Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella)

by John Stonehouse

  “Butch said the sheriff spoke with their attorney, Juanita's attorney.”

  “McCoy spoke with her?”

  “He's put in a request to interview Juanita.”

  “I stalled him, so far.”

  “Butch says they're looking to bring in the FBI.”

  “McCoy's telling everyone he wants another investigator?”

  “Look,” Leanne says, “don't aggravate the sheriff.”

  “Son of a bitch is starting to aggravate me.”

  A flag in front of the federal building snaps against the white pole, halyard shuddering.

  “When are you coming home?”

  “My buddy's daughter is locked up in a cell, Leanne.”

  “How about your own daughter?”

  Whicher takes the Resistol from his head. He tosses it down on the empty passenger seat.

  “You're three hours away,” she says.

  “From Abilene? I guess.”

  “What else could you do tonight?”

  The marshal stares unfocused out the window—with no answer. Feels a weight inside; descending.

  “You want me to take the phone up?” Leanne says. “You want to tell Lori goodnight?”

  The sky above the city arches dull black. Leaves chase down the brick pavers, caught in the street lights, whipped in the wind.

  Whicher pulls himself upright against the steering wheel. “If anything like this ever happened to her...”

  “Don't.” Leanne falls silent a moment.

  “If it ever did,” he says.

  “She's only six.”

  “I hope there'd be someone.” Whicher runs a thumb over his jaw. Feels the growth of bristle against the nail. “Someone to fight her corner.”

  His wife's voice is quiet when she speaks again. “I hope it would be you.”

  Gaines County, TX.

  * * *

  In a gravel lot by a county road Whicher sits in the truck, motor switched off, the windows rolled.

  The lot is overgrown with sumac and honey mesquite, masked from the road, the Silverado hidden from sight.

  Half a mile off is the lease road out to the drilling rig.

  The marshal checks his watch.

  Brandon Lynch would be packing his gear, stowing everything away.

  If he left the drill site at ten, he'd hit the county road, he could head west into Hobbs. Or make a right, head for Seminole, the highway. If he was headed home, he'd pass the gravel lot. No way Whicher would miss him.

  Through the open window of the truck is the sound of a pumpjack rocking oil up from the ground.

  He thinks of Desert Storm, of Butch. Takes out the Ruger revolver—holds it up against the wheel.

  He stares at the gun—eighteen years a marshal—eighteen years carrying it, a back up for the standard-issue Glock.

  Could they ever have imagined a night like this? Fall night. Butch's daughter all grown—in some barred cell. He thinks of thirty men in a scout platoon, out in front of the line, in M3 Bradleys.

  Find the enemy.

  Find him. Sting him. Bring him out.

  He hefts the big revolver back into the shoulder holster. Settles back in the seat, thinks again of Juanita.

  An only child, she grew up the apple of her father's eye. She walked into something in Torero—a place she shouldn't ever have been.

  Juanita Jones.

  Nothing he could think of had her shooting Tommy Ray Fallon.

  To take a gun, to shoot a man dead?

  He stares at the black night beyond the windshield. Butch was out there somewhere—looking for his wife, wherever she was. The marriage gone the same way as the home he'd tried to build, same as the business. He glances at the cell phone, thinks of calling. From back down the road, fleeting movement appears in the rear-view.

  He turns, stares out the window.

  Twin lights ripple through the honey mesquite.

  Whicher moves his hand to the ignition. Moments pass, a sound builds—a vehicle approaching.

  The red side of a pickup flashes through the tree line.

  The marshal watches till its well out front, tail lights all but gone.

  And then he turns the key.

  The V-8 fires into life beneath the hood.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thirty minutes later on the four-lane through the town of Lamesa, Whicher keeps his distance in the Silverado—two cars, a sedan and an SUV, between himself and Lynch.

  Ahead, a set of stop lights hang above an intersection—the lights on red.

  Lynch crosses into the right-hand lane.

