The Letter Of The Law

by Tim Green

  A hall ran through the middle of the cabin, and Sales stopped at the door to his daughter's bedroom. With his hand on the knob, he hesitated, then kept going, past the kitchen and on into the great room. The walls rose all the way to the pitched roof. They were crowded with trophy fish and the heads of wild animals. A walnut gun cabinet stood against the wall. Over the stone fireplace was a Comanche war ax.

  The weapon had been given to him by his mother. It had belonged to the men in her family as far back as anyone could remember. She'd given it to him the day he enlisted for the war in Southeast Asia. Before that war, the Sales family had had great hopes for him. He would be the first to go to college. He would become a doctor or a lawyer; no one knew which, they just knew it would be one or the other. But then the army came to the high school and whipped up the young men about the need for patriotism, for saving their country. They would be drafted anyway, one officer forewarned. No one in Sales's family knew of or even talked about exemptions.

  So Sales went and did what he was told. When he returned, he realized that it had all been a lie, why they were there and what they were doing. He decided that he would live his own life, his own way, by his own rules. He didn't need to become anything just to please someone else. Those same people, parents, teachers, and coaches, had cheered for him as he boarded the bus that took so many young men away from the sanity of life in rural Texas to the hell of a jungle in a faraway land.

  So he got a job as a carpenter and learned a trade. He fell in love with a young girl out of high school, a waitress with dreams of becoming a country western singer. Together they would go to the local dance hall on Friday and Saturday nights. She would sing with a band of old-timers and he would watch, drinking cold bottles of beer until the sound of her voice blended with the night in a perfect harmony of sight and sound.

  Everyone told her she could do much better than Sales, a half-breed veteran with a stale and tattered dream of going to college. But she loved him as much as he loved her, and he worked as hard as any man to make them a home. By day, he was a dependable contractor. At night, under the lights of his pickup truck, with his young wife-to-be singing sweetly away with the radio, he toiled at erecting this cabin, raising it from the dust so that they would have a place they could call their own. An uncle who owned a corner store at a crossroads to the north had signed on the note to buy the land, an old, unwanted mining tract. Sales had never missed a payment. Theirs was a happy story, two handsome young people working hard, side by side, to build a simple life together.

  He walked out onto the porch and into the shade of the midday sun. His pale green eyes glowed luminescent beneath the thick lenses of his glasses. The terrain around the cabin was rocky and rough except for a gurgling creek to the north. At one point, a stone dam from before the turn of the twentieth century checked the water, giving life to a small stand of pecan trees before it continued on its way to the Pedernales River. To the south rose a forbidding cluster of hills studded with juniper and mesquite. Sales stooped to shift his wet bathing suit from the shade into the sun where it would dry faster, then left the comfort of the porch and climbed into his dusty Ford pickup.

  To keep his clothes clean and his wig straight, he rode with the windows up and the AC on. From the tape deck, George Jones bawled on about his broken heart. A bitter smile crept across Sales's face. No one could know how badly life had damaged him. Broken wasn't the word.

  He craned his neck to look at his face in the rearview mirror. Even without the disguise, his appearance had changed dramatically over the last thirty-odd years. There was nothing more than a fleeting shadow left from the hopeful days of his youth. But what could he expect? Anyone who had done the things he'd done and seen the things he'd seen would be the same, maybe worse. At least he had the ability in his quiet moments to occasionally slide back into the past, to hear his wife's sweet voice singing in the soft light of the dance hall and just float away, safe from reality.

  Some people called it daydreaming, and that's what he did until he was off the highway and jerking to a stop at a red light in the midst of the hectic concrete maze of downtown Austin. At the corner of Eighth and San Jacinto he pulled into a parking garage and got out. He was only a few blocks from the public safety building. He soon came to a corner where the light signal read DON'T WALK, but after checking the traffic he crossed the street anyway, walking confidently with his head held high. He had the same demeanor when he strode into the courtyard, which was busy with police cruisers. Near an obscure door in the side of the concrete building, several people stood in a silent cluster smoking cigarettes in a slice of shade. Sales took up his usual station and casually puffed a Winston down to its filter.

