Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella)

by John Stonehouse

  Chapter Two

  In the roadside diner outside of Floydada, Whicher sips on a cup of coffee, cleaning up a plate of smoked brisket, black eyed peas and corn.

  He watches headlights moving on the highway, thinks of Butch Jones, Juanita's father.

  December 1986.

  Twenty-four years back.

  In '86, he'd been fresh off the Armor Officer basic course at Fort Knox, a second lieutenant—a butter bar. Butch Jones had been his sergeant at 3rd Armored Cavalry. Experienced, capable, he ran the unit at platoon level—a young lieutenant with a bunch of grunts was dog meat, without a guy like that.

  Butch had quit the army in '92, around the same time as Whicher himself. He'd gone into construction on his own tab, running a couple of backhoes out of Amarillo.

  He'd gotten married to a woman name of Dolores—pretty, fiery. He was making money, getting ahead. Then came '07. He lost the business, the family home, the whole bit.

  Times had been hard, since. So far as Whicher could make out, Dolores was in and out of Butch's life, Juanita, their only child, about the same.

  The marshal puts down his cup of coffee. He eyes the cell phone on the top of the booth.

  Juanita was the light of her father's world—no matter what she did. She'd screw up, time after time, he wouldn't care—he'd go through anything, without a thought.

  Whicher scans the rows in the empty diner. A lone woman sits behind the counter. He takes up the cell, keys a number.

  From somewhere a radio is playing, voices drifting from the kitchen.

  The call picks up.

  “I can't find her,” Whicher says.

  He lets a moment pass in silence.

  “Did you try Torero?” Butch's voice is thick when he finally speaks.

  Whicher stares out the window at a pickup parked in the lot—two dogs in the truck bed, straining, pulling at their chains. “I just came from there.”

  “Her mother says she has to hit a brick wall.”

  The marshal pushes aside the dinner plate.

  “Learn from it,” Butch says. “Learn a lesson.”

  “Something happened,” the marshal says.

  He hears his friend exhale hard into the phone. “Like what?”

  “Before I tell you, I need to know about this guy Brandon Lynch? He a boyfriend?” The marshal takes a pen from his jacket. “Does she see him a lot?”

  “I don't know.”

  “She ever stay at his house?”

  Butch is quiet a moment.

  “Does she?”

  “There's things a father asks his daughter. Other things not...”

  “He works in oil?”

  “She says so. Says he makes greaser money.”

  Whicher nods. “But she's living in Lubbock, not with him?”

  “She has her apartment out to Clapp Park, her and her girlfriend, Katy-Jo. Look, what happened?”

  Whicher leans on his elbows, mouth pressed shut.

  “Come on,” Butch snaps. “Let's hear it.”

  “A man was shot and killed at that house today.” Whicher takes off the Resistol. He places it on the booth seat.

  “Oh, man. Oh, man—oh, Jesus Christ.”

  “It wasn't Lynch, there's no sign of him there. It was a man named Tommy Ray Fallon—you ever hear of him?”

  Butch's voice cracks.

  Whicher sits up straighter in the leatherette booth. “Have you?”

  “No, man.”

  “Sure on that?”

  The woman behind the counter stands up, turns slow, walks out stiff toward the kitchen.

  “I'm heading down to Lubbock,” Whicher says. “I'm about an hour out, east of Floydada. I'll go down, go to Clapp Park, find Katy-Jo, talk to her.”

  Butch makes a sound, incoherent.

  “You're going to have to hear this,” the marshal says. “This guy Tommy Ray Fallon? He worked for a bail bond company. Out of Lubbock.”

  “Jesus, God. Oh, Jesus.”

  “I'll find her, Butch. I'm going down there. I'm going to find her.”

  Chapter Three

  Lubbock, TX.

  * * *

  Whicher takes the 34th Street exit into downtown, riding the four-lane between the interstate and the university. The strip of road passes chain restaurants, box malls, business lots—Texas Tech lit up to the northwest above the lights of the city.

