Hawke's Target

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  I focused on what was ahead so my mind wouldn’t dredge up any more useless words right at that moment.

  A dove flapped into the cedars from over my shoulder and barely lit before something spooked it. With a flutter and peeping cry, it fought clear of the branches and shot over the empty field until it disappeared into the distance.

  Dammit! If I’d been paying attention, the two doves that spooked just before Gary opened the door would have told us those two guys were leaving out the back. But at least now I knew where the shooter was.

  The guy wasn’t taking any chances. I got the idea he wasn’t buying Rivera’s story about being out of ammo, and if I’d been him, I’d be looking for me. That’s what I figured he was doing.

  A particularly stout gust of wind slapped the cedars, making them moan and rustle. An open gap in the soft limbs, probably made by some animal, gave me access to the interior of the man-made grove. Pistol held at what today’s range masters are calling compressed-ready, meaning it was chest-high and in position for up-close and personal action. I took two steps into the trees and saw a shirtless guy on one knee with his back to me.

  Why are all these guys always running around without shirts?

  Another ridiculous thought. This one from my daughter Mary, who once said while watching the television show Cops, “If they aren’t wearing a shirt, they’re guilty.”

  I started to shoot him and get it over with, but knew that once an investigation was launched, they’d have my hide for the entry holes in his back. Seems you have to give the bad guys time to turn around and give up these days. I drew a bead at the hinge of a pair of wings tattooed on his spine, took a deep breath, and half let it out.

  “Hey.”

  He stiffened and whirled. The minute I saw the side of his face and the rifle come around, all discussion was over. He was three-quarters of the way around when I shot him just under his arm in the left side of his chest.

  At the same time, a steady, deliberate string of shots rang out, sounding like someone practicing on a firing range. The bad guy’d raised up into a gap in the cedars. The first three or four rounds caught him solid, but as he fell, Rivera kept pulling the trigger on that Beretta.

  And now the bad guy wasn’t soaking up the shots heading straight for me.

  I threw myself to the side as rounds cracked past way closer than I liked. Lead either punched through the soft wood of the cedars or glanced off the sides and whirred away with an evil buzz.

  Rivera was bound and determined to use every round in that magazine. I flattened out on the ground, and by the time his pistol was empty, the only sound was the wind in the cedars.

  Chapter 16

  Roads chop up the vast majority of the East Texas landscape into a patchwork quilt of highways, pastures, and cropland. Greenbelt forests spread for hundreds of miles through this landscape like arteries consisting of meandering courses of rivers, creeks, ravines, washes, and swamps linking farms to communities to towns to cities.

  The humid air was thick and fragrant from freshly mown lawns and grassy bar ditches full of muddy water, decaying leaves, and crawdads. As the day died, Tanner Wadler drove with one hand on the wheel of his leased Taurus sedan, elbow hanging out of the open window. He and Willy left the calm, quiet country behind and merged into the light traffic on the edge of Jasper, a country town only twenty minutes from Gunn. Pink and orange clouds diffused the sky, painting a colorful backlight over the western edge of the small East Texas town.

  As they drew closer to the cluster of businesses on the main drag, those comforting country smells were overwhelmed by woodsmoke from barbecue restaurants, old grease from three fried-chicken takeouts built within spitting distance of each other, and exhaust fumes left behind by a car that hadn’t been inspected since God was a kid.

  “I don’t like this one damned bit.” Steering with one hand, Tanner squirted a brown stream into the quarter-full Dr Pepper bottle. “I’ve never killed anybody before.”

  Willy shrugged and adjusted the seat belt across his chest. His dead eye was on Tanner’s side, forcing him to completely turn his head to see the young man. “It’s the easiest thing in the world to do. Just point and pull the trigger.”

  “I knew about one. You’ve done others?”

  “When Daddy Frank gave the order.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You don’t know a lot of things.”

  “I’m already so nervous I’m liable to blow my own foot off. How about we tell Dad these guys were gone when we got to the hotel? We can say we waited as long as we could, but they never came back.”

