Rivered

by Carolina Mac

  “Course not. Why should you?” Harlan locked the door behind them.

  Ranger Headquarters. Austin.

  BLAINE AND FARRELL sat in Chief Calhoun’s office with large containers of Starbuck’s coffee on the desk in front of them.

  Blaine shuffled through the lab reports he had printed off on the victim. “We got nothing from the autopsy that we didn’t know. He was shot eight times, two of those shots could have been the kill shots, the other six were icing. Dead before he got to the river, so somebody helped him.”

  Farrell sipped his coffee and listened. “With so many bad shots, I’m picturing the vic coming at somebody with a gun of his own and the unskilled killer shooting back in a panic.”

  Blaine nodded. “Whoever killed him wasn’t good with a gun. But the victim was close to them, maybe closing in. He had to be, or such a bad shooter never would have hit him—not with a handgun.”

  “Make’s sense,” said the Chief. “But if it was self-defense, why not call it in?”

  “Some people never call the cops,” said Farrell, “Even if they’re in the right. Their lifestyle don’t abide it.”

  “Gotcha.” The Chief took a long drink of coffee.

  “What was his name?” asked Farrell.

  “Edison James Emmerson.” Blaine read it off the report.

  “Quite a handle,” said the Chief, scanning the police record in front of him. “Dozens of drug arrests over the past years. Not on probation any more, and no current address.”

  “We’ll go do the notification and see what the brother has to say,” said Blaine.

  Chief Calhoun nodded. “You boys take care of that. I’m more concerned with Jesse and his run-in with the bastards last night.”

  “Call Annie, Chief,” said Farrell, “She’ll tell you how he’s doing this morning.”

  “She kept him overnight?”

  Farrell nodded. “She was watching Charity and the baby was sleeping when we got Jesse to Coulter-Ross.”

  “Let’s move on to the prints off Jesse’s Range Rover,” said Blaine, “a guy named Nate Wall was one of the jackers. Nothing recent. One old want, but the cops couldn’t find him to bring him in. No address for him in the system.”

  “We’ve got a name now, boss,” said Farrell. “If those guys are running a body shop or a paint shop under their own name, we should be able to find them.”

  “Let’s get the notification done first,” said Blaine, “then we’ll track down the jackers. Jesse got a couple shots off before they were out of range, and he thinks he might have hit the one on the back of the bike.”

  The Chief raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? I’ll have Sue put out a call for bleeders.”

  “Thanks, Chief. Call you later if we have anything.”

  Cherokee Trailer Park.

  HARLAN OPENED the door of the trailer and glanced around before he let Becca in. He sure as hell didn’t trust Mason anymore around Becca. Never would again. He tossed the drugstore bag on the kitchen table, then stood next to the sofa looking down at his brother. “Nate looks fuckin dead.”

  “No color,” said Becca. “Lost a lot of blood. Look at his shirt.”

  Nate’s black Harley shirt was soaked in crimson and had turned crusty and hard.

  “I thought Mason was gonna clean him up last night?” asked Becca.

  Mason staggered out the bedroom. “Well you thought wrong, bitch. I was too tired and too fuckin stoned.”

  “He could have died,” said Becca. “You’re a shit brother, Mason.”

  Mason took a threatening step towards her and Harlan held up a big calloused hand. “Don’t even think about it. Go make coffee.”

  “Make it yourself, asshole.”

  Becca stroked Harlan’s bare arm and whispered, “Make a pot of coffee for us, sweetheart, but turn Nate over first and help me get his shirt off.”

  Once Nate was lying prone, Becca went into the bathroom, ran warm water into a pot from the kitchen and returned with the water and clean face cloths. A lot of the blood had congealed and dried, and she had to soften it up with the warm water to get rid of it.

  After four pots of warm water, Nate’s back and shoulder area around the bullet hole was clean. Becca stood up and beckoned Harlan over. “The bullet is still in there and we have to get it out. Nothing else will help him. Ask Mason if he knows anybody in the park who could do it.”

  “He’s feeding the dogs. I’ll go ask him.” Harlan went outside to find his brother and came back a few minutes later. “He’s gone to get Bonehead Rockaway, down at the end of the street.”