  He makes a left into Wheelock and Monterey.

  Down the west side of Clapp Park he checks the street numbers, pulls off of University Avenue, parks outside a two-story apartment building.

  A young woman is at the window on the second floor.

  The marshal cuts the motor, steps out, locks the truck.

  The street's deserted, he walks fast along the sidewalk. At the door to the apartment building, he presses on an intercom switch.

  The loudspeaker crackles.

  “Katy-Jo Wicks?”

  “Are you the marshal?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  There's a buzz, the sound of a latch mechanism clicking back in the lock.

  Whicher pushes the door open into a dim-lit hallway.

  He hears footsteps.

  The young woman appears on the stairs.

  She's blond, wearing white leggings, running shoes, a hooded gray sweat. Her hair is pulled back tight from an angular face.

  “I'm Katy-Jo.”

  “I come up?”

  She plants a smile on her made-up face. Turns, starts up the stairs, ankle chain bouncing.

  Whicher follows to a second floor corridor—the apartment is four doors down.

  She waves him in. Inside is the scent of candles, bath oil, cigarettes. A sagging couch lines one wall, big screen TV directly opposite.

  “You want a can of soda or something?”

  “Thanks, I'm good.”

  Katy-Jo reaches into the small kitchen, opening the door of a refrigerator. She takes a can from the door, pops it open.

  “You have any idea where Juanita is at?” Whicher says.

  She picks at a chip in her fingernail. “I haven't seen her in two days. Like I told her dad.”

  The marshal walks across the room to the window. Lights of Hub City strung out in the fall dark.

  “I told him I'd call,” she says.

  “You know how serious this is?”

  Katy-Jo takes a pull at the can of soda.

  “I need to find her, fast,” Whicher says.

  “I know, I get it.”

  “Do you know if Juanita went to see a man named Brandon Lynch—in Torero, in Motley County?”

  “No.”

  He looks at her from the window.

  “I don't know,” she says.

  “You don't call or nothing? You don't talk on the phone?”

  She puts down the can, takes her cell from the pocket of her sweat top. She taps it, holds it out. The screen shows Juanita's name and number. “See for yourself.” She presses call, passes him the cell.

  Whicher takes it, holds it against his ear.

  It rings over and over, clicks to voice mail. He lets it play.

  “Hey, this is Juanita. Leave me a message...” Bright sounding, eager.

  He waits a moment, but there's no more—just a beep.

  He clicks off the call. Hands the cell back to Katy-Jo.

  “That's how it's been,” she says. “The last two days.”

  “You saw her here last? In the apartment?”

  “Right when I was leaving for work.”

  “Where's that?”

  “The Rockhampton Circle. I manage a clothing store, assistant manage.”

  “You were leaving for work, Juanita was doing what?”

  “Hanging round in her pajamas. She was drinking a cup of coffee right here in the kitchen.”

  “Ordinarily, do y'all speak?”

  The young woman bugs her eyes.

  Whicher scans the room for photographs, for something personal, a link to his friend's only child.

 
; “It's this whole court thing,” Katy-Jo says. “She's totally freaking out, she thinks she's going in jail.”

  The marshal twists his mouth. “This guy, Brandon Lynch, you know him?”

  “A little.”

  “He a boyfriend?”

  Katy-Jo nods. “Kind of. But he works away a lot of the time.”

  “Does Juanita go see him?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “She go out to the house?”

  “She's been out.”

  “What's he like, Lynch?”

  The young woman shrugs. “I hardly know him. First time I met him he was talkative, like hyper. Next time, he hardly said two words.”

  “I need to find her,” Whicher says.

  “Juanita says that's how he is.”

  “I need to find her before anybody else. If she's in trouble, I can help.”

  Katy-Jo takes a pack of gum from the arm of the couch.

  “I went up to Torero today,” Whicher says. “Up to Brandon Lynch's place.”

  She nods.

  “A man's been shot dead there...”