  He wondered if anyone would remember him. He'd been here once a week for the past two months, blending in like a lawyer who had business to do. Around the public safety building and the courthouse, a suit and an air of confidence were as good as being invisible. Sales had used the time to reconnoiter the layout of the building and the tunnel that connected it to the courthouse and also to check the scheduled court appearances. They were posted one week in advance in the main hallway of the courthouse.

  Passing through the front doors of either building required a trip through a metal detector. But if you knew where you were going, the ease of circumventing the security was laughable.

  By the time he'd stamped out his second Winston, the turnover of smokers left him with a new set of faces. Without speaking, Sales entered the building through the door that had been jammed open by his fellow smokers. After a quick check to make sure the stairwell was deserted, he descended the stairs into the basement. A couple of turns and a couple of doors later, he was in the tunnel that was used to move prisoners from the lockup to the courthouse. Halfway down the hall was another stairwell whose door had a small window. With a glance either way to ensure the tunnel was empty, Sales took a handkerchief out of his pocket. He quickly covered the door handle to prevent leaving fingerprints and let himself in.

  Quietly, he shut the door and listened to the sound of his own heavy breathing. After pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, he used his handkerchief to wipe the briefcase clean and place it on the floor. With the hint of a tremble in his hands, he took out another cigarette. There were burn marks on the floor, a sign of other desperate smokers that told Sales he could light up with impunity. The stink of latex filled his nose as he smoked. He checked his watch. Court appearances were at three. It was two-forty. They'd be coming any minute.

  His hand was now trembling enough to shake the ashes free from the butt, and he cursed under his breath. He'd spent the entire morning wanting a drink. But determined to be sharp, he'd abstained. Maybe he was too sharp. He took one last big drag, made a burn mark of his own, and leaned back against the wall under the stairs where he could get the best view of the coming prisoners.

  When the first guard's head appeared in the glass, Sales's heart leapt in his chest. He bent down and removed the pistol and the can of Mace from the briefcase. By the time he was upright again, Lipton's face was bobbing past the small window. Another prisoner passed immediately behind him. Then, after a slight pause, the second guard went by without a sideways glance.

  Sales took a deep breath and plunged through the door. As the second guard turned his head, Sales hit him with the Mace and pushed him to the floor. When the rear prisoner saw the Browning, he yelled and tried to push his way past Lipton. He tripped on his own chains and they both went down. Sales leveled the gun at Lipton and fired three deliberate shots into his body before a slug from the first guard's.45 droned past his ear. Lipton was screaming in agony, and his orange prison clothes were splattered with bright red blood. Sales was certain that he'd scored a kill.

  He was then acutely aware that the guard's gun was aimed directly at his head. The gun went off. Sales ducked and spun at the same instant, falling toward the floor. He caught himself and, with the Browning still in hand, took off down the tunnel. Three more shots
ricocheted past before the guard stopped shooting to check on his fallen partner. Sales ran free down the long tunnel. Past the bowels of the safety building, he veered off into another tunnel that took him all the way to the municipal records building two blocks away.

  After racing up the stairs and out onto the street through a side stairwell door, Sales pulled up into a brisk walk. He never looked back. The gun was now tucked snugly into his pants and covered by his jacket. His ungloved hands were steady and he was strangely calm. He'd done what he had to do. The pickup truck was parked on the garage's second deck. Once inside the vehicle, he pulled off his wig and fluffed out his long dark hair. A handful of baby wipes took the pale makeup from his face and neck, and he switched the thick old plastic glasses for a sleek pair of wraparound prescription sunglasses. As he tore off the suit coat, shirt, and tie, he assessed his face in the mirror and smiled grimly. Wearing a fresh white T-shirt, he rolled down the window and pulled slowly out of the garage.