  “He’ll know better.” Willy smoothed his beard. Tanner noticed the man’s hands were steady as a rock. “Even if he does believe you, he’ll just send us back tomorrow. I don’t want to get crossways with your granddaddy, neither.”

  A light at the next intersection turned red, and the flow of cars and pickups rolled to a stop. Tanner touched the revolver tucked under his shirt. His was a thirty-year-old Colt Python with a three-inch barrel, deep blue and so cared-for it looked brand new. Most likely stolen in a home burglary, it was loaded with heavy .357 rounds that would be devastating at close range.

  An egg-shaped sedan in the lane on Willy’s side vibrated the air with the heavy bass beat of rap music coming from enormous aftermarket speakers mounted in the trunk. All the windows were down and four young black men bobbed their heads to the beat.

  Tanner unconsciously plucked the bottle from the holder and held it, ready to spit again. “Who are these guys we’re supposed to take out anyway?”

  Willy took a worn snub-nose .38 out of the right front pocket of his bib overalls. “Don’t make no difference. Daddy Frank says they’re against us and to take ’em out.”

  Tanner waved a hand at the cars. “Hell, half these folks are against us.”

  “And the other half are on our side. These sonsabitches right here ain’t though.” Willy turned toward the car beside them, his elbow hanging out the window, the thirty-eight in his hand, but hidden from the other car. “Hey, turn that shit down!”

  The muscular driver in a white T-shirt that was blinding against his thick bicep stuck his hand out the window and flipped Willy the bird. “Kiss my ass, you white motherf . . .”

  The man’s voice trailed off when Willy turned his entire head toward the car. The scar, the dead eye, and the .38 scratching an itch in his beard ended the young man’s train of thought.

  “Oh, shit!”

  The passenger behind the driver leaned as far back into the seat to provide as small a target as possible. “Turn it down, man.”

  Unconcerned by what was happening only three feet away, Tanner kept talking as the music from the other car dropped in volume. He’d heard Willy argue with other drivers before. “I doubt that. If they were, they’d be working with us already. Most of these people don’t know anything about what’s going on in this country in the first place.”

  The light changed, and Tanner accelerated with the flow of traffic. The sedan fell behind as Willy put the. 38 back in his pocket and hooked his elbow out of the window. “I hate that rap shit. It’s so loud you can go tone death in a New York minute.”

  “Tone deaf.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s pronounced tone deaf, not death.”

  Willy shrugged. “You know what I mean.”

  His unusually clipped voice made Tanner reconsider correcting Willy about his speech, but he’d always mispronounced words and garbled old sayings enough they all looked forward to what he’d come up with next.

  “Find us some decent country music. This fancy thing does have a radio, don’t it?”

  Tanner squeezed a button on the steering wheel with his thumb and “Florida Georgia Line” came through the speakers scattered around the car. “That ain’t anything like country. Hang on.” He pressed again and George Strait picked up where the pseudo country band left off. “You know we could make things worse if these men real
ly are feds.”

  Willy shrugged. “We’re gonna do what Daddy Frank told us. You don’t want to cross the old man, then you’d have to deal with Boone.”

  Tanner shrugged. “I’m not sure he’s as bad as y’all make out. You know he reads a lot. I saw him one day not too long ago waiting for Daddy Frank in his car, and Boone was reading Nietzsche.”

  “Is that one of them Indian guys who writes westerns?”

  “No. He was a German philosopher who had a huge influence on Western philosophy. Not westerns, for chrissake.”

  “Well, I don’t know nothin’ about all that. I didn’t go to college.”

  “Well, neither did I, but . . .”

  “But all that highfalutin kind of talk don’t mean nothin’ when it comes to staying alive in this world, and you don’t go thinkin’ Boone’s like you just because he reads. Hell, he’s mean as a snake and crazy as a shithouse rat. I suspect you’ll do what Daddy Frank says and when he says it.”

  “Yeah, well, he ain’t always right.”

  Willy rode without responding.

