He wasn’t paying much attention to the fight for once. Tanner’s call only half an hour earlier had him confused, puzzled, and half mad. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what was going on and hated the feeling.
The ringing burner phone in Daddy Frank’s pocket gave him an excuse to turn away and push through the crowd of shouting, sweating men reeking of beer, sweat, whiskey, and cigarettes, half of whom were losing. Absorbed by the dogfight, Brother Holmes never knew Daddy Frank had moved away.
“What?” He walked around the barn and put one finger in his ear to block the noise.
“Daddy. It’s me, Boone.”
The old man’s wrinkled face widened in a smile. He hadn’t shaved in days from nothing more than laziness, and the gray whiskers seemed to move of their own as the crevasses in his face deepened. “Howdy boy! D’y’all get it?”
Daddy Frank’s smile disappeared as Boone hesitated. “No. Mike’s dead.”
“Who killed him?”
“Alonzo did.”
“What’n hell happened?”
“Alonzo was waiting for us, like he knew we were coming. Mike was down before I realized what was happening and it wasn’t him alone. Alonzo had another man working for him. I was under fire from both. Mike was possibly still alive, so I had no recourse but to finish him and escape. I knew you didn’t want to risk him being arrested and questioned.”
“You’re mighty right about that.” Daddy Frank stalked toward his truck with furious strides. Kinfolk were dying like flies. “And Alonzo?”
“I was forced to use a gun and wounded him, I think, but had to leave before the job was completed.”
The old man’s nose flared, and he saw red. “How could two men fail against one?”
“Again, he had help. Someone’s joined him.”
“And you left him alive after all that?”
Sheriff Buck Henderson’s private truck turned into the drive and headed for the barn. Daddy Frank held up a hand to stop him and met Buck between the house and barn.
Boone continued. “Like I said, I think quite possibly he was ready for us. Someone must have tipped him off, because he had a handgun and was shooting before we knew it.”
“He left with the cash and the cheese?” Veins throbbed in his forehead.
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
Buck hung one arm out the open window and waited, knowing something was up.
“That means everything we planned is out the window.”
Boone didn’t answer, knowing from experience the old man was already thinking ahead.
“Tanner.”
“Sir?”
“Only those of us in the Family had the number for Alonzo’s drop phone. Jimmy Don whipped Tanner’s ass yesterday for failing to make these damned agents disappear like I told him to. That boy’s up to something. He’s the only one who had a reason to call and warn Alonzo.”
A beat.
“I don’t understand all I know about this.” Daddy Frank said, resting one hand on the open driver-side window of Buck’s pickup. The sheriff lit a cigarette and blew smoke, watching the old man’s lined face, waiting to hear what was wrong.
“He’s traveling fast, then. I suspect he has another plan that we don’t see.” The old man mulled over the conversation between himself and Tanner, who’d already said Alonzo was on the way to Gunn with the cash.
Buck squinted, watching Daddy Frank’s every move.
The old man nodded as if Boone stood beside him. “All right. Here’s what I want you to do. You’re not hurt, are you?”
“No.”
“Where are you?” He listened. “You’ll be back soon?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. Go to Jimmy Don’s and get Tanner. Wait for ’im if he ain’t there. When he shows up, bring him out to my fertilizer barn. We’re gonna have a little . . . gatherin’ of the clan.”
Buck’s eyes widened at the mention of the barn. People only went out there for three reasons, and one of them wasn’t to drop off or load fertilizer. More than one corpse had fed the gators in the Sabine, only a mile down a two-track lane behind the barn.
Daddy Frank nodded at Buck and reemphasized his order to Boone. “Yep, that’s what I said. Take him to the fertilizer barn. That’s where he wanted to meet us anyway, so he’ll get what he wants.”
“Yessir.”
Daddy Frank hung up, wishing he’d thought to ask Tanner what time he’d talked to Alonzo. He dialed Alonzo’s number. It rang until the automated voice told him there was no voicemail set up. He dropped the phone into the pocket of his khakis. “We got troubles.” He told the sheriff what he’d just heard. “We’re blowed up.”
