by Joe Nobody
Juanita stepped down from the Metro bus, her feet aching after the ten-hour shift at the hospital. Turning right without looking, she began the three-block adventure to her sister’s apartment, her eyes tightly focused on the sidewalk directly ahead. She’d learned not to make eye contact or notice anyone or anything. I’m just a lowly cleaning lady, she told herself as she walked through the neighborhood. Today isn’t payday, so I don’t have any money to steal.
Despite the grueling hours, low wages and crime-ridden neighborhood, life on Houston’s south side was still better than what she’d left in Juarez. Here the young boys might rob you – there they would rob, rape and then cut off your head.
She passed through a deceptively calm landscape. A group of tattooed young men congregated at the first corner, their sleeveless shirts advertising a significant investment in ink. She knew that much of what was engraved into their skin was a message of some sort, almost like a uniform worn by a soldier. Leaning against their older model sedan, she could hear their hushed voices and grunted laughter. They almost appeared friendly, but she knew it was a façade. The gang members could turn vicious without provocation or reason.
Out of her peripheral vision, she noticed one of them stretching his arms high into the air and revealing the shiny handle of a pistol in his belt. Guns. What was the relationship between money and guns? She wondered. When one was around, the other surely followed. And then, almost inevitably, death joined the party.
Soon, she encountered a gaggle of small children chasing a soccer ball in the street. Three mothers stood talking nearby, projecting an image of suburban calm and relaxation. Juanita knew the real reason they were so diligent; a drive-by shooting had killed a 5-year old last week, less than a block away. Guns and death.
That train of thought reminded her of the new patient at the hospital. All of the staff had been talking about the FBI man and his visitors, rumors and concerns flying around the break room and nursing station. Juanita and her co-workers didn’t like the fact that armed men had now invaded their once peaceful domain. She felt like guns were taking over her life.
Nodding as she passed the nervous mothers, Juanita entered the rundown apartment complex and sidestepped a scattered minefield of trash. The old man in 2C had set his garbage out three nights ago, confused in his mistaken belief that it was pickup day. The dogs had found the treasure trove of table scraps within hours. No one would clean it up, knowing the wind would eventually blow it to the abandoned lot next door.
With thoughts of soaking her feet in a hot tub, Juanita began her ascent up the three flights of stairs. The top floor units were cheaper and safer… somewhat. Guns. Armed men everywhere at the hospital. At least here, she could escape and soak her feet.
She inserted her key and entered the small unit, instantly greeted by the television blaring a soap opera in her native tongue. The volume was competing with her sister’s hair dryer. Juanita glanced at the screen, only to spot an image of one man pointing a gun at another. So much for sanctuary, she sighed and then focused her attention on the crucifix hanging on a nearby wall.
Tessa switched off the blow dryer and smiled at her older sister, “How was work, Nita?”
“I’m exhausted. We had many new patients admitted today. It was chaos. The ambulances kept bringing in injured men from the accident at the ship channel.”
“Oh, Nita, I’m so sorry. Just think; I’ll finish school soon, and then you won’t have to work like such a dog.”
The statement struck the older sister the wrong way, but she quickly let it pass. My work isn’t so bad, she decided, and then brightened at having something exciting to report. “We have some important Federale in my ward. He was injured in the ship channel explosion, and there has been a parade of men with guns and badges in his room all day.”
Smiling, the younger woman teased, “Any cute, single ones?”
Always has her mind on men, Juanita thought. She should focus more on that degree and less on hombres. “I don’t know, sissy. I don’t pay attention to such things. I know he’s very high ranking and receives many visitors. I had to return three times to finish his room.”
“I heard a lot of them got hurt this morning.”
A curt nod was Juanita’s only response as she shuffled off to find the foot tub, her sister’s reaction deflating her small, temporary bubble of esteem.
Tessa sensed she’d said the wrong thing and tried to recover. “So did you hear anything secret or new about the explosion? Any insider information?”
