Chapter Thirty-Four
Maverick County, outside Eagle Pass, TX.
A caliche track rises into low hills—cactus, scrub, a rock and gravel wasteland. In the rear-view of the Chevy, Whicher sees the town of Eagle Pass below. Eric Kessler watches from the passenger seat.
In the cup holder is a tan, saddle-leather holster. Ruger revolver inside. Six-inch barrel. Stainless steel.
The sun is low, air dense with heat, tires raising dust up the long grade.
The name at the foot of the hill matched the name pulled from the file cabinet. The land is rising to a plateau—choked with greasewood and mesquite.
Eric sits forward. “Last time I seen you look like that, you were fixing to shoot somebody.”
Whicher doesn't answer.
“Day before we started the ground offensive in Iraq. That's the look you were wearing.”
Letting Eric ride had been a mistake—a deal for the Ruger.
His friend buttons the dash lighter. Pulls a pack of cigarettes from his shirt. “Want one?”
“No.”
The lighter springs back. “What kind of trouble you in?”
“I'm driving my truck up the side of a hill.”
Eric touches the lighter to the cigarette. He cracks the passenger window. Super-heated air blows in the cab.
Whicher thinks of taking out the revolver, giving it back. Turning the man out.
“Karen's leaving me.” Eric takes a pull at the cigarette, blows smoke. Puts a boot on the dash.
“That how come you sleep till five?”
“I drink. I don't stop.”
“You think, or you know?”
“I know she's cheatin' on me.”
The marshal cuts a look at his friend beside him. “She has a bank account,” he hears himself say. “At the Southern Surety. In Eagle Pass. You know about it?”
Eric doesn't answer.
“Been paying a life insurance company. Westland Life. Started paying February of last year. The date kind of jumped out at me...”
Eric lets his boot slip from the dash.
“I guess if you'd been killed, out in Iraq...”
Neither man speaks for a long moment.
“I was looking at bank records. I saw it. I didn't know what to say.” Whicher glances at him. “I'm sorry.”
Ahead is a gravel wash running sideways down the hill. Pieces of twisted brushwood lie scattered in it, boulders, mud-washed stones. The marshal steers on looking at a line of black persimmon, the roof of a property. He drives another fifty yards to a dirt track meeting the caliche.
Where the paths join, a steel post is mounted with a wooden sign. One word painted on it, black over white.
The word reads; Gale.
He wouldn't be there—the flight from LA was three hours, landing six-thirty. He'd take time to get back, maybe stop.
At the end of the track, the house sits facing east across a plain. In the shade of the trees is a half-ton GMC pickup.
Whicher scans the site fast—to the north, black persimmon form a dark barrier. The house is unfinished, split-level—wood-frame, deck at the side. He kills the motor. Picks out the holstered Ruger.
Eric looks at him. “You better not shoot anybody with my gun.”
Whicher climbs out, unbuckles his belt, threads an end through the back of the holster.
“I'm serious man, what the fuck?”
The marshal refastens the belt.
Eric starts to climb out.
“I need you to wait here.”
The two men exchange a look.
“If I hear shots...”
“Get on the radio.” Whicher turns, crosses the flat ground.
He squats at the rear of the GMC truck. Holds up a hand to the tail-pipe, the metal's hot. He takes a backward glance at Eric. Passes a hand over the Ruger—rosewood grips, six-brass jacketed rounds, .357 magnum.
He steps to the house, to a deck of rough-sawn boards. By a new-built rail a box of tools is open. He stands in the fading light, heat radiating from the bone-hard land. Through a glass insert in the wall, he sees a shape move.
The door opens. The six-five frame of Jim Gale steps out.
His back is turned to Whicher—he's bareheaded, dressed in jeans, a work shirt, boots splattered with paint. In his right hand is a claw-hammer.
“Marshal Gale...”
The man rocks, spins on his heel. He stands wide-legged. “God damn. What you doing here? I just flew in from LAX.”
“Came to tell you something.”
Gale raises the claw-hammer. Points the shaft at a cable looping from a pole. “I got a phone. You could've called.”
“I'm done waiting.”
A hard look crosses the man's face.
“Jug Line Harris is in a cell in Carrizo Springs,” Whicher says. “You were going to pick him up.”
Gale looks blank. “I was going to pick his ass up—in California?”
“I could've done it—if you would've called. Instead of that, Highway Patrol got him. He was up to San Antonio, running...”
Gale stares, head to one side. A strange light in his eye. “Think you got yourself a killer?”
“I heard LA County is looking to charge people from the Marshals Service. Account of the riots?”
The big man hooks a thumb into his jeans. “That little pissant hearing?”
Whicher eyes him.
“Everybody was cleared.”
“They say a lot of shooting went on.” Whicher thinks of the ranch, of standing among bodies, none of them long dead. Everybody in the ranch was shot with nine millimeter ammunition. Like the bullets from his service-issue weapon, his own Glock; the Marshals Service gun. “Two days I've been waiting on Harris. Man would've been long gone, we got lucky.”
“You mean to say something by that?”
“The day Randell Creagan got scraped off a rail in Eagle Pass—they sent me out to search his apartment. I found your number. Why would Creagan have a number for you?”
The big man juts his chin. “You have an idea, son?”
“Next day, at Lake Amistad, I tried to pick up Jug Line Harris. I show up, you're already there.”
Gale opens his mouth to speak. He closes it, runs a hand through his fine brown hair. “You been sitting on that for five days...” He cracks a dry laugh. It dies in his throat.
“I finally arrested Harris, you showed up at Carrizo Springs,” Whicher snaps a finger and thumb. “Like that. Every time I want to talk with him, you're there...”
“Watch your mouth, son.” Gale cuts a glance across the desert scrub, jaw tight.
“You know a guy name of Merrill Johnson?”
The big man's gaze stays on a spot out in the brush.
“Or Dane Vogel? Works for FBI.”
Gale finally turns to face him. “You come out here fixing to do what?” He takes a step forward, hammer swinging.
From behind is a sound—both men turn, Eric's stepping up on the deck. Gale stares at him, then back at Whicher.
“Whatever y'all came to do, you best do it.” Gale steps closer. “Else get the hell off of my property—before I throw your ass down this God damn hill...”