Adobe Flats

by Colin Campbell

  “It was the training ground for the 7/7 bombers. Bradford University teaching them how to blow up trains and buses in London. I bet they didn’t advertise that as part of the curriculum.”

  Second jab.

  “You had that American who shot the cop at Christmas.”

  “Boxing Day. David Bieber. The American.”

  “Still an English cop killed by an American. A bit like here.”

  “Cats and old men for you.”

  “I’m not finished yet. I want you to feel at home.”

  The hard edge still behind the conversational tone.

  “What was Yorkshire’s biggest claim to fame, do you think?”

  A rhetorical question. Grant didn’t answer.

  “Got to be the Yorkshire Ripper, wouldn’t you say?”

  Grant was getting worried for Sarah now, if Macready was going to use Peter Sutcliffe as inspiration for punishing Grant. Grant kept quiet. Macready did not. The Texan made sure Grant got the point.

  “Killer of prostitutes and loose women. How many was it?”

  Grant kept half an eye on the rope while focusing on the machete.

  “I didn’t count.”

  Macready pointed the blade to his stomach, then made a gutting movement.

  “A lot. Between 1975 and 1980. With a hammer and a knife.”

  He carefully ran a finger along the cutting edge.

  “Makes you feel kinda homesick, don’t it?”

  Grant wrapped the windcheater around his forearm for protection and flexed his shoulders. He scrutinized the gleaming length of the machete. It was clean; there was no blood. If Macready had wanted to make a point using the ripper, he’d have left Sarah’s blood dripping from the blade. That meant he hadn’t cut her yet. He’d made his intentions clear, though. Mentioning the man from Hanging Garden Lane was just setting the scene. The Texan was going to gut Sarah like a fish, and he wanted Grant to know about it beforehand. That’s what Grant reckoned from all this talk.

  Grant was wrong.

  Macready sidestepped some more, already halfway around a semicircle from the jeep. Grant didn’t mirror his movements. This wasn’t two boxers in the ring sizing each other up before closing in for the fight. Grant took two paces towards the twirling machete and raised his covered forearm as protection. He brought his other hand across his waist. This was going to happen soon, and it was going to happen fast. Grant put added steel in his voice.

  “You going to shit or get off the pot?”

  The blade stopped spinning. Macready stood still. He feigned disappointment.

  “There’s no need for that kind of talk. I haven’t got to the good part yet.”

  He glanced at the blade, then back at Grant.

  “I could never do that to Sarah. I’m just pointing out that Yorkshire isn’t all it’s made out to be. All that rain. It must cultivate the inner darkness.”

  He held a hand out, palm upwards.

  “But it’s stopped now, so let’s talk about that other Yorkshire legend.”

  Grant waited.

  Macready drew the moment out before speaking again.

  “The Black Panther.”

  Grant knew where this was going and what it meant for Sarah. “In the ’70s. Robbed post offices.”

  Macready nodded.

  “Shot people.”

  The clouds slowed in their race across the sky. They began to thin and let watery sunshine filter through. The hacienda brightened in the background. The windmill atop the well slowed down. Grant looked towards the jeep, still dripping water from its river crossing. He spoke almost absentmindedly.

  “Branched out into kidnapping and ransom.”

  Macready looked pleased that Grant had made the connection.

  “Kidnapped Leslie Whittle in 1975.”

  The sun broke through the clouds and shards of light glinted off the jeep, picking out the weave of the rope all the way to the well. The rope thrummed with tension. Macready nodded.

  “And hung her from a wire in a drainage shaft.”

  forty-four

  Grant moved fast but not fast enough. He darted towards the jeep. Macready blocked his path. Two quick swipes of the machete forced Grant back. The fancy twirling movements were over; this was the business end of the knife fight.

  Grant couldn’t stop Sean Connery’s voice playing in his mind. “Just like a wop. Brings a knife to a gunfight.”

