves around a line of catclaw and guajillo. They pull up at the rear of the ranch.
Alvarenga cuts the motor, steps out, opens up the rear door by Harris.
Whicher releases the chain from the man's wrist. “Go ahead, get out.”
“What for?”
“Step out of the vehicle,” Alvarenga says.
Harris grunts, moves his arms, chain rattling to the floor. He leans forward, swings out his legs. “I ain't going in there.”
“Sure you are.” Whicher steps out, scanning the crumbling ranch.
“I don't have to do squat...”
The marshal puts a hand in the small of the man's back—pushing him forward to the empty doorway.
At the threshold, Harris locks out his legs.
Whicher raises a boot—pushes him forward.
“Get the hell off of me...” Harris staggers inside.
Deputy Alvarenga glances at Whicher—a look of warning in her eye.
The marshal points to the ground inside the house. “You knew Todd Williams. A week ago he was laying face up, right there. With a bullet in his head.”
Alvarenga takes a pace into the broken room. “Why'd you run out, Mister Harris? If you've nothing to do with any of this?”
Harris stares at his boots.
“You knew Randell Creagan,” Whicher says. “He's dead, too.”
“I ain't got nothing to say.”
“You and Todd were hunting guides. You know this land, you used that to work coyote. Was it Randell Creagan hooked you in?”
Alvarenga tries to catch the man's eye beneath the ball cap.
Harris stares at the dirt.
“Take a look here.” Whicher steps to the back wall. “You look, God damn it.” He points a finger at the floor.
Harris screws up his face.
“This,” Whicher says, “right here. Is where two young women died. Twenty-something years old, they crossed a river, Todd Williams brought 'em here.” He looks at Harris. “This is the place he used—to rest up, after crossing. Am I right?”
“I don't know what the hell y'all are talking about.”
Whicher moves across the room. “Here,” he says, “in this corner, I found a kid shot to death. Out in the back, I found another guy. Somebody killed him trying to get away.”
“Take me back to my cell...”
“I'm in the middle of my own country.” Whicher stares at the blood stains on the wall. “How does it look like this?”
Jug Line Harris raises his cuffed wrists. “Y'all take me back...”
“Somebody chained Randell Creagan to a freight train.”
“It ain't nothing to me...”
“You know a man named Merrill Johnson, a huntin' man? Did Johnson ever come out here? Or to the river camps? To Lake Amistad?”
“No, no—I don't know...” Harris clamps his mouth shut. “I want my God damn attorney.”
From the cruiser is the sound of a call, the radio crackling.
Alvarenga eyes the marshal. “I need to get that.”
Harris steps forward, “I'm walking...”
The deputy draws her pistol, “Stay right where you are.”
Whicher catches hold of Harris. He takes him out of the building, stands him up against the wall.
Alvarenga moves to the cruiser, picks up the radio call.
Whicher leans in close to Harris. “Tell me about Gale?” he says, under his breath. “Five minutes after I busted you hunting javelina, Jim Gale showed up.”
“I want Schneider, I want my lawyer...”
“Gale was supposed to bring you in two days back.”
“The hell you talking about?”
“Was it Gale told you to skip town?”
Alvarenga steps from the cruiser. “That was dispatch. Your boss is looking for you—he called the sheriff's department.” She holds up the radio transmitter. “You want to call?”
Whicher turns to Harris. “You ran out to San Antonio...”
The man's head drops between his shoulders.
“You were running for your life.”
Back in the courthouse in Carrizo Springs, Benita Alvarenga locks Jug Line Harris in a cell.
In the office, Whicher finds a note from Meg Wheeler. She's moved the Toyota, left a number to call.
He shoves the note in his jacket. Searches out a list of contacts from the file cabinet, pulling out a sheet of paper from the back of a folder. He writes down an address.
On a shelf above the cabinet is a law enforcement directory. He takes it down, flicks through the pages to the San Antonio section. He eyes the phone on the desk, takes out a cigarette, lights it. Lifts the receiver. He dials the number, listens to it ring.
A woman answers, “FBI field office, San Antonio.”
“US Marshals Service. I need to speak with an agent named Dane Vogel, is this the right office?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Name's Whicher. It's an urgent call.”
“I'll see if he's in the building.”
The phone switches to hold.
Whicher smokes the cigarette, stares at the floor.
At the other end of the line is a faint click.
“Vogel?”
He can hear breathing.
“Is that Dane Vogel?”
“What do you want?”
“Merrill M. Johnson. Do you know him?” The marshal jams the phone between his jaw and shoulder. “Do you know where he is?”
“Why are you calling?”
“Is Merrill Johnson part of your investigation?” Whicher takes a pace around the office. “If you know where he is, you better bring him in, now.” He feels a lick of rising anger.
“You're telling me what I need to do?” Vogel says.
“You had Creagan under surveillance. Are you watching Johnson?”
“I'm about to put the phone down...”
“Scruggs knows. He's on his way to Houston to see District Marshal Riggins. I got Jug Line Harris in Carrizo Springs. And you have about two hours till the southern district Marshals office is all over your ass.”
“You told him?”
“I'll tell you something else—your number one suspect is flying in from LA as we speak.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Pick up Merrill Johnson,” Whicher says. “If you know where he is, do it now.”
“You listen,” Vogel says. “Do nothing. Nothing more. If you do, I'll indict. Understand me. I'll press charges...”
Whicher's hand is at the phone cradle.
“If you screw this up any more than you already have, I'll press for the absolute maximum...”
“Bring in Johnson. Before Gale gets in.” Whicher chops off the call.
The road into downtown Eagle Pass is alive. Whicher pushes the Chevy through the early evening traffic, gunning fast along the tight lanes.
At the river, people are everywhere—cars parked double by the Mexican supermarket. He hits the intersection by the liquor store, crosses Main, powers into a narrow road, scattered housing, cut-down trucks.
He pulls over at the house with the Trans-Am in the yard. Jumps out, climbs the steps to the porch. Knocks hard at the door.
“Eric. You in there?”
He knocks again, harder. Tries the door—it's unlocked.
“Eric?” He pushes it open. “It's Whicher...”
He steps inside, in the kitchen—crosses to the living room. Eric's flat-out on the couch, TV on, no sound.
“Wake up...” Whicher puts a hand to his shoulder.
The man's eyes open—blurred, red, his face bloated. “What time is it, man?”
“Five-thirty.”
“Is Karen here?”
“I don't think.”
Eric pushes up on an elbow. Head sagging. “What you doing here?”
“You have a gun?”
His friend stares from the couch.
“I need a gun. You have one?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Yes or no?”