by Mel Odom
“It would be a nice bust,” Estrella said. “But you didn’t call to talk about that. You’re just covering ground that you know Will has already covered.”
Shel didn’t say anything.
“Why did you really call?” Estrella asked.
“I’m getting the feeling you know me too well,” Shel said.
“I do. So fess up.”
Shel hesitated. “This is about my daddy, Estrella.”
Estrella waited and didn’t say anything. He knew she was aware that he didn’t talk about his father much.
“I got a phone call from him in the middle of the night,” Shel said. “He was drunk. Or had been drinking. Not enough to get totally skunk-faced, but drunker than I’ve ever heard him.”
“All right.”
Shel hesitated, knowing that once he pressed forward there would be no going back. “You know I don’t have a good relationship with my daddy.”
“Yes.”
“For him to call out of the blue like that?” Shel shook his head. “Something’s going on.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Victor Gant was a career Army man. He pulled tours in Vietnam. So did my daddy.”
“You think Victor Gant served with your father?”
“That’s the only way Daddy could have gotten to know someone like Victor Gant. Gant’s from North Carolina. Daddy grew up in west Texas. Except for the Army, Daddy’s never been out of the state. Never off the ranch much either.”
“I can pull records from the United States Army,” Estrella said. “But this is something that’s going to take a while. The military is still archiving some of that information.”
“It’s a needle in a haystack,” Shel agreed. “I knew that before I decided to ask you to take a look.”
“I’m glad you appreciate the effort.”
Shel hesitated a moment, then knew he had no choice if he wanted to keep his privacy. He cleared his throat. “One other thing.”
“Sure.”
“While you’re poking around in those files, I’d appreciate it if you kept this below the radar.” Shel hated asking her to do that. It was almost like he was saying he didn’t trust Will or the others.
“I can do that,” Estrella said.
“It’s just that it might not be anything. And if it isn’t—if it’s just that Daddy was around something Victor Gant did in the military and knows him from that—it’s not going to help Will track the heroin.”
“I agree,” Estrella said. “Personal business is personal business.”
“Thanks, Estrella. How’s Nicky?”
“Off sailing with Joe and Celia.”
“Well,” Shel said, gazing out the window, “that sure beats lying in this bed.” And wondering how Daddy knows a man like Victor Gant.
>> Rafter M Ranch
>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas
>> 1236 Hours (Central Time Zone)
“Do you have a headache, Senor Tyrel?”
Even though he was wearing his hat to shade his eyes against the bright noonday sun, Tyrel squinted to look at Ramon.
The youngster sat astride a paint mare. Red west Texas dust covered him like powder that had been sifted on. His black hair gleamed in the bright sunlight.
“I’m fine,” Tyrel said sourly as he continued to lean on the corral. But he wasn’t. He had a headache that felt like it was going to suck the top of his skull in and pour it out through his ears. It had been years since he’d had one like that.
The newborn colt frolicked in the sunlight. Although he wasn’t anywhere near coordinated enough yet, the colt tried to kick his heels as he ran around his mama.
“That little horse is going to be a dickens,” Ramon said. He grinned at the colt’s antics.
Despite the way he felt, Tyrel grinned a little at that. The word was his and he knew it. Hearing Ramon say it just sounded funny.
“You don’t look so good.” Ramon dismounted and tied the reins to the corral.
“I feel better’n I look,” Tyrel growled. “I can still set a horse longer than there are hours in the day.”
Ramon shrugged. “I didn’t say you couldn’t. I was just wondering if you should get in out of the sun.”
Irritation flared inside Tyrel. He reined it in because he didn’t want to visit any of it on the boy.
“I suddenly look old to you, Ramon?” he asked.
“No, senor. You looked this old yesterday too.” The answer was earnest and innocent of rancor.
“You know,” Tyrel said, “now I’m kinda wishing I hadn’t asked that question.”
“Why?” Ramon looked confused.
“Never mind, amigo. The fences all look good?”
“Sí.” Ramon reached into his shirt pocket. “There are a few places we need to mend soon. I made notes.” He passed over the small notebook Tyrel always sent him with.
Tyrel glanced through the notes, then pocketed the notebook. “You eat yet?”
“I had a burrito I took with me. I’m all right.”
“You’re young, amigo. You can eat again. Come on inside the house. I got a pot of beans on.”
Ramon looked troubled. “Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t been.” Tyrel threw the dregs of the coffee into the corral and spooked the little colt into jumping and nearly getting tangled up in his spindly legs.
Even with the hangover plaguing him, the colt’s surprise pleased Tyrel. He laughed a little. That kind of innocence, where everything in the world was surprising, was hard to come by. He missed it.
>> Interview Room
>> Federal Bureau of Investigation Field Office
>> Charlotte, North Carolina
>> 1348 Hours
“I’m in a real bad mood here, Victor.”
“Maybe you should try a nap,” Victor said. “I hear a lot of people put store by them.”