  He might just as well have said, “Just like a tyke. Brings a folded coat to a knife fight.” Except Grant didn’t just have a folded coat. Using his free hand, he pulled the belt out of its loops. He dangled the heavy buckle almost to the ground and swung it gently from side to side.

  Macready didn’t look worried. He feigned a lunge with the machete.

  Grant didn’t react to the feint.

  Macready jerked his head towards the well.

  “She’s on a ledge halfway down.”

  He put one hand around his throat, tilted his neck, and stuck his tongue out.

  “One slip and she’s gone.”

  He straightened up and swung the blade in a narrow arc in front of him.

  “You know how that worked out for Leslie Whittle.”

  Grant knew. Leslie Whittle had been hung down the drainage shaft by a wire around the neck. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her feet barely held firm on a narrow ledge halfway down. Neilson aborted the ransom pickup atop the well, and the police didn’t do a full search until the following day. Leslie must have slipped off the ledge. She was found dangling in the void.

  Macready saw the recognition on Grant’s face and smiled.

  “Of course she was down there longer than Sarah has been. So far.”

  He swished the machete. Twice.

  “You could save her. If you can get past me.”

  Another swish of the blade for effect.

  “A one-man mob with a machete.”

  Grant focused on Macready’s eyes, but he was conscious of the rope. He could practically feel the tension pulling the weave tight. The rope jerked—just a small movement but enough to send shock waves racing through Grant’s body. The rope settled down again. It didn’t stretch tighter. She hadn’t fallen off the ledge, but she was moving. That was dangerous.

  Macready continued to push Grant’s buttons.

  “A bit like your other girlfriend. Only you can’t shoot this one.”

  That was enough. If Grant had kept the gun, he’d have shot Macready and saved the girl. Absolution for having killed the woman he loved. Instead he began to twirl the belt, the heavy buckle swishing through the air. Macready knew he had the upper hand. No point bringing a belt to a knife fight. He flashed the machete in two crisscross swipes intended to open Grant’s chest. The second swing had a longer follow through. Too long.

  Grant unleashed the belt. It wrapped around Macready’s knife hand, and Grant tugged down hard. He moved inside the fighting arc and stamped on Macready’s knee. The leg buckled. Grant slammed the heel of one hand into Macready’s throat, and it was game over.

  Macready dropped to the ground, coughing blood.

  Grant snatched the machete and dashed to the well.

  The wind finally dropped to a gentle breeze. The clouds became thin and wispy. The hot Texas sun was burning them off like mist on a summer’s morning. Adobe Flats was transformed by the downpour. Parched foliage that had looked dry and brown now burst into life. Vibrant greens picked out the surrounding countryside, and spots of color blossomed around the foot of the well. Desert blooms that had just been waiting for sustenance. Like flowers growing on graves in a hot, dusty township halfway around the world.

  Grant hoped the well hadn’t turned into a grave.

  He grabbed the wooden cover and flicked it open. Pipes from the windmill ran down the center of the sh
aft. The windmill blades squeaked as they slowed in the breeze. The rope was tight across the stone rim. Grant could feel it throbbing beneath his hand. He leaned forward and looked over the edge.

  Sarah Hellstrom was a shadowy presence six feet down the shaft. Sunlight beating across the turnaround didn’t extend more than a few feet into the well. Grant could make out the rope and the pipes and the top of Sarah’s head. The noose had pulled tight around her neck, but that was the extent of Macready’s knot-tying skills. The cord he’d used to fasten her hands dangled from one wrist, unpicked by deft fingers and sharp focus. The focus didn’t extend to being able to untie the noose. Her weight at the end of the rope meant there wasn’t enough slack. She reached up with one hand but missed the rope and almost fell off the ledge.

  The rope twanged like it had before, vibrating all the way to the jeep. Grant doubled over the retaining wall and shoved a hand out but couldn’t reach. Sarah teetered on the edge of slipping. Grant did the only thing he could: grabbed the rope and tugged. Sarah regained her balance, but the rope tightened around her throat. A gurgling death rattle echoed up the shaft.

  Grant shouted into the void. “Still.”