  Whicher eases his foot onto the brake.

  The stop light flicks to green.

  Lynch makes a right, headed away from Lubbock, from Torero. From home.

  The sedan and the SUV turn with him.

  Whicher reaches the intersection, follows, lets the three-car convoy stretch out.

  The road passes blocks of housing—a church, Lamesa middle school. Lynch hits the blinker—makes a left.

  The SUV turns behind him.

  Whicher follows both vehicles into 1st Street. Red brick lines the strip of asphalt running cross town, past the city municipal building, the police department. In the courthouse square, stores and businesses are closed up for the night, their lights out.

  Whicher thinks of the truck stop, to the south of town.

  At the end of 1st Street, Lynch makes a right onto Highway 87—the SUV continuing straight.

  Whicher follows the Ram, keeps his distance.

  The highway passes workshops, auto yards, a grain elevator.

  The pickup's slowing now. Braking sharp, its tail lights flare.

  Lynch swings off the highway.

  The marshal gets off the gas, no way of stopping—not without Lynch seeing.

  He drives by the turn.

  In the glow of Lynch's headlights he sees a color lit up—orange-red.

  An image flashes in his mind—the rig in Gaines—the young floor-hand sluicing mud with a hose. Hard hat a blood orange. Like the doors he'd seen, row after row—garage doors in a line.

  He passes two blocks, stands on the brake—whips the Silverado off the highway.

  He cuts the motor, pulls out the keys. Feels for the Ruger in the shoulder holster, the Glock at his hip.

  Brandon Lynch has the door up on a ten-by-twenty rental storage unit.

  The Ram pickup is parked out front—body just long enough to block the opening from view.

  Lynch lifts out a metal case from the truck bed, turns, carries it inside.

  Whicher stands in the shadows at the far end of a row of units. He takes the cell from his jacket, takes a pace back out of sight.

  Lynch claimed he'd slept at the truck stop the night before Fallon's murder. Why sleep there when he could've slept here, just a few hundred yards up the road?

  The marshal finds the number for Clark Schmidt, he presses down to call.

  He can see the tailgate of the Ram, no sign of Lynch. He presses the cell to his ear.

  The call picks up.

  “This is Whicher. How fast can you get a warrant?”

  “Marshal?”

  “I need a search warrant for a rental storage unit in Lamesa.”

  “Say again?”

  “Brandon Lynch has a storage unit here.”

  “How you find that out?”

  “I followed the son of a bitch,” Whicher says. “He's in there now.”

  “I thought he was on some rig?”

  “He just got off it. I need you to call a judge, get a warrant signed to enter and search.”

  A semi rumbles by on the highway, Whicher waits for it to pass.

  “You want in right now?” Schmidt says. “Can't you get it yourself?”

  “You know Lynch is a dealer, DEA know him,” Whicher says. “The judge needs reasonable cause.”

  “What if it's just some place to keep his shit?”

  “What kind of shit you suppose that could be?”

/>   The DEA agent falls silent for a moment.

  “A man was shot dead yesterday,” Whicher says, “at the back door of Lynch's house.”

  “Alright, let me see if I can raise someone.”

  “Get a hold of a judge.”

  “Call me back on this in ten?”

  “I'll call in five.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A night security guard stands in front of the steel roller-door. In his hand is a set of bolt-cutters, a box of tools at his feet. “I turned off the alarm.”

  Lynch has been gone thirty minutes. Last Whicher's seen of him, he was heading north on the highway.

  The guard pushes a set of eye-glasses up his nose. “I'll have to cut off the lock. You sure it's okay for me to do this?”

  “I have a warrant,” Whicher says. “Emergency-issue.”

  The man shrugs, lifts the bolt-cutters to the hasp on the door. He presses on the cutter handles, forcing down all his weight. “Tenant's own the lock and key, that way they can't accuse us of going in...” The jaws close on the steel hoop, cutting into it.