  “I’ve never killed nobody. The only thing I’ve ever shot is deer and dove.”

  “Don’t make no difference. Daddy Frank says to get rid of ’em, and we’re gonna do it.” He spat out the window in disgust and wiped some dribble off his beard. “They’re right. It’s time for you to man up.”

  Chapter 17

  Alonzo Wadler sat in his camper’s doorway, sipping a cup of hot coffee and staring into the live oak and mesquite trees shading the long gravel sites in the Evening Star RV Park outside of Comanche, Texas. A light breeze washed over his camp smelling of hot dust and coming rain.

  Dark clouds built in the northwest, freshening the breeze even more. Lightning fractured the leading edge of the storm, and the distant boom of thunder finally arrived. Alonzo tried to remember how many seconds you were supposed to count between the flash and boom to determine how far away the storm was, but finally gave up.

  Comanche was his next-to-last stop to deal with still another criminal who’d manipulated the justice system. Like the rest of his family, Alonzo hated meth dealers and despised those who bought from them. How could anyone smoke something made from chemicals from under the kitchen sink? He shook his head in disgust and worked on a plan to take Michael Earl Livingston from the face of the earth.

  His coffee was cold when an elderly man walking a white poodle passed his campsite. The man stepped over to the picnic table and held out a steel Yeti mug. “Thought you might like a little local treat. They have a new coffeehouse here that roasts and grinds its own beans.”

  Alonzo rose from his position in the door and joined the stranger beside the grease-stained wooden picnic table to get farther from the trailer. He couldn’t trust the air fresheners and perfume to completely cover the smell that was getting stronger as the humidity increased. “Sounds good to me.”

  The man sat a squatty steel Yeti across the picnic table and stepped over the bench seat to settle in for a visit. He held up a second mug. “This is what they call their Signature Blend. It’ll chase away the dampness.”

  Alonzo took the opposite side and raised his in thanks. “I like good coffee.”

  “It’s better than that Starbucks crap everyone is drinking these days.” He stuck out a hand. “Name’s Jefferson, John Jefferson.”

  “I’m Alonzo.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments, enjoying the morning. Jefferson smacked his lips and wiped at a fine layer of dust covering the table. He saluted the coming storm. “That’s gonna drive us inside in a little bit. I told Mama that if you were like me, you love the outdoors and hate to be trapped inside by the rain.”

  The man’s reference to his wife as Mama was pure East Texas. “You’re right about that.”

  “You a cop?”

  Alonzo was surprised at the sudden change in conversation, and the old man’s estimation. “A lot of people get that idea.”

  “You look like a cop. I pride myself on recognizing lawmen.”

  “I guess you were in law enforcement?”

  “Naw. Bum leg wouldn’t let me pass the physical. I retired from the railroad. You don’t see many men camping by themselves this way.”

  Alonzo almost smiled. The old guy was desperate to find out who he was. Some people are naturally nosy, and the harmless questions came from a man who liked company and conversation. Alonzo grew up around men like that, who hung around their tiny community general store, sitting on benches and shooting the breeze with the local Spit and Whittle club. He’d grown up on their stories and conversations, when he could get away from Daddy Frank for a little while.

  “I’m retired, too.” He jerked his head toward the trailer. “Wife died a while back, and this was my escape.”

  Jefferson’s eyes radiated sympathy. “I understand. Just had to get away. I’d be like that if I lost Mama.”

  Instead of answering, Alonzo sipped at the coffee and wishing it was the chicory he’d grown up with.

  “My wife saw you pull in last night. You set that rig up in no time flat.”

  The Gladys Kravitz kind of neighbors even live in campgrounds. Alonzo smiled again, thinking of Jefferson’s wife peering through the windows of their Silver Stream and screeching at her husband. “John! Look how fast he set up.”

  Have to keep that in mind.

  Jefferson kept talking. “We’re from Dallas. Here for spring turkey season. I have a lease about three miles away, but it don’t have no electricity or water. Mama don’t rough it no more’n this, so we stay here. The weather’s been just right, and the toms are gobbling by daylight. I didn’t have any luck yesterday, but I ran across a guy who did pretty good. I’m going out before first light in the morning. You want to join me?”