Urlacher sat on the other side of the table. “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”
“Maybe so, but it seems like you’re the one with all the questions,” Victor said. He sipped the Gatorade someone had gotten for him. He’d turned down the offer of coffee, water, and a soft drink to be difficult and to prove that the FBI agents were going to do whatever it took to make him happy.
As long as they thought he was going to rat out his connection.
“Let me give you a few answers for a change,” Urlacher said. “I’m protecting you at this point. That protection’s not going to last long. And I’m betting that NCIS commander can put something on you that the local cops haven’t been able to find. He’ll find a body you didn’t quite bury enough or buried in the wrong place. Then you’re going to be looking at a fall for murder one.”
Victor sipped his Gatorade. He didn’t feel quite as confident as he had a moment ago, but he wasn’t going to let on.
“In fact, I’d be willing to bet that if I let you go, you’ll do something stupid about that big Marine who shot Bobby Lee,” Urlacher said.
“You can bet the farm on that,” Victor grated.
“Even if you manage to kill that man,” Urlacher said, “NCIS will hunt you down for it and you’ll go away forever anyway.”
“They won’t find me.”
“We found you.”
Victor laughed in derision. “I wasn’t hiding.”
“You know, Victor, that’s the first truly stupid thing I’ve heard you say.”
Victor leaned across the table. “If I decide to disappear, I’ll disappear. I was trained by Uncle Sam in one of the hardest-fought ground wars the United States has ever been in. In my time, I’ve been a ghost. I’ve walked into camps at night, with armed men everywhere, found the officer in charge, dropped a hand over his mouth, and slit his throat. Then I held him like a baby while he fought and kicked and drowned in his own blood.”
Urlacher didn’t say anything, but Victor saw that his words had left an impression on the man.
“Don’t make the mistake of
thinking that just because that Navy guy hit me this morning I can’t take care of myself,” Victor said.
“I want your connection,” Urlacher said.
“You can’t have him,” Victor said.
“Hanging on to him is foolish.”
“Says you.”
Urlacher shook his head. “You can’t go back to that life, Victor. Whether you’re willing to admit it or not, everything you’ve had up till now is gone. The heat’s going to be on your gang. Tarlton will take Fat Mike and the others apart; then they’ll break the pieces.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Then I should just give you back to Coburn and let you take your chances.”
“No,” Victor said. “You gotta learn to be happy with what I’m willing to give you.”
“What you’re giving me isn’t enough.”
Victor finished the Gatorade and set the plastic container aside. “Get a pen and paper. I’ll give you the local MS-13 dealers.”
Urlacher gestured, and one of the younger agents brought over a legal pad and a pen. The FBI special agent-in-charge slid them over to Victor.
“Get me something to eat,” Victor said.
Urlacher just stared at him.
Victor didn’t move to take up the pen.
Angrily Urlacher gestured at one of the younger agents.
“Ribs,” Victor said. “Falling off the bone. Potato salad and coleslaw. And it better be hot when it gets here. And I want a gallon of tea.”
Urlacher nodded, and the young agent stepped out of the room.
Victor pulled the pad to him. Then he picked up the pen and started to write. Despite his bravado, he knew he was working on borrowed time. The FBI would protect him only as long as he kept the pump primed. The minute he shut down entirely, they would too.
You know enough, he told himself. You stretch it out, give it to them a piece at a time, you’re gonna be fine. Fat Mike or Tran will come through for you.
And then he was going to find that Marine sergeant and blow his candle out.
32
>> Intensive Care Unit
>> Presbyterian Hospital
>> Charlotte, North Carolina
>> 1402 Hours
“What are you doing?”
“I’m getting out of bed,” Shel said. “It’s what you do when you choose not to sleep all day. Like some people I could name.” He pulled the IV stand toward him.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to get out of bed.” Don pushed himself up from the chair.
Suddenly light-headed, Shel hesitated for a moment. He breathed slowly and steadily till the feeling passed. Then he disconnected the sensors attached to the adhesive pads stuck to his chest and pulled off the finger sensor.
The machines immediately chirped for attention.
“The nurse is going to know,” Don said.
“If you would stop being such an Eeyore,” Shel complained as some of the pain hit him, “we might be able to make an escape before the nurse comes to investigate.”
“You’re going to get into trouble.”
“Not if we hurry. And they don’t build Marine-size trouble here.”
“I’m going to get into trouble.”
Shel chuckled. “If I hadn’t gotten you into trouble when we were kids, you would have turned out boring. You wouldn’t have anything to talk about in church.”
“We didn’t get into any real trouble.”
“This isn’t any real trouble.”
“Says you,” Don told him. “All you have to do is fake being in pain and they’ll leave you alone.”
“Tell them you came after me as soon as you found out I was gone. I’ll back you up.”
“You’re not going to be able to escape. You’re decrepit.”
“I’ll warm up.” Shel used the IV stand as a crutch and got to his feet. He was actually amazed to find that he could stand on his own.
“You’re going to fall flat on your face.”
“When I do, you can tell me that you told me so then. At the moment, a little more help with the escape, please.” Shel started to shuffle off.