  Becca made a face. “That guy is crazy.”

  “Mason said Bonehead used to be a vet and he’s just like a real doctor.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute,” said Becca. “That guy was never nice to a dog in his whole disgusting life. Mason had him here once when Ringo was sick, and I watched the way the asshole treated the dog. He’s mean, and he’s nuts.”

  “He’s all we got, baby.”

  Becca shrugged. “Not up to me. Nate is y’all’s brother. Help me clear off the table and wash it down. Then you guys can move Nate.”

  Mason came back ten minutes later with the old vet from down the road. The scrawny little man had a small black bag in his hand. “We have to pay him, or he won’t do it,” said Mason.

  “How much?” asked Harlan.

  “Hundred bucks is a bargain,” said Bonehead. He looked about ninety, skinny with only a few strands of white hair. His Coke-bottle glasses were covered in fingerprints and smudges.

  “Pay him, Becca,” said Mason. “You’re the only one with cash.”

  “Fuck you, Mason. You beat me up and robbed me, why should I help y’all out?”

  “Cause I told you to,” Mason shouted at her as he reached out and gave her a push.

  Harlan stepped between them, slammed his brother hard up against the wall and held him there with a strong forearm across his throat. “Touch her again, and you’re dead. I warned you already.”

  Mason grinned. “As if.”

  With a growl, Harlan reared back and drove Mason in the face and knocked him to the floor.

  Nate groaned on the sofa, the first sound he’d made.

  “Nate’s waking up,” said Becca. “Help me get him on the table.”

  Harlan rushed across the room. “Nate, are you okay? You were out for a long time.”

  Nate didn’t speak. He stared up at Harlan with glazed eyes.

  Harlan picked Nate up without any help and carried him to the kitchen table. He placed him on his stomach and let Bonehead take a close look at the bullet hole. “What do you think, Bonehead? Can you get the bullet out?”

  “Sure can, soon as y’all pay me my doctor fee.”

  Harlan cast Becca a pleading look and she forked over five twenties.

  “I’m only doing this for you, Harlan, and I expect you and Mason to pay me back when y’all get the car money.”

  “We will, baby doll. For sure.”

  Bonehead pulled a scalpel out of his kit and got ready to start and Becca wondered how long it had been since Bonehead had done any doctoring. “Got anything for pain?”

  Becca shrugged. “We could give him a shot of coke, I guess.”

  Harlan nodded. “Yeah, give him good drugs.”

  Becca went to her purse to get what she needed. She took a syringe out of a plastic bag, prepared the drug and injected Nate.

  “Go ahead, Doc,” said Harlan.

  Bonehead cut into Nate’s back before the drug had a chance to work and Nate let out a blood-curdling scream.

  Leander.

  FARRELL KNOCKED again, and shuffling could be heard on the other side of the door. A scruffy looking guy wearing red plaid pajama pants opened the door and stared at them with squinty little piggy eyes. His hairy belly drooped low over the pants, his tattooed chest decked out with five different amulets on heavy chains.

  “Mr. Roger Emmerson?”

  “Could be. What
do you want?”

  Blaine showed his creds. “We’re from the police, sir, here on an urgent family matter. May we come in?”

  “Nope. I don’t let no cops on my turf without a warrant.”

  “This is not a warrant situation, sir,” said Blaine. “As I said, it’s a family matter. If you want me to tell you out here, that’s your choice. Mr. Emmerson, I regret to inform you that your brother Edison is deceased.”

  “No kidding.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No, we ain’t kidding,” said Farrell with an edge to his voice. “Sorry for your loss.”

  “Ain’t my loss. Haven’t seen that loser for years. It’s a goddam wonder he lasted this long. Heart attack?”

  “Your brother was murdered,” said Blaine.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Emmerson. “Should have happened long before this.”

  “We’d like his current address if you have it,” said Blaine.

  “Can’t help you with that. Sorry.”

  “You don’t know where he was living?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are there any other family members who might know?”

  “Nope. Him and me. That’s all that was left.”

  Blaine handed him a card. “If you think of anything, give me a call.”

