Chapter Thirty-Six
Carrizo Springs, TX.
Benita Alvarenga stares at the ball of filthy-looking rags in the evidence room.
Whicher dusts off his hands, glancing at Tutton's hunting rifle. “Did you get a hold of Schneider?”
“I can't get a defense attorney like that.”
They step out of the room, she locks it. They set out down the corridor.
“The Tuttons say they have a lawyer, in Crystal City...”
“You can't get hold of him?” Whicher says.
“Nobody's picking up.”
Their footsteps are loud in the long dim space.
“I want to see Harris.”
“Can't do it,” she says. “Not without a lawyer.”
They reach the door to the office.
She catches his arm. “Deputy Hagen took a call from Scruggs. A second call. While you were out. Did you call him yet?” Her eyes search his face.
He pulls loose, steps inside the office.
Laying on the desk are two black and white photographs. Enlarged shots, copies of ID.
Benita Alvarenga stands in the door. “What's going on? With Scruggs?”
Whicher stares at the grainy images on the desk, throat tight. “What the hell are these?”
“Police in Piedras Negras sent them up.”
Names are written along the edges of both pictures. Two young women, the younger, Carmela Ramirez, the girl with the broken necklace. The elder, Sara Pacheco—the second woman from the Channing Ranch. “This is them...”
“They were reported missing.”
“Reported?”
“Yesterday.”
The girl from the bar. Lucila. She must have done it.
“Carmela Ramirez is from Coahuila. Sara Pacheco from Nuevo León. Both states border with the US.” Alvarenga looks at him. “They didn't come up on any freight load.”
The marshal stares at the pictures.
“Is Lassiter taking this?” she says. “Him and Gale?”
He doesn't answer.
She picks up the photo of Carmela Ramirez. “Miguel Carrasco thought you ought to have these. He said Lassiter hasn't been around since the sweep, why bring in somebody else?”
Whicher looks up from the desk.
“What?”A frown crosses her brow.
“He was around that day?”
“I'm just saying what Carrasco said. Lassiter called, wanted to know if any of the Hispanic victims had been ID'd.”
Whicher pushes himself out of the chair.
“I want Harris.”
“We can't. I told you...”
“Put him in an interview room, we're not breaking any law. Let him claim the fifth. I talk—he listens.”
Jug Line Harris slumps in the denim jacket, one hand on the bill of his cap. Hair covers half his face, he sits staring at the little table.
“You're headed one place,” Whicher says.
The man doesn't bother to look up.
“A jail yard.” The marshal lets a moment pass. “You broke bail, you ran out on the court. Highway Patrol stopped you in a stolen vehicle. There's not a chance you walking a second time.”
“Get my damn attorney.”
“Only thing you got to do is listen,” Whicher says. “You ain't here to answer questions.” He takes off the Resistol, places it on the table.
Harris stuffs his hands into his jacket.
“The hunting charge, they'll convict.” Whicher takes out a Marlboro. “Handling stolen property—the same.” He lights up. “I got a crime scene tech working that Toyota. We found the gun. The rifle.”
Harris is still.
“Remington 700, fitted out with a scope. Big light on it.”
“I got nothing to say.”
“I got it locked in the evidence room. Is it yours?” Whicher takes a drag. “Want me to show you?”
Sweat is on the man's skin now. Sweat and the smell of fear.
Jug Line Harris is locked back in the holding cell. Zach Tutton occupies the seat in the interview room. Deputy Alvarenga stands at the door.
“Is it your rifle?” Whicher says.
“No comment.”
“It belong to your old man?”
Zach sits forward, elbows on his knees.
“Those barns you got out at the farm,” Whicher says. “They fitted out for wets to sleep in?”
“They ain't fitted out for nothing, they're for animals.”
“That how you see them?”
Tutton's mouth opens. Closes.
“You had the Miranda,” Alvarenga says. “You have the right to remain silent. If that's what you want.”
Tutton spears an angry glance at her.
“Merrill Johnson,” Whicher says. “You know him? I told the FBI to pick him up. They get a hold of him, my guess is, he'll let everybody swing. You included.”
The young man sits back in his chair—face turned to the wall.
“We're testing for gun shot residue in a stolen Toyota. Pretty fancy radio receiver under the dash. You wire it in there?”
“Any decent auto mechanic could wire a radio in.”
“Reckon we'll be able to lift prints. You wearing gloves—when you fixed it in?”
Tutton throws back his head. Stares at the ceiling.
“We find your prints—or your call frequency, stored in the memory? How you going to explain it?”
“Get me a lawyer...”