  The question surprised Alonzo. “Well, that sounds like a great idea, but I’m gonna be leaving first thing in the morning. We’re heading home.”

  “We? I didn’t know you had anyone with you.”

  A cold chill went down Alonzo’s back, and he wanted to slam a fist into the side of his own skull. The realization that he’d screwed up woke the badger in his stomach with a vengeance. He fought the urge to double over and vomit the coffee that was suddenly bitter in his throat. “I don’t. I’m still used to saying we, meaning my wife, who’s gone.”

  “I understand.” Jefferson slapped the table. “Well, that storm’s gonna get here pretty soon and I need to get my awning in before the wind picks up. Finish your coffee and just leave the mug settin’ here. I’ll have to walk the dog in a little bit, and I’ll get it then.”

  “Good to meet you, and thanks for the coffee.”

  He left, and Alonzo sat there feeling pretty good until he remembered the phone call he’d received that morning from Mike Dillman. Once again Daddy Frank was dictating his life even from over three hundred miles away, sending Mike to meet him and pick up the trailer and the cash.

  That wasn’t the way Alonzo worked, and the longer he’d been away from Gunn, and the more time that passed since Betty died, the more he’d decided to separate himself from the Family. Losing her had taken the wind from his sails and he couldn’t be a part of it any longer.

  He just wished he hadn’t told Mike where he was camped, but the badger had been gnawing on his guts for a full hour, and the pills hadn’t yet taken effect. At the same time he was so rattled by the sudden call that he’d told them more than he wanted.

  At least he hadn’t said he was alone. Those kinds of drastic events could cause Daddy Frank to react in ways he didn’t even want to think about.

  Chapter 18

  There hadn’t been much rain west of Abilene, and the colorless landscape of ranches and grassland looked as baked as the desert. I rolled through barren, flat country with little shade. Even the cattle were somewhere else. Most of the time the only movement I saw was dead grass blowing across the highway and one pumpjack idly bobbing up and down.

  Every now and then I’d pass an aban
doned house and barn. It was odd that the trees the ranchers had planted for shade were usually dead also, as if giving up themselves after the owners had surrendered. The windmills that had drawn water for decades no longer pumped, the blades often missing, dented, or shot to pieces.

  In Texas, the cities are booming while most of the western part of the state was drying up and blowing away.

  The blinding, late-evening sun behind me hung halfway to the horizon. Despite my sunglasses, I had to tilt the rearview mirror to the “nighttime” setting just to see. I was empty as the land around me, and tired, drained of both energy and emotion.

  Rolling down the highway, my mind shifted into neutral and I thought about the report I’d written by hand when Ranger Bills arrived at the scene of the shoot-out. It was late in the day by the time the bodies were taken away and the crime scene at the trailer was clear, though I knew that another investigative team would be out there at dawn. I wouldn’t leave until I felt that Dan was satisfied with my story.

  Lieutenant Bills was one of the twenty Rangers assigned to Company C that encompasses everything from the Texas panhandle up against Oklahoma, down to Plains and Yoakum County on the New Mexico border, east to the small Texas town of Bowie in Montague County and unfortunately, all the way down to Central Texas and Comanche, where I was headed.

  Dan Bills lives in Hereford, only twenty miles away from Dimmitt. He’d been on his way back from somewheres else and was out to the scene less than an hour after it happened. Knowing there was another Ranger involved, he came out both as a fellow officer and as part of the investigation in his region. That’s part of what we do, conduct criminal and special investigations and assist local law-enforcement officials. I could tell from the look on his face that he didn’t appreciate having me digging around in his part of the state.

  Despite being out in the middle of nowhere, my cell phone rang, reminding me that you never know where you have service. It was clamped into a holder blocking the center AC vent. I turned down the radio and punched the screen with a forefinger. “Howdy, Major.”