  She clamps her mouth shut.

  “If you have any idea where Juanita's at—and I mean any idea at all, you need to tell me.”

  “Everything I could think of, I already told her dad...”

  Whicher levels his eyes on her.

  Her face is blank.

  “Does the name Tommy Ray Fallon mean anything to you?”

  She shakes her head.

  “How about last week, what was Juanita doing? She stay home all day?”

  “She'll work casual...”

  “Where? Here in Lubbock?”

  “She was over at Mackenzie Park. She knows a lot of people out at the fair.”

  “The South Plains Fair?”

  “She was helping out some friends, helping set up. She knows a guy that has a stall...”

  “Could Juanita be out there?”

  Katy-Jo shakes her head.

  “You tell this to her old man?”

  “She wouldn't be there.”

  “Fair starts this week, that right?”

  “It started yesterday.”

  Whicher looks at her. “This friend of hers?” He takes out the lined notepad. “I'm going to need a name.”

  Sixty acres, a sea of cars and trucks—the fair ground site is awash with people.

  Through the open window of the Silverado, the night air is filled with sound—a band on a stage beyond the permanent halls—boomboxes blaring out from numberless stalls along the strip.

  Emilio Zamora.

  Whicher says the name over.

  Zamora traveled with the rodeo, according to Katy-Jo. He lived in Lubbock, but followed the professional circuit in and out of state, from summer to early fall. When September rolled around, he'd come in off the road, take a stall at South Plains, before moving onto Dallas, closing out with the State Fair.

  In front of the Silverado, the way is blocked with twin trailers—a makeshift HQ for the city police.

  A cop in black uniform speaks into his radio—he holds up a hand, approaches the truck.

  Whicher slows to a crawl. “US Marshals Service,” he shouts through the window. “Security called me through. I leave my truck here?”

  The cop nods, waves him forward.

  Whicher parks behind the nearest trailer, shuts off the motor. He steps out. “I need to get to row fifteen.”

  “Head on down the center strip,” the cop says. “It's by the livestock pavilion. You want me to show you?”

  “Thanks, I'll find it.”

  “Are you looking for somebody in particular, marshal?”

  “Stall-holder, name of Zamora—Emilio Zamora.”

  The officer shakes his head.

  Whicher steps away from the truck. Tips the brim of his hat, “No matter,” he says.

  A crowd of people is moving—eating corn dogs, fried pickles, slices of pie. Groups of kids are running around—the marshal threads his way among the pipe and drape stalls.

  Strings of colored lights hang from ply-paneled trailers. A Ferris wheel turns against the night sky.

  The central strip is just ahead—the fairground sign lit-up above it, a faded, space-age star.

  Whicher searches a minute, sees a stall off the main aisle—a table filled with rows of green glass bottles.

  Kids are standing throwing hoops, trying to catch the necks of the bottles—laughing as the plastic rings bounce to the floor.

  At the back of the stall, a Hispanic in a red T-shirt smokes a hand-rolled cigarette. The man's a fit for Katy-Jo's description—rangy, tousled, arms covered in scrolls of tattoos. Whicher studies the ink a moment, looking for signs of jailhouse art.

  The man knocks his ash against a leather money bag hanging from a belt at his waist.

  The kids throw the last of their hoops—they move on to a neighboring stall.

  Whicher steps in closer.

  The young man notices him.

  “Emilio Zamora?” the marshal says.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Whicher takes out the badge from inside his suit.

  Zamora frowns, turns quick—casts a look back over his shoulder.

  A young woman in a head scarf steps around the tarp at the side of the stall.

  Her eyes cut to the Marshals Service badge.

  Whicher recognizes Juanita Jones.

  She's striking-looking.

  She has her mother's cheek bones, her father's eyes.

  Ebony hair spills from a black head scarf—she's wearing a sleeveless white dress, low boots, a dark green sweater at her waist.

  “You and me need to talk,” Whicher says.

  Her arms are folded tight, hands clutching at her elbows.