  Roger Emmerson slammed the door.

  “That went well,” said Farrell.

  Cherokee Trailer Park.

  BECCA HEADED to the door when Bonehead started digging out the bullet. “Can’t watch. I’ll be outside.”

  She ambled towards her truck to get her lighter out of the cup holder and Liz saw her and ran out her front door.

  “Hey, Becca, did you get my stuff?”

  “Yep. I’ve got some, Liz. Got the cash?”

  “No. Can I owe you?”

  “Nope. I don’t take credit. You know the rules. No cash—no product.”

  “Please, Bec, please. I’m begging you.” Liz started sniveling, then she let out a cat-like wail and lunged at Becca, her nails aimed at Becca’s face.

  Harlan blasted through the screen door, ran down the steps and grabbed Liz. “You get on home. You got no call to be hitting Becca.”

  “She won’t give me my stuff and I need to amp up so bad,” she screamed and kicked a bony leg at Harlan.

  He wrapped Liz in a bear hug and dragged her back to her own trailer. He shoved her in the door and slammed it shut. Then he collected Becca and put an arm around her.

  “Come on, Becca, let’s go inside and I’ll lock that crazy bitch out. I want to see if Nate is okay.”

  The old vet had finished the job, the bullet was out, and shaky-looking stiches closed the ragged hole in the back of Nate’s shoulder. A lot of fresh blood covered the table and Nate wasn’t moving. Bonehead taped a thick gauze pad over his handiwork, then gathered up his instruments and stepped away from the table.

  Harlan took a step closer while Becca hung back. “Is he gonna be okay?”

  Old Bonehead shrugged as he zipped up his bag. “How should I know? You only hired me to take the bullet out and my job is done.”

  Mason pointed a finger in the old man’s face. “Don’t want you talking about this to nobody.”

  “Yeah, just try to stop me,” said Bonehead with a smirk. “I’m a law-abiding citizen of Texas and I might have to tell the cops. Y’all give me another two hundred and I won’t say a word about it.”

  Mason grabbed him by his blood-soaked shirt. “You trying to blackmail us?”

  “Why not? You guys is car thieves and murderers. Cops would be grateful to me for pointing that out. Everybody around here knows that already. Ain’t news.”

  “Everybody like who?” asked Mason.

  “Anybody in this park who ain’t blind or stupid.” He put his hand out. “Give me two hundred. That’ll cover the first installment.”

  “Installment?” Mason punched old Bonehead in the face and knocked him to the floor. He kept pounding on the old man until he didn’t move.

  Harlan did nothing to stop his brother. “Throw him in the river after dark.”

  “Good idea,” said Mason. He turned to Becca and said, “You stay here and look after Nate. I’ve got shit to do tonight.”

  “She ain’t doing that,” said Harlan. She’s never staying with you again. We’ll take Nate to my place and watch him in shifts.”

  Becca nodded. “Right, Harlan. No way I’m staying here.”

  Saint Michael’s Hospital. Austin.

  FARRELL DROVE while Blaine made calls on the way to the hospital.

  “How come Travis got the day off, boss?”

  “Sunday, and we don’t need him,” said Blaine, “besides he’s probably watching Ginny’s place on his own time.”

  “Shit, I wish he’d give that up.”

  Blaine’s cell rang, and Blaine pointed at the phone. “Here he is now.”

  “Got some info from one of the paint shops in the east end of the city.” He told him about the Camaro, and how it got ripped off up at Lake Travis.

  “Are you thinking it was stolen and repainted?”

  “Could be the one, don’t you think, boss?”

  “I guess, it’s possible. Doesn’t get us anyplace, though, does it?”

  “It does if we find it, because we’ve got the VIN to ID it.”

  “First we have to find the fuckin thing.”

  “Nothing on the BOLO yet?” asked Travis.

  “Nope, they’d call me. Are you at home?”

  “Yep, Sunday is laundry day.”

  “If you get a minute, run up to Coulter-Ross and see how Jesse is. He didn’t fare too well after last night.”

  “And he stayed with Annie?”

  Travis sounds weird.

  “She was watching the baby.”

  “I’ll do that, boss.”