Whicher shakes his head. “We're all out of time for that.”
Back on the upper floor of the courthouse, Deputy Alvarenga opens the cell door for Zach Tutton. Whicher hustles him inside.
“How long am I going to be here?”
Alvarenga takes off the cuffs. “We'll get you arraigned when the court is in. Not before.”
“You can't just keep me here.”
“Wrong. That's exactly what we can do.”
From the next cell, something strikes against the door, noise echoing in the corridor.
“What the hell's that?”
“Harris,” Alvarenga says. She snaps the handcuffs to her belt.
Whicher steps out. She closes the door to Zach's cell, locking it.
Harris is banging and kicking, shouting—his voice muffled, no making out the words.
“He losing it in there?” Whicher says.
She turns the key to open up.
“Let me go in first,” he says.
Harris is on the other side of the door, ball cap on the floor, jacket off, his face wild.
“Back the hell up...”
Harris stands beneath the ceiling light, wired. “I'll talk.”
“You want to talk?”
“We make a deal...”
“You mean a plea?”
“I don't know what the hell it is.”
“We can't use this,” Alvarenga says.
“I talk, you make the judge go easy...”
“None of it will be admissible.”
“I want my lawyer. I want Schneider.”
“I already told you,” Whicher says. “We can't get him.”
The man's hands fly up, yanking at his hair. “Y'all are going screw me over...”
“You want to deal, you got to testify.”
“I cain't just sit here. I cain't do this no more.” He crashes on the side of the cot, eyes darting around the cell.
Whicher looks to Alvarenga. She's staring at Harris.
“It was Randell. God damn Randell.”
For a moment nobody speaks.
“I was with Todd, out at the ranch. Randell shows up...”
Alvarenga turns to Whicher. “We need it on record.”
Harris looks to the marshal. “He went stone fuckin' insane crazy. He comes in driving like a madman, shouting out, 'we got to get rid of 'em'. He takes out a pistol, shoots both the girls.”
“Creagan?” Whicher says.
“Fuckin' Randell.”
“Creagan shot everybody?”
“Them other wets, them boys, they tried to jump him—he just kept on shooting. One of the wets grabs a hold of Todd—he's messing his pants, the wet gets a hold on him, Randell's firing, he hits Todd. Right in the head.”
Benita Alvarenga steps back.
Harris rocks on the cot. “Todd ends up on the ground, one of the wets is dead, the other two ran out. Randell shoots one of 'em...”
The campesino draped across the wall.
“The other boy was too fast. He got out. He made it out. Randell grabs a hold of Todd's rifle...”
“It was Todd's?” Whicher says.
“Shit, I don't know, he had it with him. It had a light, Randell grabs it, gets in the truck, goes to chase the man down...”
“What did you do?” Alvarenga says.
“What do you think? I got in my truck, got the hell out.”
“Why shoot the women?” Her face very still.
“Jesus Christ.” Harris grabs his head. “I don't know...”
“Randell Creagan shot everybody?”
“That's the God's honest truth.”
Whicher feels his pulse climb. “What about Jim Gale?”
“Who?”
“Marshal Jim Gale.”
The man looks at him, eyes shining. Face blank.
Gale's number won't answer. Lassiter's not picking up the radio calls from dispatch. Whicher slams down the phone.
Benita Alvarenga grabs it from him.
“Who're you calling?”
“Sheriff Barnhart, he needs to be here, this is out of hand...”
“Call Schneider again, get a defense attorney.” The marshal pulls out the Chevy keys.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I have to go out there.”
“I'm supposed to keep a lid on this? You need to be here when the sheriff gets in.”
“Keep everybody locked up...”
Her eyes burn him.
He steps from the office, doubles down the corridor, pushes open the rear door to the square. Wind's sawing at the palms. Noise of traffic is in the air.
He reaches the truck—wrenches open the door. Fires it up, gasses it from the curb.
At the intersection the stop light's on red. He barrels through.
Forty minutes. Forty minutes he can be there.
He guns the Chevy down the road, overtaking a truck.
North end of Eagle Pass, then up the hill. From the highway, he can skirt town, head for the track. He pushes down on the throttle pedal, noise of the V6 rising.
Creagan.
At the side of the road is a brick church, he swerves avoiding a turning car.
Creagan shot everybody.
Ahead is a roadside panel, a sign for the highway. He takes the spur down to 277. The road dark, empty.
He floors out the gas, speed climbing. Glances in the rear-view, at Carrizo Springs falling behind.
Night covers the surrounding brush. How many out there right now, wets, mojados, tramping through the scrub? Running. Running where? The land's empty, featureless—a wasteground, save for places like Creagan's trailers.