  The sound of his voice calmed Sarah down. The choking lack of air did not. Her face was bright red going on purple. Her cheeks were puffed out like a blowfish. Soon her tongue would swell and protrude. There was no time. Grant anchored his feet as best he could at the base of the wall and leaned into the darkness.

  “Reach up.”

  Sarah raised one hand, careful not to overbalance. She couldn’t look up to see where she was reaching. Grant stretched down. The hands groped for each other but were two feet apart. Grant stretched even farther.

  His left foot slipped on the sandy ground.

  Shock sparked through his system, and he jerked backwards.

  Sarah whimpered, the sound echoing up the shaft.

  Grant caught his breath and changed his footing. Legs apart for a more solid base. He slipped one end of the belt through the buckle and pulled it all the way to the end, forming a manacle just big enough for Sarah to slip her wrist in. He wrapped the loose end around his fist and leaned into the well again.

  “Okay. Try again. Slowly. Slip your hand through the loop.”

  He was talking just to calm her down, the sound of his voice giving her reassurance. It was obvious what she had to do. The end of the belt dangled above her head. Without looking up she found it with one hand and slipped her wrist through the loop. Held tight and grabbed the strap with her other hand too.

  Grant took the weight with his right arm. Muscles screamed in his shoulder. As soon as he felt she was secure, he swung the machete at the rope where it stretched over the wall. The blade was sharp. The swing was heavy. The twang of the rope snapping sounded loud in the silence.

  “Now turn.”

  Sarah didn’t need telling twice. She turned to face the wall of the shaft and used her feet to find grips on the way up. Grant braced his legs and pulled. She came up three feet. He leaned back from the wall and pulled again. Another three feet. Sarah held onto the top of the retaining wall, and Grant leaned over and grabbed the waist of her jeans. One final tug, and she tumbled headlong over the wall.

  Grant fell back and sat on the ground. He let out an explosive breath, then loosened the noose from around her neck. The rope had bitten deep, leaving a burn scar that would take months to heal. The belt came loose from her wrist. Her eyes watered as she gasped for air. She coughed and retched and was sick on the flowers around the base of the well.

  No one else was coughing.

  That was Grant’s first thought.

  Then Sarah found her voice.

  “Jim.”

  Grant spun around too late. The machete wasn’t on the ground where he’d dropped it. It was swinging at his head in a killing arc.

  Sunlight glinted off the blade. It slashed downwards towards where Grant was sitting. Not from very high because Macready was sitting too, his broken knee twisted at an ugly angle. The razor edge had become serrated where it had struck the stone wall when cutting the rope. It wasn’t any less sharp as it sliced through the orange windcheater wrapped around Grant’s upstretched arm. Blood seeped through the cut. Pain flared.

  Grant rolled to one side and spun his legs to face the threat. Standard practice when an officer was on the ground facing a hostile force in a riot situation or a pub fight. Police training school had contingencies for everything. He didn’t remember them teaching him how to defend against a machete attack. Get in close. That was all he could think of. Inside the fighting arc. Easier said than done when you were on your back and down to one arm.

  The blade swung again. From high to low in a chopping motion. Grant flick-rolled in the opposite direction. One swift movement followed by a straight-legged kick to the chest. His foot slammed Macready backwards. The Texan twisted but his shattered knee couldn’t follow. He let out a scream and snarled at Grant. Speckles of slaver dripped from his lips. His face was red. He looked like a rabid dog. He tried to bring his arm back for another strike, but Grant lurched to his knees and gained the higher ground.

  The machete arm was in the middle of the backstroke. Grant caught the wrist before it could swing forward. He pulled Macready’s arm straight and slammed his elbow down on the Texan’s forearm. It snapped just above the wrist, and the machete fell to the ground.

  Grant darted forward and whipped the belt around Macready’s neck. He knelt behind the Texan and caught the other end of the belt. The cords of Macready’s throat stood out as the belt tightened.