  Whicher steps forward.

  The guard reaches down to the tool box, grabs a screwdriver—prizes the loop apart. He takes off the heavy padlock intact. “You need me to stick around?” He raises the door.

  “I'll come find you,” Whicher says. “Just as soon as I'm done.”

  The man flips on the light, throws the screwdriver and the padlock into the toolbox. He picks it up, starts to walk away. “I'll be over yonder in the office...”

  Whicher scans the garage-sized space—it's filled with household furniture, a dirt-bike, a set of truck tires and rims. On top of a battered flight-case is a mess of jugs and filters, cabling and meters.

  The marshal steps out to the Silverado—takes a pair of blue latex gloves from a box in the dash.

  Ten minutes later, the dirt-bike's by the Silverado on the concrete apron, the truck tires and rims and field-test equipment piled in a heap in front of the roller-door.

  Whicher searches a stack of four toughened-plastic boxes. Inside the first is work-wear, coveralls, shirts and pants. He takes out everything, looks briefly. Puts it on back.

  Opening the second box he sees cold weather gear, a fleece-top, a jacket.

  Down one side of the box is a clear plastic food bag.

  He lifts it out, sees an off-white powder inside. He steps to the truck, slips the bag inside a ziploc.

  Inside the remaining boxes, he finds nothing.

  He drags a roll of carpet from in front of a dresser. In the bottom drawer is T-shirts, pairs of jeans. He pulls the drawer right out on its runner.

  All the way at the back is a semi-automatic pistol.

  A SIG Mosquito—a .22.

  Whicher feels a tick in the middle of his chest.

  He reaches in, lifts out the pistol with a gloved hand. Stares at it a moment, presses on the release, lets the magazine drop into his hand.

  He counts the bullets in the magazine; nine.

  Pulling back on the slide he checks the chamber—there's a round inside.

  The gun is a ten-plus-one.

  It's missing a single round.

  Out on the highway east of the city of Lubbock, the northern sky is lit with the trace of wild fire burning.

  Strong wind buffets against the side of the truck, Whicher tries his cell again—two times he's tried calling, both calls switching straight to voicemail. He listens to the unanswered ring against his ear, thinks of clicking off.

  A voice comes on the line. “Who is this?”

  “Sheriff? This is Deputy Marshal Whicher.”

  From the dark at the side of the highway, a sign floats in view—lit up in the truck beams; White River.

  “What do you want?” says McCoy.

  “I need to talk to you...”

  “I've got roads to close, people to move out of their homes tonight.”

  The marshal shifts lanes for a truck pulling out from a rest stop.

  “Twenty thousand acres is burning up here, marshal.”

  “I'm calling about the murder of Tommy Ray Fallon.” Whicher holds the cell against his ear, steers with one hand.

  “The way the wind's coming, we may have to clear out tonight,” the sheriff says. “You best make it fast.”

  “The bullet frag,” the marshal says. “The piece of slug the M.E. recovered. It was a .22. That right?”

  “That's what he said...”

  “No change on that?”

  “It's not about to up and change.”

  Whicher glances at a leather tote on the passenger seat. “A .22 round, a semi-automatic pistol...”

  “What's on your mind?” the sheriff says.

  “I just took a SIG Sauer Mosquito from a rental storage unit in Lamesa. That's a .22 semi-automatic.”

  “I know what it is.”

  “The rental unit is in the name of Brandon Lynch.”

  No response.

  “I have a bag of powder from out of the same place. It's either coke or crank. I think methamphetamine.”

  “Listen...”

  “You listen. Lynch is off the drill site, now. Last I saw him, he was headed north. Did you put a guard on the house?”

  “Marshal—everybody's out on fire duty...”

  “There's no one there?”

  “We're dealing with an emergency situation, here.”

  “You got a crime scene to protect.”

  “Lynch has witnesses,” McCoy says, voice tight. “He was on a drill site at the time of the murder...”