“You don’t say, there’s all kinds of trouble on my end, too. I got a call from a Texas Ranger named Sonny Hawke who’s on the way to my office. Says he’s chasing a vigilante by the name of Wadler who may be headed here to Gunn.”
“Vigilante? What the hell does he mean, ‘vigilante’?”
“He says Alonzo’s been leaving a trail of dead people between California and here.”
Daddy Frank took a long, deep breath to calm himself. “That makes sense now, why he’s late. He snapped.”
“Yep, snapped because Betty was killed by a released felon in California,” Buck continued as Daddy Frank’s eyebrows first rose, then met in a frown. “Look, I ran her name through my computer and found a news story and sure ’nough, she’s dead. You know he was crazy about her. Somebody killed that gal, and he lost his damn mind. Sounds to me like it’s a reckoning against anyone who beat the system.”
Daddy Frank snorted as the years quickly rolled past like one of those old black-and-white movies counting off the months with paper calendars, recalling how he’d beaten the system in Newton County since he was big enough to shave.
Hell, even he’d been arrested in the past, and served two years for attempted murder. “He cain’t be that way about it. Half these boys out here right now have records. Even I’m a felon when you get right down to it. This is such bullshit.”
“Call it what you want. That Ranger said it, and I believe it.”
“He’s comin’ here after me, too.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’m his last target.” Daddy Frank calmed for a moment, then his eyes cleared as he came to a decision. “Fine then. If Alonzo’s headed this way all hot and bothered, we’ll be ready. Get a few of your contractors as you call them and stake out the roads for this Ranger. There’s only three highways coming into town. Have them stop him before he gets to your office.”
Once again Buck’s eyes widened. “Really, a Ranger?”
“I don’t want him snoopin’ around.”
“We can’t keep trying to make people disappear.”
“We’ve been doing it for years.”
“Yeah, but they weren’t feds or Rangers.”
“We’ve put a few feds in shallow graves, one time or another. He’s nothin’ but one more lawman.”
“Times are different.”
“Are they?”
“You’re damned right they are. You know killing a Texas Ranger right on the heels of them agents is gonna bring the whole world down on our heads. That’s suicide. I just spent three hours dancin’ with the DEA, allowing how I’m gonna work with them and the FBI to find out who shot their men, and I’m getting tired of walking this edge. Not even you pay me enough for all this.”
The old man’s eyes hardened. “This family is as powerful as the Sabine over yonder, and we’re always gonna be here. Folks like us are the soul of this country. I ain’t done by a long shot, and one day we’ll be the foundation that the people will see when they think about who has turned this country around. I ain’t changing a damn thing. We’re gonna show them BranCo people who’s boss, and then when that’s done . . .”
Buck had heard it all before. “How about I let him talk and then send him on a wild goose chase over into Louisiana, just like I did with the feds? We can mak
e up with the rest of that Thibideaux bunch and pay ’em what it’s worth to sink the guy for gator bait if he starts to be a pest. Put it all on them.”
“That would have been a good idea a month ago, but nope. I’m done with them coonasses for the time bein’.” Daddy Frank pointed over the pines and toward his barn fifteen miles away. “How ’bout y’all bring this Ranger out to the fertilizer barn, too, when he gets here?”
“I’ll call him back and give him directions.”
“No. He’ll call it in where he’s going. We can’t take that chance. Get aholt of ’im out on the highway somewhere and bring me what’s left. I’ll get the truth out of both him and Tanner before we decide what else to do.”
“Tanner probably won’t tell you nothin’.”
“Yes, he will. I’ll tell him I’ll kill Shi’Ann if he don’t. He’s young and fool enough to do it to save her.”
“Why would he do that?”
“’Cause he’s in loooove with her.” Daddy Frank drew it out so long it became obscene.