  Sales didn't waste any time getting back to Lake Travis. Not far from the marina, he pulled off onto a dirt road that led to an uninhabited summer camp. With his truck nestled into some trees behind the garage, Sales stripped down to his swimsuit and scanned the shoreline. No one was in sight. Slung over his bare shoulder was a tightly packed nylon net bag containing the gun, his disguise, and a ten-pound hunk of steel. In his other hand was a diving mask. He put the mask on and quickly jumped off the end of the dock.

  His tank and gear were on the lake bottom next to the dock's deepest pier, right where he'd left them. With the regulator in his mouth, he could afford to take his time and fix the tank comfortably on his back. Using the compass on his watch for direction, he began his long swim toward the middle. After going for what he estimated to be half a mile, he cautiously poked his head out of the water to reconnoiter. He was only two hundred yards from his boat, a stripped-down twenty-one-foot Larson with a distinctive custom aqua green canopy. Confident that he was in over fifty feet of water, he let the nylon bag slip from his hand into the impenetrable depths.

  Once alongside the boat, Sales shifted out of his diving gear and, stepping on the outdrive, hoisted himself up over the stern. Breathing hard, he peeked up over the gunwale and turned in every direction to see if anyone was near. It was a quiet day on the lake and, as far as he could see, only a few distant fishermen and a single pontoon boat shared the water's surface. He immediately began bringing in his lines. One had a good-size striper on it, and that was all the better. With everything in order, he fired up the big V-8 engine and headed for shore. Just to make sure he was seen, he stopped for gas before replacing his boat in its slip.

  "Get anything?" drawled the crusty old gaffer who worked the pump.

  "Striper," Sales said in his typically taciturn way.

  The old man nodded and peered into the boat. He was surprised when Sales took the time to lift the fish out of the cooler in a neighborly way for him to see.

  "Nice 'un," he said.

  Sales nodded, but his attention was on the driveway that came down from the main road. When the tank was full, he couldn't keep himself from asking, "You see me out there all day?"

  The old man gave him a funny look and said, "Yup." After an uncomfortable pause he continued, "Fact is, me 'n' Kent seen you out there and were talking on it. Not like you to stay in one spot so long…"

  Sales gave the old man an uncharacteristic smile and, before pushing off, said, "Fell asleep. You believe that? Must be getting old."

  Sales wasn't home more than an hour before he heard a car pull in. From his place in the kitchen he looked across the tiny bar and out through the front window to see Bob Bolinger mounting the steps. Bolinger stopped at the top. There were two bathing suits hanging on the rail, one wet and one dry. Tentatively, he picked the damp one off the rail. When he glanced up, he saw Sales staring at him through the window. He replaced the suit with an awkward smile before knocking on the door.

  "It's open," Sales bellowed, returning to his fish on the stove as if he'd been expecting a friend.

  The pungent scent of onions in a hot skillet flooded Bolinger's mouth with saliva. It was nearly dinnertime. He'd been in the squad room bullshitting with one of his men about an arson when word came in about Lipton's being shot. Since it was just downstairs, everyone and his brother had responded. Because he was so familiar with Lipton's case, Bolinger had been given the lead. And although the witnesses' descriptions of the shooter didn't match Sales, his gut told him that was the place to start. If Sales didn't pull the trigger, he probably knew who did.

  Bolinger assessed the great room, its bare timbers, its stuffed animal heads, the weapons in the case and on the wall. Despite all that, it was a comfortable place, with aging leather furniture and Indian rugs that were worn without being shabby. Knowing how much money people were putting into their lake houses these days, it didn't surprise Bolinger that Sales was making a decent living.

  "Keep coming, Sergeant," Sales's voice echoed from the kitchen.

  Bolinger paused in front of the gun case against the wall before rounding the bar and taking a seat at the small circular table wedged into the corner of the kitchen. Without speaking, Sales left his fish long enough to take two Coronas from the icebox. He set one in front of the detective, took a swig of his own with a knowing look, and returned to the stove. Bolinger just watched. Sales didn't appear rattled in any way. Was it possible that someone could attempt such a daring assault without being shaken up? Possible, but rare.