  Sarah shuffled back against the well. Sunlight haloed around her head. The bright little flowers at the base of the well stood out in another glorious Texas morning. Not flowers on a desert grave. New life in a desolate land.

  Grant squeezed tighter. Macready had killed Hunter Athey and tried to kill Sarah. Not to mention the cat. This wasn’t a man who deserved mercy. This wasn’t a man who would see the inside of an Absolution jail cell. Sometimes justice was more than following the letter of the law. Grant turned his back on Sarah and locked one arm around Macready’s neck. He grabbed the Texan’s head and prepared to administer summary justice.

  forty-five

  They didn’t talk on the drive back to Absolution. Grant concentrated on keeping the pickup on the road with only one hand. Sarah concentrated on resting her throat, still sore from the hanging that almost cost the waitress her life. That’s what they told themselves, but the silence spoke volumes. Tense and spiky and full of hidden meaning.

  The sun rode high in a hard blue sky. The storm was past. The fallout was still evident. For practically the first time since Grant had arrived on the Sunset Limited, the Texas wastelands showed color other than desert sand and pale blue sky. Green blossomed everywhere. Not exactly the garden of England greenery, but considering the scorched earth he’d experienced the last few days it was a riot of color. Strange plants had sprung up along the roadside. Flowers bloomed. Even the cacti looked bright and green instead of sad and lonely.

  The river level had dropped as quickly as it had risen, the water already soaking into the parched landscape. The pickup negotiated the watercourse with ease. The tires had no problem climbing out of the other side. Grant was surprised to find that the dust trail was back in his wake. Not another car following him this time but simply the shadow that followed everything in the desert wastes. It felt good. Like an old friend coming back to join him.

  Absolution lay ahead. Grant wasn’t sure if he deserved it. The town was just a row of uneven rooftops breaking the smooth lines of the horizon. Smoke hung over portions of the town—straggly wisps that pinpointed the aftermath of the gun battle and Macready’s compound. The entire street would be a crime scene. Sheriff Al Purwin would have his hands full sorting that mess out. He’d need lots of help from outside agencies. No doubt Avenue D was a hive of activity. Co
rnejo’s MPs would be able to provide initial scene preservation, but the investigation would need a leg up from nearby towns. There would be lots of questions and lots of paperwork. Grant wasn’t feeling up to that just yet.

  He crossed the railroad tracks and paused at the junction with First Street. Left towards town or right towards Sixto’s. He glanced at the fuel gauge. Nearly empty. He couldn’t return Sabata’s pickup with a dry tank. He turned right, away from the inevitable questioning, and headed towards the gas station and the diner.

  Grant’s dust trail hadn’t gone unnoticed. By the time he pulled onto the forecourt, the reception committee was waiting.

  The bullet-riddled sign at the roadside still read

  ABSOLUTION, TEXAS Est. 1882

  Pop. 203—Elev. 4040

  Welcome/Bienvenidos

  But the welcome was friendlier than last time. John Cornejo and Doc Cruz stood in Sixto’s doorway. Old Pedro wagged his tail in the fenced scrap yard, apparently recovered from his drug-induced rest. An insect zapped itself on the bug catcher, sparking purple light above the door. Dust swirled around the pickup. Grant turned the engine off and got out. He nodded at Cornejo.

  “Can you debug the windshield while you’re at it?”

  The ex-marine crossed the forecourt and stood beside the gas pump.

  “I thought you’d show up here.”

  Grant indicated the filler cap.

  “Running on empty.”

  Cornejo looked at Grant’s battered face and the makeshift dressing that was oozing blood down his arm.

  “You certainly are.”

  “Know where I can find a good doctor?”

  The tone was light to cover the seriousness of the situation. Typical cop-speak that transferred to all the emergency services and the military. Gallows humor. Bury your feelings deep. Doc Cruz wasn’t in the military. He wasn’t a cop. He was a country doctor who had just treated injuries no man should ever have to see. Combat was a brutal activity. A cut arm and scarred face were small potatoes.

  Cruz walked straight past Grant and helped Sarah out of the pickup.