“How do you know that? He’s with Donine, ain’t he?”
The Old Man’s eyes cut through the sheriff. “Because I know everything.”
The sudden widening of Buck’s eyes said that he understood. “I can’t believe you’d keep her after that.”
“There won’t be nothin’ to keep.”
“I don’t need to hear no more.”
Daddy Frank looked almost sad. “Boone’s gonna do it, and then it’s past time for him to take the long sleep. He failed me, and nobody does that. You can shoot Boone and say he was working with Willy and it was him that killed Tanner and the Ranger. You’ll be a hero and ever’thing’ll go back to normal.”
Buck chewed on that idea for a moment. “I won’t miss that creepy little bastard, but I have to say that’s a damn good idea.”
“I have an idy I won’t miss him much neither. He’s done his do for me and he’s like them dogs over yonder. When they can’t fight no more, they ain’t no good for nothin’. Besides, Boone died a long time ago.”
Chapter 37
Pushing eastward through the cold front was like moving from one world to the next. Dark clouds filled my rearview mirror as I outraced the storm, looking much darker and more menacing than it really was. Gray skies ahead rested on the pines that were as still as telephone poles. Not a breath of air moved. It was that pause between three windy, humid days and the advance of enough rain to wash the world clean.
I was almost to Gunn, in deep East Texas, when I came up over a rise behind a ridiculously jacked-up Ford pickup driving ten miles under the speed limit. I followed it for several miles on the two-lane highway, looking upward at the beefed-up suspension full of mud, sticks, and grass. The big truck dwarfed my 3500 Dodge dually that looked huge up against regular-size pickups. The driver I couldn’t see slowed down, sped up, and drifted from side to side.
These fools are texting.
Technology drives me nuts, seeming to fail at the worst times, and here was an idiot in a vehicle that looked like it belonged at a monster truck show endangering anyone coming in our direction on the winding road.
I don’t understand why idiots will drive while looking down, not realizing how fast a wreck can happen. They’re concerned with only themselves, and not the rest of the people on the road. In fact, they think they’re the only ones in the world, and when someone yanks them back with a honk, they usually poke up that middle finger in a salute.
The kids and Kelly get aggravated at me when I honk people texting at lights. They say I should be more patient. I say people should pay attention to their driving.
The massive tires and much larger suspension filled the lane, making it hard to check for oncoming traffic. I let the Dodge drift toward the center stripe, hoping the driver would finally look up from his screen, see me in his side mirror, and realize he wasn’t the only person on the highway. Maybe he’d put the phone down until I passed, and then he could kill himself if he wanted to drift off the road and hammer a tree. I’d feel more sorry for the tree.
He must’ve noticed me, and the tactic worked for a mile or so when the driver caught back up to the speed limit. I dropped back to give myself a cushion between us and set the cruise. We crossed a creek bottom, and he slowed again.
Frustrated, I waited until we finally reached an empty stretch of highway and hammered the accelerator. The Dodge’s turbo roared, and I shot around the monster Ford, passing him like he was sitting still. I couldn’t help but give the driver a once-over. The tinted power window went down to reveal slender guy with a Fu Manchu mustache under a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses. He shot me the finger in greeting.
I put the hammer down and passed him, giving a signal I was easing back into his lane. Seconds later I settled back in the seat, once again driving the speed limit. My phone rang, but I was a rock and ignored it.
A mile later the big Ford closed the distance and shot up almost against my back bumper like he really was in a monster show, intending to drive right over my own truck. The grille filled my rearview mirror. Though it was nearing dusk, the man’s headlights were on bright, nearly blinding me. My eyes had long ago adjusted to the evening gloom.
I flipped my mirror to the night setting and accelerated. Come on, buddy. I’m too old for kid games.
Monster Ford shot around me on a solid yellow line that warned of an approaching curve.
What a moron!