  "How're you doing?" Bolinger asked. He was quite aware of the pain Sales had endured over the last year since his daughter's death. Working on the case against Lipton had brought the two men together on several occasions.

  "You know, I'm getting along," Sales said without looking up from the stove. "I keep busy with work. I'm in a little lull right now, but it's been busy enough not to have too much time to think."

  "Sometimes I wish I'd done something with my hands," Bolinger said. "Seems like it would be a hell of a deal to fall asleep at night because you're tired out from working with your hands… When I fall asleep, if I fall asleep, it's usually because my mind is burnt right down to the filter."

  Without asking if Bolinger was staying for dinner, Sales took out two mismatched plates and split the fish. He slid a loaf of Italian bread out of a paper bag and cut off two thick slices before setting the plates down on the table. Without bothering to protest, Bolinger muttered a quiet thanks. After returning to the stove for his beer and some forks, Sales sat down across from the detective and asked, "What's up, Bob?"

  After a pause in which he assessed Sales's eyes, Bolinger said, "Lipton was shot today."

  Fierce hatred and delight burned brightly in Sales's pale eyes.

  "Good," he said.

  "He's not dead," Bolinger told him.

  A look of consternation slowly bent the father's mouth into a sneer. After awhile he said, "That's too bad… Who did it?"

  "I thought you might tell me," Bolinger shot right back.

  Sales took a long pull on his beer before shaking his head and saying, "No, I didn't do it and I don't know who did.

  "I wish I'd done it," he added, staring intently at Bolinger. "I wish I'd thought of it. It should have been me. And I wish whoever did it killed him."

  Sales took up his fork and began to eat.

  "It was pretty bloody," Bolinger said, following his host's lead. "He looked dead, took three slugs from a big gun at close range, blood all over the place. One in the shoulder, one through the chest just above the lungs, and one grazed off his rib cage without even breaking the bone. He'll be out in three or four days…"

  Sales chewed carefully, but Bolinger could tell that he'd lost whatever appetite he'd possessed.

  "This is great," the detective said.

  "Caught it this afternoon," Sales said with a mischievous grin.

  "That's where you were?"

  Sales nodded and carefully recited his alibi.

&nb
sp; "You got a lot of guns," Bolinger said. "Any pistols?"

  "A Colt forty-five from the service and a Glock I picked up at a bargain," Sales said. "Oh, and a little thirty-eight. The rest are just rifles and bird guns…"

  Bolinger accepted this and finished his fish along with one last slug of Corona.

  "Not supposed to have one on the job, but sometimes you've got to let it slide," he said, standing up. "Thanks for the fish. You going to be around for the next week or so?"

  "Sure. You want coffee?"

  "No. Thanks," Bolinger said. "I may want to ask you some questions in a few days or so. So if you decide to take a trip or something, let me know, okay?"

  "I'll be right here. The trial's two weeks away. Is this going to move that off?"

  "No," Bolinger said, pausing at the door. "That'll still happen."

  Instead of driving directly back to the city, Bolinger pulled his car off to the shoulder, right next to where Sales's drive entered the main road. He sat there smoking for a while, then got out of his car and took the long, winding dirt road back through the brush to the cabin. Like a peeping Tom, he peered through a window. Sales wasn't doing anything unusual. He sat in front of the TV in a cloud of smoke, rising only to replenish his beer and another time for a fresh pack of cigarettes.

  Now Bolinger's gut was uncertain on this one. His experience told him Sales had done it. Who else would have? But if Sales was guilty, he was putting on a pretty good show. If his story checked out and no physical evidence was discovered in the tunnel, Bolinger doubted this case would be solved, and that would bring down some heat. It wasn't that anyone cared about Lipton's taking three slugs. After what he did to Marcia Sales, there wasn't a cop alive who would mind much if he'd bought it. Bolinger had to admit that he'd felt a vague pang of disappointment when he learned that Lipton's life had been spared. But the chief and everyone else would be on the hot seat for the lapse in security, a man shot right underneath their noses. Personally, Bolinger was surprised something like it hadn't happened before. The tunnel was an incident waiting to happen.