Juanita paused, trying to recall the snippets of conversation she’d overheard. “Not really. They were mainly talking about a man… a bandito who was involved with the whole affair. The patient… the honcho FBI man… was concerned about something called a ‘rail gun.’”
“A what?”
“You know my English isn’t that good, but I’m sure he called it a rail gun. The visiting federales were very nervous talking about the outlaw and how he might have escaped with that gun. I’m sick of hearing and seeing guns,” she said, waving off the thought.
Tessa shrugged her shoulders, happy she’d drawn her sibling out of her shell, but not really all that interested.
Juanita watched as her sister returned to fussing with her makeup and hair, the purpose of the preparations finally dawning. “Are you going out?”
“Yes, I’ve got a date this evening. I’ll probably be back late, so don’t wait up for me,” Tessa announced and then waited on the scolding she knew was about to be delivered.
Juanita pulled up, a disapproving look filling her face. “You’re not going out with that Fredrick again, are you?”
“Yes, he’s a nice guy and has a good job. He treats me very well,” Tessa replied in a defensive voice.
“I don’t like him,” the older woman worried. “He’s too flashy and became annoyed when I asked about his job. He makes my skin crawl. I wish you could find a nice man.”
Tessa gently rested her palms on Juanita’s shoulders, a warm smile on her face. “My sister. My dear overly protective sister. There are no nice men, according to you. Besides, I’m 26 years old, and while I love you with all my heart, I am capable of judging men. They are simple creatures with predictable habits. I’ll be just fine.”
The two women hugged, but the embrace was interrupted by the blare of a car horn. “There he is,” Tessa announced with glee. “See you later,” she added, moving toward the door and blowing her sister a kiss. And just like that, she disappeared through the threshold, a rush of whirling skirt, legs, heels, and hair.
Juanita ambled to the window and peered out through the crack in the drapes. She monitored disapprovingly as her sibling gracefully negotiated the steps, despite the heels. The scowl deepened as Tessa entered a large black German car. Shaking her head, Juanita whispered, “I hope you truly do understand the ways of hombres, Sissy. I pray you really are as much in control as you think you are.”
Tessa loved the smell. The BMW’s interior reeked of leather and fresh materials… of success and luxury. Fredrick’s cologne merely added to the sensation. “You look absolutely gorgeous!” he smiled approvingly as she settled into the passenger seat.
“Why thank you, kind sir,” she replied smoothly, barely managing to control the flush generated by the compliment. “You clean up pretty well yourself,” she quickly added, glancing at his neat Dockers and Polo shirt.
“I’m sorry I was late,” the driver continued, “business.”
Tessa waved off the apology, “It’s okay. My sister just got home and was telling me about her shift at the hospital. They had a big spike in new patients – due to that accident down at the ship channel. She’s even got some important FBI guy in her ward.”
“Really,” Fredrick replied, his voice curious.
“Yeah… but her English isn’t that good. She told me about a conversation she overheard about some sort of gun. What did she call it… a train gun? No! A rail gun. That was it!” Tessa laughed.
Fredrick
chuckled as well, but it was shallow. When his date had mentioned the FBI, he’d naturally been curious. When the words ‘rail gun’ came from her lips, it had required concentration not to swerve the car.
Since the Houston Post had run the article entitled, “God’s Gun,” millions of men had visualized holding such a weapon. He had watched the local news as well, mentally connecting the implied-dots that somehow the medical center and ship channel were related.
“Do you think your sister would speak to me about this rail gun?” he asked, trying to sound shy.
Tessa’s hesitation answered his question before the words left her throat. “She’s not comfortable talking about her job,” she lied. “I think she’s embarrassed over being a cleaning lady.”
Fredrick nodded his understanding, knowing better than to press the subject. Glancing over at Tessa’s legs, he reminded himself that the woman next to him wasn’t unintelligent. That wasn’t his primary interest in her, but a factor nonetheless.