I slowed to allow the truck to pass safely, terrified that some local farmer was going to come around the bend and find himself meeting the Ford head-on. In that case, the other driver might be able to dodge the oncoming truck, but at our speed, I doubted it. To make the situation worse, we were in logging country. I’d passed several clear-cuts and knew that pulpwood trucks could appear any time. Those loaded rigs don’t stop on a dime.
All this loon needed was to come up on a loaded truck pulling out on the highway. It’d be all over but the cryin’ for all of us. Grinding my teeth, I slowed to allow the Ford to gain some distance. It looked as if he were off the phone by the way he was driving, so I settled back to follow.
When I dropped back, Monster Truck slowed and I quickly drew uncomfortably close.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it.
The pit of my stomach fell out. I’d seen it happen before, a dangerous highway ballet between angry or testosterone-driven aggressive drivers. As a highway patrol officer, I’d worked a number of fatal accidents when similar dances went bad.
Grinding my teeth, I backed off even more and punched the Jake brake button on the dash. I’d no more than done that when the Ford’s driver hit his brakes. I let off the gas, fearing the worst, and it came.
The Ford’s brake lights flashed and I hit my own, decelerating fast enough for the seat belt to tighten. Tires squalled on the pavement and my auto-brake engaged, vibrating the truck with jackhammer pulses.
His head-high tailgate grew, and I swerved toward the narrow shoulder. Pine trunks swelled in size then retreated when I swerved back toward the center stripe, barely missing the raised bumper. Every muscle in my body tightened, expecting that harsh, metallic crunch I was sure would follow. It was the wide hips on my truck that helped me regain control, but I was about to lose control of something else.
My temper.
I could have pulled over and stopped to dial 911, but it would all be over by the time anyone showed up. I wish I had a nickel for every time I told a civilian that all responders to a 911 call could do was try and stop the bleeding, or do paperwork and reports on the aftermath, because the incident would be over by the time they arrived.
I had a good idea he wasn’t alone, too. Guys like that usually run in packs, and based on my experience, they were probably drinking. The badge on my shirt might make them back off if it came to getting out of the car, but with my luck the last few days, I could see the whole thing going sideways in a hurry.
Gaining control of a rising fury, I resisted the urge to jer
k the wheel into the oncoming lane to pass again, but headlights appeared over the distant rise. I let off the gas and slowed even more to drift back in my lane. I was right. Four arms emerged from the Ford, shooting me the finger.
This crew was all class.
The oncoming car passed, and I slowed again. The Ford sped up, and I hoped it was over. They’d scared me, made their point, and now they could go home and lean back in their recliners to drink beer and laugh about how they’d scared that ol’ boy in the Dodge. I took a deep breath to calm down just as they hit their brakes again.
Enough!
I whipped to the side in order to look ahead. There was a second rise past the first crest from the Trinity River bottoms. I changed my mind and was reaching for the phone to call in the altercation when a brief flash far ahead gave me an idea.
I hoped I was right. Stomach clenched, I punched the accelerator and shot around him one more time. Seconds later, the Monster Ford caught up and swerved into the oncoming lane, pacing me. We rocketed down the highway side by side. Two men in gimme caps leaned out of their windows, shouting curses that were lost in the slipstream as we crossed the muddy Trinity.
A beer bottle flew out of the front passenger window. Whoever threw it wasn’t a dove hunter. He didn’t account for their speed and forgot to lead my Dodge. The bottle missed and I sped up, fully expecting the Ford to do the same.
They did, and I couldn’t help but grin. Floor-boarding it, the big turbo under the Dodge’s engine kicked in again and my truck pulled ahead by a hair. Again, the men on the passenger side leaned out, shooting me the finger.
Pacing me in such a dangerous situation, the driver juked toward my lane, trying to get me to brake or run off the road. Now it was getting serious. I didn’t give an inch, expecting that he was just shooting for a reaction. He really didn’t want to ding up his big ugly truck. That was his status symbol. It was his balls.
Hawke's Target Page 19