"You sound like you're talking from experience, Sheriff."
"Pretty near, son, pretty damn near. My daddy come out here from Oklahoma in the thirties. Wanted to go to California. Only thing was, when he got to the border, there was already too many Okies in lotusland. They had deputies at the border, and worse. Vigilantes who'd string you up sooner'n let you pass. So Daddy come on back this way. There wasn't but a few citrus farms back then, and a hundred hands for every orange needed pickin'. It was hard times, I don't mind tellin' you. I seen it firsthand. My heart goes out to them people."
"What's the connection?"
"Dammit, son, it's sittin' right there in front of your face. You don't see it, I can't help you none."
"Can I count on you if I need help?"
"Bet your ass. You for damn sure can. But you got to get me more'n I got now before I can legally do anything. You want my advice, you start at the other end, out there." Conlan waved his hand vaguely. "The other side of the border is where you ought to be lookin', son. We maybe got some mean sons of bitches over here willing to exploit people, even sit on their hands while some folks get pushed around. But them coyotes is a whole other kind of poison. They slit throats 'stead of goin' to the movies on a Saturday night." Conlan smiled grimly. "But you find this one, he's got a head too big for his damn hat, I'll bet you a buck. And one more thing. That boxcar?"
"What about it?"
"It wasn't supposed to be here. It was supposed to be in Yuma. I don't know what that means, but I'd bet my ass it means somethin'."
"You mind if I take a look at Tyack's place?"
"I don't, but he might. You be careful out there, and don't let nobody know who you are or why you're there. He's a strange man, and he's got some real hard asses workin' for him. There's a lot I don't like about that place. I don't know what's going on out there, but I'm gonna. Bet on it."
16
Bolan sat in the Renegade, his hands on the steering wheel, white knuckles glowing like small jewels around the rim. What he knew now wouldn't fill a shot glass, and he had no idea where the bottle was.
Somehow there had to be a connection between the murders at Tyack's Waywayanda Farm and the boxcar, and those behind both were somehow responsible for the ambush and murder of Will Ralston and Ronny Sipe. The warrior knew that with a cold certainty, but proving it was another matter. Following the connection back to its source would be harder still. He was convinced that whoever had engineered the alteration in the boxcar's route had also set up Carlton and Ralston, but he didn't know why. If he could answer that question, he might be able to figure out who. Motive was the great unknown.
The most logical place to start would be at Tyack's. He was curious about the local legend, but it was too early to call on him directly. Looking around a bit, maybe tripping over something, was the best bet. Roberto Miercoles had to have friends. Maybe someone had even seen what had happened. The illegals lived in constant fear of being sent back to Mexico. Any white face, as far as they were concerned, was about as welcome as the green vans of La Migra, as they called the INS. Bolan knew some Spanish, but he couldn't do anything about his complexion. What he needed was a link, an illegal who could front for him, someone to convince the others to talk to him, to tell him what they knew. That wouldn't be easy, but he'd have to think of something.
Kicking the Renegade, he headed north on Route 19, toward Tucson. As he drove, he kept mulling over what he knew, arranging and rearranging the pieces, trying to place them in some sort of meaningful chronology. It was the old question about the chicken and the egg. Only this time there were a dozen eggs and he had to decide which one hatched first. The number of chickens was an unknown, so he pushed that question aside.
On a midday morning, the northbound traffic was light, and Bolan was making good time. Low fences, pressed flat in places, altogether absent in some others, lined the highway about twenty yards off the shoulder. There was nothing beyond the fences, as far as he could see — no cattle, no horses — and he wondered what the fences were supposed to do. No signs identified the fenced-in land. Every third post carried a No Trespassing sign, but revealed nothing else.
The highway itself was smooth and seamless, the surface free of potholes and cracks. Unlike the roads in the north and east, the Arizona highways weren't exposed to constant freezing and thawing. There was no seepage to work its way down into minute cracks, then swell up, widening the gap and making room for more water and more expansion. The tires of the 4x4 hissed steadily over the satiny asphalt, the sound accented by a layer of fine sand, a reminder that whenever man was through with this part of the world, the desert was willing and able to reassert itself.
On the horizon a huge brown billow seemed to be crawling across the land far to the right. Bolan watched it as the Renegade kept to a steady sixty-five. It seemed to move slowly, without turbulence, but kept to a straight line, for fifteen minutes it drew closer, and Bolan had to look farther and farther to the right in order to keep it in view.
Suddenly the land on his right was darker, raked with furrows, and at the far edge of the creeping brown, he saw a huge tiller, its rear end wrapped in a dark brown cloud, shading slowly to light brown, then trailing off in a haze of beige. A moment later the Renegade bored into the remnants of the cloud, the fine dust coating the windshield and forcing Bolan to turn on the wipers.
This was cotton country.
As he drew closer to Tucson, the land changed, got greener. Acre after acre stretched out on both sides. The dark color seemed almost alien, as if the land were afflicted with some plague. Irrigation ditches crisscrossed the greenery and here and there shimmering silver fans of water from elevated poles sprayed out over the crops, each one throwing off a rainbow in the bright sun.