  “What if Fallon was killed before?”

  “The God damn neighbor heard the shot.”

  To the north and east a line of light glows bright at the horizon. “That could've been anything,” Whicher says.

  “She heard it, Miss Bonnier heard it, right around eight.”

  “What if he was shot sometime in the early hours?”

  “You got some kind of a problem?” McCoy snaps. “Juanita Jones admits being there, my evidence man took finger prints, shoe prints, hair and fiber.”

  “I'm not denying she was there.”

  “You trying to protect the girl?”

  A gust of wind batters the truck, dirt from a cut field of cotton scouring the road. “Send somebody to the house,” Whicher says.

  “I already told you, the whole department's called out.”

  “I'm coming up there.”

  “I've got outlying farms to clear, roads to close...”

  “You hear me?”

  “This all is on Juanita Jones. I'm having FBI investigators take the case.”

  “I'm coming to Torero.”

  “I have wild fires burning, marshal. Fire and very high winds. If this gets moving it could take the town with it.”

  “Y'all take care of that then, sheriff.”

  “Meaning what exactly?”

  “Meaning, take care of the town. I'll take care of Brandon Lynch myself.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Torero, TX.

  * * *

  At the city limit sign for Torero, a sheriff's department cruiser blocks the highway. Standing by the cruiser is the rake-thin Deputy Skilling. He's holding up his hand, feet splayed.

  Whicher slows, drops the window of the truck.

  “Highway's closed,” the deputy calls out.

  Beyond the town, above the rooftops, the sky over the trees glows with amber light.

  The marshal stops, leans out the window—air filled with the reek of burning. “I need to come on through. I already spoke with Sheriff McCoy.”

  “Nobody said nothing to me.”

  “I need to get to Brandon Lynch's house.”

  “Fire's coming. Nobody's allowed through.”

  “The house ain't a half a mile from here,” Whicher says. “Have you seen a red Ram pickup?”

  The deputy shakes his head.

  “You have all the roads closed?”

  “Just the highway.”

&nb
sp; A cattle truck pulls out at an intersection—swinging wide to make the turn.

  Skilling waves it onward.

  “I need to see if Lynch is at the house,” Whicher says. “He could've ridden in here any number of ways.”

  In front of the cruiser, there's just enough space for the cattle truck to pass. It crawls through the gap, blue and red of Skilling's light bar pulsing on the slatted sides.

  “If Lynch ain't there,” Whicher says, “I'll head on out...”

  Animal eyes stare out as the truck pulls clear.

  “How about if he is there?”

  The marshal yanks on the steering wheel, mashes down on the gas.

  From the gravel track, among the live oak, he can just see the property around the bend in the lane.

  Lights are on inside the house, the Ram pickup parked in the yard.

  Whicher cuts the headlights on the truck, kills the motor.

  He takes out the keys.

  The scent of smoke is strong in the air. He reaches for the leather tote on the passenger seat, feels the weight of the plastic evidence bags inside.

  A SIG .22 pistol. Powdered methamphetamine.

  He steps out onto the unlit road, hot dry wind at his back.

  Blinds are drawn across the window at the front of Lynch's place, but light is spilling out across the yard.

  Whicher heads down the sidewalk, crosses the scorched grass by the Ram pickup.

  He steps to the front door, knocks hard. “US Marshal...”

  No answer. No sound from inside.

  He moves his hand to the Glock at his waist, snapping loose the retainer on the holster.

  A voice calls; “Who is it?”

  “Open the door, Mister Lynch.”

  For a moment nothing. Then the voice calls out again. “Who is this?”

  “Whicher. Deputy Marshal Whicher.”

  There's a noise, a rasp, the sound of a key in a lock.

  Whicher takes a pace to the side.

  The door opens. Brandon Lynch stands in the hallway. He's dressed in dirty jeans, boots, a flannel shirt. His eyes glisten as he scans the yard.