He stares through the windshield—breath caught in his throat. At the corner of his eye is the radio, back-lit on the dash. He picks up the receiver, presses down, sends a call.
A burst of static. “Dispatch. Dimmit County Sheriff.”
“This is Marshal Whicher. I need to speak with Deputy Benita Alvarenga.”
“Switch to channel two, non-emergency.”
The marshal buttons over the channel switch. He stares along the highway, engine humming, tires loud against the road.
The radio lights up. “Alvarenga...”
“Did you give Marshal Lassiter directions? Out to that hunting concession?”
“Say again?”
“The trailers, Creagan's trailers—did you give Lassiter directions?”
Another burst of static.
“No.”
“You didn't?”
“You'd already headed out, he telephoned, I told him where you went.”
“You have a copy of Brady Iverson's map?”
“No, I told him roughly—that you went out, that you were headed to those trailers, off of 277. Off the highway...”
He holds it in his mind—the cold thought passing through him. “Alright. That's all I wanted.”
He grips the wheel.
Switches out.
Up the long grade the truck wheels bite in the caliche. Whicher peers above the headlights—trying to make out the first sign of Jim Gale's place.
Petrified wood lies stark in a gravel draw. The posted sign to Gale's property is up ahead.
He swings in on the track, lighting up the hill. At the house is a truck—Lassiter's K5 Blazer, no sign of Gale's pickup.
He thinks again of the feeling—at the trailers, Lassiter prowling, gun in hand. He pushes the thought aside—so far, he's been wrong about everything.
By the line of dark trees, he pulls up, shuts off the motor. He steps out, crosses to the raised deck, lights showing from the house.
At the front door he knocks hard. “Anybody in there...” The sound of his voice strange in the mute dark.
He tries the door—it's unlocked. He steps into a hallway. The house bright, silent. “It's Whicher, anybody here?”
He moves fast through the rooms—they're unfinished, strewn with pieces of timber, electric cables, cans of paint. He checks the phone—it's working. In the kitchen he smells food, sees half-eaten enchiladas. He pushes through a screen door, steps out in back.
In the dark clearing, he moves to the Blazer. He touches the front grill—it's warm.
He runs back to his truck, climbs in, hits an overhead light. He searches out a map. Where would they go?
South is the bunch of trailers. There's Creagan's place in Eagle Pass. West is the border, the river, then Mexico. East on the map there's nothing but empty scrub.
No vehicle passed him coming down the hill.
He traces a finger upward on the map. Nothing out there, a drainage cut the only feature marked. Two miles north is Elm Creek. His finger stops.
He holds the map close to the dome light.
A rail line. Group of lines. Running up the back of Elm Creek.
He feels his heart rate quicken. Rail.
He fires up the Chevy, sticks the truck into drive, turns around. Dumps his foot on the gas.
At the track he heads up the grade, tires spinning, ripping dirt.
The hill plateaus into flat scrub. Then barrels into a down slope—the Chevy bouncing, starting to shake.
The hi-beams pick out something—an earth bank blocking the track.
He hits the brakes, the truck goes light. He skids, comes off the pedals, lets it roll. Then brakes again, stopping the truck in a cloud of dust.
To one side of the track is a drainage canal. The earth bank is man-made—big as the truck. No way around.
He jumps out, sees wheel marks chewed into the side of the bank. He scrambles to the top, to crushed stone and hard pan stretched out.
Steel tracks disappear into the dark.
He can just make out the backs of warehouses. He starts to walk.
Looking north, rail lines glint, box cars stand motionless. Whicher crosses the track, enters a small yard—a group of metal-sided warehouses.
An unpaved road leads to the line of unlit buildings. He circles around, walks the track side, re-enters the yard looking for vehicles.
There's no security, no barrier on the road.
At one warehouse, light shines from an office window by a metal service door.
He steps to it, tries the handle—it opens. He draws the Ruger, moves inside.
He's in a block corridor, low-power light. He stands a moment, listening for any sound. The office is deserted—he can see through an open doorway. He moves into the warehouse, smell of diesel fuel, plastic and oil.
Piles of crates are stacked high—he sees pallets, a forklift.
At the far side of the warehouse, Marshal Lassiter's standing, gun in hand. He stares at Whicher. “Jesus, army, it's you...”
The marshal stands rooted.
“Gale's outside. What're you doing here?”
“I came up. To the house...”
Lassiter slips his gun back in his holster.
“Nobody was there,” Whicher says.