Day Three – The Afternoon
While he waited for the taxi, Dusty found the closest rental agency. It happened to be just down the street from the Johnson Space Center, one of NASA’s main facilities. Years ago, he’d examined pictures of the massive Saturn V5 rocket displayed on the complex’s grounds, and had often thought about visiting the popular tourist attraction. At least I might get to see it as we drive by, he mused. Being an outlaw takes all the fun out of life.
The cab finally arrived, and Dusty hopped in, handing the driver a small slip of paper with the address. The guy nodded and proceeded without further comment.
Across the parking lot, an unmarked Kemah police car watched the exchange, the nervous detective reaching for the radio. “He’s just entered a taxi – destination unknown.”
Agent Shultz’s voice came back over the airwaves, “Good. I wasn’t looking forward to operating around all those people down on the waterfront. Follow him. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“Sir, wouldn’t it be prudent to bring in aerial observation? Traffic is pretty heavy down here.”
“No!” Shultz replied, his voice thick with frustration. “This guy isn’t stupid. If he spotted a bird, it wouldn’t end well. Maintain ground surveillance.”
Dusty rode in silence as the cabbie maneuvered through the congestion along the north side of Clear Lake, hoping the Russian hadn’t completely screwed him over by doing a poor job on the fake Canadian passport and driver’s license. He had no idea he was being followed.
He paid the driver and entered the rental agency just as one of the police chasers pulled up across the street. “Suspect Weathers is renting a car,” the officer radioed, quickly adding the address.
“We’ll be there in less than 10 minutes. Continue your surveillance, but do not approach,” Shultz responded.
Dusty filled out the paperwork and provided his passport and credit card. A few minutes later, the clerk handed him the keys to a subcompact and said, “It’s in slot number 14. Thank you for using Alamo!”
He located the tiny car without issue, throwing his bag into the passenger side and then struggling to find the control to scoot the driver’s seat back. A few minutes later, he was peeling out of the parking lot.
He reached up to adjust the rearview mirror and spied the black SUVs swerving around traffic less than a quarter mile behind him. “Shit!” he hissed, punching the accelerator and almost T-boning another car as he jumped the red light.
The rental’s little 4-cylinder motor wasn’t designed for high-speed pursuit, its weak, whining revs and short legs frustrating Dusty as he watched the police vehicles easily closing the gap.
He spotted the entrance to a residential neighborhood ahead, the oncoming traffic clogging the opposite lane. Without warning, Dusty cut hard left, shooting a gap that really didn’t exist. Honking horns, squealing brakes and at least two rear-end collisions sounded as he barely managed to squeeze past.
Zipping into the subdivision, he worked the accelerator and brakes hard, maneuvering sharp left and right turns as the tires protested the abuse with screams and shrieks. “I may not be able to outrun you,” he announced to the mirror, “but I might be able to gain some time.”
Shultz’s driver was desperately trying to manage the instant traffic jam caused by the suspect’s crazy-ass stunt. Traffic going both directions had swerved, collided, and skidded to a halt. It was costing them valuable time. Picking up the radio, the FBI agent began issuing instructions to seal the neighborhood Weathers had just entered.
A minute later, Dusty was amazed to look up and see no one following him. His heart was racing faster than the tiny car’s engine, so he decided to stop for a few moments and gather his wits. Checking up and down the street, he spied an open garage door just down the block. Both bays were empty, so he backed the rental into the opening and prayed no one was home.
Reaching for the Glock, he left the car running, and went to find the cord to pull down the overhead door. There wasn’t one, but he quickly spied the electric control button on the wall. A few seconds later, he exhaled as the door rumbled down its tracks.
And then it stopped, jiggled up and down a few times, and began opening again.
“No wonder the garage was left open,” Dusty mumbled. “The damn door is broken.”
He climbed up on the rental’s hood and found the electric opener’s emergency release and pulled the handle. A few moments later, the garage was shut tight.