  Emilio Zamora takes a step to her side.

  Juanita unties the scarf, shakes loose her long hair, lets it fall to her shoulders.

  “You know why I'm here?”

  Her face is slack, the color drained.

  “You didn't show up in court yesterday.”

  She glances at him. Then her eyes slide away.

  “You won't remember,” he says, “but we've met before. When you were younger, just a kid.”

  “I remember.”

  He lets his eye rest on hers. “Your father asked me to find you. Before anybody else does.”

  She lets out a long breath. Stares at the threadbare ground.

  “Where were you all day? Were you up in Torero?”

  She shakes her head.

  “You have a friend up there? Brandon Lynch?”

  “He's away.”

  “Do you know a man name of Tommy Ray Fallon?”

  Whicher sees the jut to her chin. The tight set of her neck.

  “You ever hear of him?”

  She half-turns, puts the scarf on top of a wooden bench, brushing back her hair.

  The marshal feels his heart sink.

  “Where were you all day, Juanita?”

  She won't look at him.

  “Were you here? Were you with people?”

  Zamora touches the skin of her bare arm.

  The marshal waits for her to look at him. “I need to know where you were last night. And where you were this morning?”

  Juanita's eyes flick to Zamora. She raises her hands, sweeps her palms across her face.

  “I promised your father I'd help.”

  She drops her arms to her sides.

  Whicher edges back his jacket—enough for her to see the silvered cuffs at his belt. “I don't want to put these on you...”

  She looks at him, heat behind her eyes.

  “If you run, if I need police help to bring you in, you'll go in the city lock-up. In downtown.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You and me,” he says. “We need to take a ride.”

  Chapter Four

  Sodium light pools in the interstate rest-stop, cars and pickups spaced out over the pitted lot. Juanita Jones sits in the passenger s
eat of the Silverado. She stares out through the windshield. Whicher stands beneath a plains oak, keying in a number to his cell.

  Insects swarm the lit-up poles by a line of eighteen-wheelers.

  The call rings once, connects—it picks up.

  Road noise from the interstate sweeps by, the marshal waits for it to pass. “Butch, I got her.”

  No response.

  “She's okay. She's with me now. She's sitting in my truck.”

  At the end of the line, his friend lets out a held breath.

  “She was at The Panhandle Fair.”

  “In Lubbock?”

  “I saw Katy-Jo,” Whicher says. “She gave me a guy named Zamora, Emilio Zamora.” The marshal turns his back to the Silverado. “You know him?”

  “I don't think.” Butch's voice is hollow. “What are we going to do?”

  “She failed to show on a felony charge.”

  “It should have only been possession...”

  “LPD wrote it up the way they wrote it up.” Whicher shifts the phone against his ear.

  A panel van is pulling in to the lot—covered in cement dust, riding low on its springs.

  Behind the van, a state trooper drives in slow.

  “There'll be a warrant,” Whicher says. “They may not be actively pursuing.” From the corner of his eye, he tracks the state trooper. “We need to figure out what to do. I can't get her to talk.”

  “Can I speak with her?”

  “I think she needs to say she turned herself in.”

  The trooper glides to a halt behind the panel van. He sits forward, reaches for his radio.

  “If we came up with some reason she couldn't be there yesterday—maybe they'd agree a reschedule. We caught a break finding her,” Whicher says. “If we show she wasn't running there's a chance the judge would take it.” He pauses. “It's a crock, they might still throw it out. Who's her attorney?”

  “Lopez. Evelyn Lopez.”

  “Out of Amarillo?”

  “She's out of Lubbock.”

  The marshal digs a knuckle of his thumb into his brow. “Call her first thing in the morning. I'm thinking to take Juanita up to Motley County...”

  “What for?”

  “I'm supposed to take her to a jail, I'm guessing you don't want that? I can use the pretext of taking her to see the sheriff in Torero. She knows Brandon Lynch, the sheriff knows I was looking for her.”