  At the hospital, Blaine inquired at reception to see where Tyler was. They found him in a private room on the sixth floor looking at a Rolling Stone magazine somebody had brought him. “Hey, buddy,” said Blaine, “sorry you got hurt.”

  “Guess I’ll have a sore arm for a while. Tire iron smashed the bone and the doc put something in to hold it together while it heals.”

  Farrell shook his head. “Sorry about that, Ty.” He stood behind the one guest chair while Blaine sat. “Jesse gave us a bit of a description, but he was farther away than you.”

  “Let’s see,” said Tyler. “It all happened pretty fast. The guy that hit me was tall and thin. Black hair and a couple of tats. The other guy was bigger, heavier, and his face was a mess—black and blue and swollen. Looked like he’d been beat up good by somebody.”

  “What color hair did the big guy have?” asked Farrell. He was taking notes for Tyler’s statement.

  “Didn’t see his hair. He had an Astro’s ball cap on.”

  Farrell grinned. “You just remembered that, didn’t you?”

  “Guess I did.”

  “The lab got good prints and the one guy was in the system,” said Blaine. “A Nate Wall, but the want was old and there was no address. I’ll search for him when I get home.”

  “Jesse got a couple numbers from the tag on the bike,” said Farrell. “Did you get time to see anything on the Harley?”

  “Wish I did,” said Tyler. “I’d like to find those guys and beat the crap out of them.”

  “I’m gonna find them for you,” said Farrell. “They’ve got to be stopped.”

  “Jesse got a couple of shots off and thought he might have hit the dark guy on the back of the bike,” said Blaine. “I’ve got word out looking for a bleeder if he hits any emergency rooms.”

  “They might not chance a hospital,” said Tyler. “Be idiots if they did.”

  Cherokee Trailer Park.

  MASON WAITED until dark before dragging skinny old Bonehead to the river. The little rat didn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds and wasn’t hard to move. Mason stomped through the trees behind the trailer, shining a flash in front of him and dragging
the body by one arm. A couple times, Bony got tangled up in bushes, but Mason jerked hard and got him free.

  On the riverbank, he shone the light around, found a spot clear enough to roll the blackmailing bastard into the water and helped him along with the toe of his boot. One splash and Bonehead was a marathon swimmer.

  Never figured him for a blackmailer.

  With that job done, Mason jogged back to the trailer to change his clothes and clean up for a trip to Austin. He didn’t bother with a shower and when he thought about it, he smiled. He hadn’t showered since Becca left. Served her right.

  The night before, he’d seen on the TV, how Virginia was gonna be talking at the Driskill, and ever since he found that out, he’d been on a high. Couldn’t think of a thing except how she looked in that gold dress. Every time he thought about it he was hard. He’d drive downtown and wait for her to come out of the hotel. If she had that sexy gold dress on again, for sure, he’d lose his mind.

  Driskill Hotel. Downtown Austin.

  MASON PARKED the Camaro a couple blocks away from the hotel. Closest he could get. The ramps were all full and had closed signs posted at the entrances. Virginia was rockin it. A helluva woman. His woman—and every asshole in Austin wanted to see her and hear her talk.

  Once I get her to the trailer, I won’t let nobody get close to her ever again.

  He strolled along towards the hotel trying to blend in. His ball cap was pulled low to hide the mess on his face. Some of the dark blue had gone to yellow and he was looking a bit better, but not good enough to meet her face to face—not yet.

  One section in front of the hotel was marked off with those things they used to keep people standing in lines and it said, ‘Press Only.’ The reporters had the best spot to see her when she came out the front door. All the assholes inside the markers had tags hanging around their necks. He needed a tag.

  Mason backtracked to where a lot of the media vans were parked—a whole fuckin block of them on both sides of the street. He picked a spot under a huge oak, stood in the shadows and waited. Ten minutes passed, before a young reporter jumped out of one of the vans with a notebook in one hand and a mic in the other. Mason tackled him on the sidewalk, grabbed him in a chokehold and squeezed his neck until he passed out. He ripped the tag and the thing it was attached to over the guy’s head, then rolled him under his van.