“Hey,” Don called. “Wait.”
“I don’t have time to wait. Escaping’s more of an active thing.”
“Yeah, well unless you intend to moon the rest of the people in ICU, you’d better put this robe on.”
Shel turned to find Don standing there with a robe. “Thought I noticed a draft.” He held his good arm up, and Don slid the robe’s sleeve over it. Then, with his good arm over Don’s shoulders and Don holding on to the IV stand, they were off.
“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” Don asked.
“Yeah. To see my dog.”
“Max left with Commander Coburn and Remy last night.”
“Yeah, well he’s back now.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m a Marine,” Shel said. “We know things.”
>> Rafter M Ranch
>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas
>> 1307 Hours (Central Time Zone)
Tyrel dished up bowls of pinto beans flavored with jalapeños and onions, then put them on the table at the same time the oven timer went off. He used a dish towel to fetch out the pan of corn bread.
Before he reached the counter, he knew he should have gotten an oven mitt. The towel was damp enough to conduct the heat. Still, he managed to get the pan to the counter without dropping it. The distraction provided by the hangover helped.
He waited a few minutes for the corn bread to cool while he watched ESPN. Watching baseball was only a habit, though. His thoughts were on Shel and Don. And the danger they faced.
Victor Gant was probably the most dangerous and cold-blooded man Tyrel had ever had the misfortune to meet. He could remember that night in Qui Nhon like it was yesterday. The metallic odor of blood filled his nostrils.
“Don’t you worry none about this, Private McHenry. You’re Army. We’re Army. We’ll take care of this. Ain’t nobody never gonna know. This’ll be our little secret.”
But that little secret had gotten bigger and heavier to carry every year. Tyrel sometimes thought it was amazing that his back and shoulders weren’t bent under the weight of it. Back when the boys’ mother had still been alive, it hadn’t weighed as much. Being alone had made the burden worse.
>> 1322 Hours (Central Time Zone)
Ramon entered the small kitchen and looked a little apprehensive. Tyrel knew the boy wasn’t completely at ease around him even though they’d known each other for years. Most people, Tyrel reflected, hadn’t been at ease with him.
He didn’t regret it. That was just how things had been. With the hand that God had dealt him, that was just the best that things could be.
Don was always at him about seeking God’s help for one thing and another, but Tyrel knew the truth. That one evil thing he’d done in Qui Nhon had pushed him right out of the Lord’s sight.
No sparrow fell without God knowing, but he still let them sparrows fall, didn’t he?
“Did you get your hands washed?” Tyrel asked.
“Sí, senor.” Ramon stood awkwardly.
“Pull out a chair and have a sit.”
Ramon did.
Tyrel cut the corn bread into large hunks and put them on a plate. He put the plate on the table, then got the butter—fresh-churned, none of that store-bought stuff—from the refrigerator. His wife had always made it before she died, but he did now because it reminded him of her.
“What would you like to drink?” Tyrel asked.
“Anything will be all right,” Ramon said.
Tyrel opened the refrigerator and peered inside. He ran on coffee all day, but he kept milk and some juice and soda pop for Don and Joanie’s kids.
“I got juice and pop,” Tyrel said.
“Either will be fine,” Ramon said. “Thank you.”
“I got strawberry pop,” Tyrel offered. “Don and Joanie’s kids seem to like that.”
“I like strawberry.”
Tyrel took a can of pop from the refrigerator and stopped himself short of just plunking it down on the table.
“You want a glass?” Tyrel asked.
“The can is fine.”
Tyrel handed it to the boy, then poured himself a tall glass of buttermilk. He sat at the table and took his hat off.
“Do you want to give thanks, senor?” Ramon asked.
The question caught Tyrel off-stride. Normally he and Ramon didn’t take meals together. Tyrel provided food, but generally food was eaten on the run, microwaved from the refrigerator, and eaten out of hand or alone.
Tyrel blinked at the teenager and felt increasingly uncomfortable. He didn’t give thanks for meals. There hadn’t been much in his life to give thanks for in a long, long time.
“If you don’t want to . . . ,” Ramon said.
“No,” Tyrel said. “Giving thanks is all right. Your mama and daddy raised you up right. I was just forgetting myself, is all. I’m not used to eating with somebody and saying it out loud.” He hesitated. “You know the words?”
“Sí, senor.”
“Then why don’t you say ’em?”
“If you wish, but my father always reserves the right to lead prayer at his dinner table. He says it is a father’s duty to show the way to God and all things in the world.”
“Well,” Tyrel said, “I’ve always thought your daddy was a smart man. One of the smartest I’ve ever known. Now and again, I’ve told him that.”
Ramon smiled, more at ease now. “Sí, senor. Very smart.”
“But this here’s my table, and I do things a little differently. Don was always the one to give thanks.”
“Pastor Don?” Ramon grinned. Don was well liked by most of the community.
“Since he ain’t here, why don’t you do it?”
“Of course, senor. I will be glad to.” Ramon put his hands together, closed his eyes, and bowed his head.