The region represented the southernmost advance of agriculture in the state, and oranges were fairly new here. Most of the groves were farther north, near Phoenix, but in a world where green meant gold, engineering subdued even nature, as long as the price was right.
Bolan hung a left, and suddenly the road ahead was stark and empty. Three miles of flat land gave way abruptly to ranks of trees. The scent of the citrus trees slowly seeped into the air-conditioned Renegade, and Bolan slowed to a crawl. He still hadn't decided whether to talk to Tyack himself, or to take a more direct approach to the laborers. He wasn't sure what to tell the grower, and no one was sure there was even a connection between him and the twenty-nine corpses in the boxcar.
Only a single piece of paper with a name scrawled in wavering letters with a blunt pencil linked the orange grower to the dead men. The Byzantine ways of the illegals, and the invisible web woven by coyotes and growers alike, meant that any man at any given time could have worked for Tyack. Some of the illegals came back year after year. The exploitation was tolerated by the Mexicans because they felt safer. They operated on the theory that it was better to deal with the devil you knew than with the devil you didn't.
For their part, the growers were more than happy to have a regular crew. When that crew was vulnerable, and outside the protection of the law, so much the better. Waywayanda Farm was huge, and Bolan had so far seen no one. The aisles between the trees were deserted. Occasionally a slight glimmer — water puddled in one of the shallow irrigation ditches — would catch his eye, but even the leaves were motionless. Light was the only thing that moved.
After another half mile Bolan pulled over into a small clearing just off the road. The earth was rutted, and thick treads had mauled it repeatedly. He stepped down from the vehicle and looked at the soil for a moment, then realized the tracks were those of a tractor. The clearing must be some sort of staging area or used for transitional storage during the picking.
Bolan cocked his head to listen, but there wasn't a sound. He stepped into an aisle between two rows of trees, grateful for the shade. The oppressive air seemed to cling to him, and every step was like sticking his face into an oven. He was already sweating, and he wondered how the men who made t
heir living scrambling up into the trees could bear it. What must their lives at home be like if they were eager to endure months of this brutal labor?
A quarter mile ahead a wall of green sealed off the aisle. Bolan reached the wall, then realized a hedgerow of some kind had been planted at a right angle to the rows of trees. He stepped over a narrow ditch and stood in the middle of a broad avenue of sand. Looking left and right, he still saw no sign of life. He squeezed into the hedgerow, turning sideways to get through the dense growth.
The hedge was nearly five feet deep, and he peered out through the far side. Beyond the hedge was another avenue, an irrigation ditch, and beyond it, another grove. Bolan slipped out of the hedge and stepped across the ditch. He paused to listen and heard a faint mutter of conversation. It was coming from the left, but it was impossible to gauge the distance.
Stepping back across the ditch, he headed in the direction of the noise, stopping to look down each aisle. After the first three, the conversation stopped, and he began to wonder whether he had imagined it. After checking five more aisles, he still saw no one. The conversation had died altogether. Shaking his head, he walked to the mouth of the next aisle, when an engine exploded behind him.
Bolan turned to see a four-wheel-drive pickup racing toward him, kicking up sand with its oversized tires. Two men sat in the cab, their faces fading in and out of view as the truck raced through patches of sunlight and shade. The warrior jumped across the irrigation ditch and dodged into the trees, the truck fifty yards away and closing fast.
Racing down the aisle, he turned to look over his shoulder in time to see the pickup lurch over the ditch, dipping and rocking as each axle fell into the ditch then climbed out. For a moment he thought about standing his ground, but there was something about the way the truck was charging that told him to forget it. Besides, he told himself, he wanted to keep a low profile until he had a chance to feel his way through the situation.
The truck came on, and he darted to the left, between two orange trees. He was in the next aisle now, and the truck was too large to fit through the narrow gap. It would have to run to the next turn then come back at him. All he had to do was stay far enough ahead of them, ducking from aisle to aisle. He heard the vehicle skid to a halt, and doors slamming. Glancing back, he saw a sliver of the bright red truck, which had stopped two aisles back.
The men were on foot now, and although he had a lead on them, they knew where they were going, and he didn't. Cutting at an angle, Bolan dashed two aisles over then sprinted straight ahead. The trees flashed by on both sides of him, and he kept looking back, to move sure they weren't behind him. He didn't know whether they were armed, but had to assume they were, and that they were willing to shoot.
The light was growing brighter ahead of him, and he realized he was heading for the edge of the grove. If he was trapped in the open, he'd be an easy target. Bolan skidded to a halt and listened for a moment. He could hear heavy footsteps crunching on the sandy soil, but couldn't tell where the pursuers were.
He squared up, facing toward the sound, and backed up slowly. He left his guns holstered, unwilling to shoot at men who, for all he knew, were just doing their job, chasing an intruder who had no business on the property.