Lassiter steps around a stack of crates. “We did a bunch of talking. I told Gale I was suspending him—he says he has to show me this place.”
Whicher scans the inside of the warehouse.
“Reckoned he found something y'all overlooked—this here yard. Private loading yard...”
“That's what it is?”
“According to Jim.”
“He never mentioned it.”
Lassiter pushes back his hat. “We got here, he flat out went for me.”
Whicher feels the weight of the big revolver in his hand.
“I coldcocked the son of a bitch.”
An A/C unit on the roof kicks in, droning sound filling up the dead space.
“I saw light inside the place,” Lassiter says. “I thought to check.”
“Where's Gale?”
“Outside. Cuffed.” Lassiter jabs a thumb over his shoulder.
Whicher takes a pace, backing into the corridor, stepping out into the yard. He moves fast to the rear of the warehouse, Gale's half-ton truck is parked behind.
He moves to it. The big man's slumped at the wheel. Whicher opens the door.
Gale twitches—his face is turned to the side, eyes half-shut, blood running from his nose.
His cheek is cut. His hands are cuffed through the steering wheel.
He grunts, tries to focus on the younger marshal. Tries to speak, the words slurred, “He brought me out...to kill me...”
Whicher feels the sweat on the rosewood grips of the Ruger.
He turns, sees Lassiter—out of the building now, walking up behind the warehouse, along the rail line.
Gale struggles to sit up. “He shot Creagan.” He spits blood from his mouth. “Lassiter shot him...”
From the far side of the yard is the sound of a motor—a vehicle approaching on the unpaved road.
Lights turn shapes over the blocks of buildings. Lassiter stands motionless on the track.
Gale grunts, “I think he's meeting Johnson...”
Whicher steps from the truck, into cover behind the warehouse side.
The vehicle's close now—somewhere on the frontage of the yard.
Gale calls out; “Him and Johnson chained Creagan to that freight load...”
The district marshal steps from the track, moving in behind the warehouse, no gun, his hand empty. He looks at Whicher; “You believe his shit?”
Whicher listens to the sound of a car engine, tires rolling over asphalt.
“You want to check that out, army?”
“If that's Johnson,” Gale calls, “he's got no reason not to kill you...”
“Jesus Christ,” Lassiter says. “You watch Gale, I'll see who it is.” He steps past Whicher, draws the Glock from the holster. At the corner of the warehouse, he pauses. Edges out.
Whicher moves up to the corner, takes a half-step from the side. Over Lassiter's shoulder he sees a vehicle, a sedan—slowing to a halt.
A lone man steps from the driver seat. Headlights shining at the warehouse office.
He’s wearing a long coat, a duster, a pinch-front hat. He steps to the back of the vehicle, opens the trunk. In his hand is something that looks like a pistol.
“Freeze,” Lassiter shouts. He steps forward. “US Marshal...”
The man turns from the car, gun arm rising.
Lassiter fires five shots in quick succession—the noise deafening.
The man at the car staggers back.
Lassiter moves in.
Whicher stares down his iron-sight.
The man lies spreadeagled, hat gone, face caught in the tail light. Whicher makes out the metal-frame glasses—it looks like Merrill Johnson.
“Marshal,” Whicher calls out.
“He had a weapon...” Lassiter calls back. He kicks the gun from the man's hand, puts a boot in his side—the man doesn't move.
Whicher turns to Gale in the half-ton truck.
“He kill him?” Gale's staring, trying to see.
Lassiter steps away from the car, from the man on the ground. He moves up the side of the warehouse.
“That's the only man could take him down...”
Lassiter calls to Gale; “That why you brought me out here—you son of a bitch?”
Gale breathes, “You got to do something...”
Whicher turns to Lassiter. “Marshal—put away your weapon.”
Quint Lassiter shifts his weight onto one foot. “That guy would've shot me...”
“Marshal Gale's under control. I'm asking you to holster your weapon now.”
“Son,” Lassiter says. “Don't talk out your ass.”
Whicher levels the revolver on the district marshal. Heart beating like a trip-hammer. He looks through the rear sight. “I won't ask a third time.”
Lassiter cocks back his head. A grin splits his face. “Bring it down, army. Holy shit. Alright. If you're spooked, I'll put it away.”
The sound of a shot explodes in the night air.
Whicher stares down the sight of the Ruger, ears ringing. The hammer's still up.
He can't feel a hit.
Lassiter's legs go from under him.
Whicher ducks right, Merrill Johnson's on the ground, holding up his gun arm, clutching at the pistol.
Whicher fires twice. The man jerks.
Both men lie inert in the yard.