The door leading to the home was locked, and Dusty was glad. Any thought of entering a man’s castle went against his grain. Someone might get hurt, and he’d already caused enough damage the last few days.
After turning off the engine, he perched on the hood of the rental, pondering his next move and listening for the sound of any street traffic. It was very quiet.
After his heart rate had finally slowed, Dusty took a moment to study his surroundings. The garage was tidy, furnished with a small workbench, a few storage boxes, and a nice chest freezer. A motorcycle rested on its kickstand along one wall.
“They’ll be looking for this car,” he whispered, gazing at the bike. “I wonder if I can hotwire that thing?”
The thought was interrupted by a noise inside the house. Or was it? Dusty couldn’t be sure, but his mind started working overtime, visualizing a frightened homeowner dialing the police to report an intruder in the garage.
Being pinned down suddenly didn’t seem like a good idea to the Texan. He glanced longingly at the now-closed door, wondering if it had been a mistake to pull inside. “Better to have room to move,” he decided. He was reaching to hit the button again, when a set of keys hanging on a small hook caught his attention. The motorcycle! That might buy him some precious time.
He pulled the ring from the hook and sure enough, the key slid smoothly into the ignition. The tank was even full. After retrieving the rail gun and his bag, he secured them to the seat with a bungee cord from the workbench. He fired up the engine, its smooth purr reassuring.
It had been decades since he’d ridden a motorcycle, images of an old dirt bike and roaming the hills of West Texas filling his mind for a brief moment. “I hope it’s like a bicycle, and you never forget,” he whispered. Donning the helmet would even provide a bit of a disguise.
He stepped toward the controls, intending to hit the door’s button when another thought occurred to him. Remembering the emergency release, he pulled the big door open and then pushed the idling bike into the driveway. A few seconds later, the garage was sealed up tight behind him. If no one were home, it would be a while before the cops found the rental. Time. Precious time.
He wobbled the handlebars a bit as he rolled down the driveway, almost letting the machine fall over before he got the feel of it. The bike’s massive engine felt strong as he accelerated down the street.
“He couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air,” Shultz remarked to his driver, his head scanning right and left as they slowly rolled through the suburban stre
ets. “There’s no way he could have gotten out of this subdivision.”
“There are 30 patrol cars searching this neighborhood,” the driver responded, “In addition, we’ve got every exit closed down tight. We’ll find him, sir.”
Shultz reached for his cell phone. A few moments later, a voice answered the call. “I need a drone over our location… pronto.”
Dusty took it easy, not wanting to be noticed, and trying to re-learn his limited skills on a motorbike. The community was massive, block after block of upper middleclass homes that seemed to stretch forever. Twice his hand reached for the rail gun’s case, an approaching police cruiser causing fear to fill his stomach. But both times the cop had passed by, the officer trying to drive and search both sides of the street for the rental car.
He worked the motorcycle in generally the same direction, worried that someone would find or report the rental in the garage. He needed distance. He needed to get away from what certainly would be significant numbers of law enforcement converging on the neighborhood.
Stopping at an intersection, he noted what had to be a major roadway to the right. There was an exit.
But the flashing blue lights of three police cars blocked the road, the dark shapes of uniformed officers clear in the distance. There were a few cars waiting to merge into the thoroughfare traffic, and as Dusty watched, it was evident they were being searched.
“That makes sense,” he whispered under the helmet’s face shield. “I bet they’ve got the entire area sealed off.”
He circled the block a few times, trying to figure a way out. He thought about trying to find a non-street route, thinking the bike could pass through a narrower area than any car. He might end up in a ditch or stuck or worse yet, let the bike fall and pin him underneath. No, he decided, I’ll stay on pavement.
While he orbited the block, another cruiser passed by. Dusty nearly hit a nearby-parked car, not paying attention as he watched the cop hit the brakes in the rearview mirror. The policeman was turning around.