Bolan glanced up at the sun to get his bearings, and cut off to the left, hoping to make his way back to the Renegade.
He no sooner got his bearings, than one of the pursuers burst into the clear at the end of an aisle. "There he is," the man shouted, and the second man burst into the open about ten yards behind his companion. There was no longer doubt whether they were armed. Each man carried a pump action Remington shotgun fitted with a pistol grip.
The warrior ducked behind the nearest tree just in time, the leaves over his head slicing into hundreds of tiny pieces and raining down over his head and shoulders. Chips of bark scattered left and right as the heavy buckshot ripped into the tree. Bolan crouched and sprinted to a tree one aisle over.
If these guys were just doing a job, their employer was getting his money's worth. A second and third shot ripped into the trees, the pellets slamming like deadly hail into the trunks, slashing the leaves overhead as the shot spread out.
Bolan glanced up at the thick foliage overhead and grabbed a branch. If he was quick enough, he could haul himself up into the branches. He scrambled, his feet slipping on the smooth bark, and managed to get his legs up just as another blast of buckshot tore through the aisle and chewed at the bark of the next tree over.
Bolan clambered up through the thick leaves, trying to muffle the sound of his ascent. The men had stopped firing, and he could hear them whispering to each other as they worked in closer.
"You think we got him?"
"Hell, I don't know."
"Lucky the bastard didn't have a gun. These damn Remingtons aren't worth a damn when it comes to accuracy."
"With one of these fuckers, you don't have to be accurate, man. That's why we got 'em. You better shut up. How the hell can we sneak up on him if you keep runnin' your mouth?"
The men were just below him now, walking carefully, trying to dampen their steps, placing their feet carefully, one ahead of the other.
The lead man stopped and cocked his head. "Listen, you hear anything?"
The second man followed suit. "No, nothing…"
"You think we got him?"
"I didn't hear anything. Maybe the son of a bitch doubled back on us."
"Who do you think he was?"
"I don't know, but I'll tell you one thing — I'm gonna get on the horn to Calderone soon as we get back."
"What for?"
"What do you think?"
17
"I'll meet you in ten minutes." Bolan hung up the pay phone and walked the half block to Sipe's Renegade. Sitting behind the wheel, he paused for a moment and watched the street behind him in the rearview mirror. It was early, and the pedestrian traffic was light. He started the engine and flipped on the turn signal, then pulled out of the tight parking space. As he coasted to the light at the corner, Bolan noticed a late-model Ford slip into the lane behind him.
When the light changed, he sped through the intersection and slipped into the curb with a sudden jerk of the wheel. The maneuver caught the driver of the Ford by surprise, and he swerved into the opposite lane, then roared by waving an angry fist and glaring at Bolan through the side window. So much for the possibility the guy was a tail. If you were trying to follow somebody, the last thing you wanted to do was call attention to yourself.
Bolan pulled back into the traffic lane and cruised to the next light. The Ford was idling at the same intersection, and the driver turned around when he spotted Bolan in his rearview. The casual finger he flipped over the front seat sealed it.
When the light changed, the Ford laid a ten-yard patch, disappearing in a cloud of burning rubber. Bolan hung a left and covered the eight blocks to Ronny Sipe's office in five minutes. He left the Renegade in the dirt lot behind the building and climbed the stairs deep in thought. He'd been kicking around what Conlan had told him, and it was tempting to think the old sheriff might be onto something. But there was a long way to go from concept to confirmation.
For a moment he wondered whether the wily old man had set him up as a stalking-horse, somebody to go out on a side trail, just in case there was something there. It seemed almost too Machiavellian for Conlan, but Bolan couldn't shake the notion that there was more to the story than the sheriff had told him. At the top of the stairs he turned the corner, then stopped for a minute. The pieces kept rattling around in his head, and he couldn't think straight for the racket.
Reaching into his pockets for the keys to Sipe's office, he froze when the street door creaked softly, as if whoever opened it didn't want to be heard. Flattening himself against the wall, the warrior pulled the Beretta from under his denim jacket, holding it high over his head.
The wooden stairs creaked once, then again. A dull thud, almost inaudible, whispered up the steps. A door op
ened at the far end of the hall, its hinges creaking so loudly they covered any sounds from the stairwell. The door banged closed, and Bolan glanced hurriedly over his shoulder to see an old man with a cane coming his way.
Bolan brought the pistol down and checked the hallway across from him. Two doors down, chipped gilt lettering identified the men's room. He tucked the Beretta under his jacket and padded across the hall. The door didn't open immediately, and he cursed under his breath. He couldn't risk a shoot-out, not with the old man trapped in the corridor behind him. Instead, Bolan put his shoulder into the door, and the tenuous hold of the thick paint on the doorframe gave way.
The Executioner ducked inside and held his breath. He flipped off the overhead light and worked the door partway open again. Through the crack he watched the old man shuffle past, his rubber-tipped cane patting the floor in an irregular rhythm. A few seconds later a hulking figure strode past the door, but Bolan couldn't make out the man's features. The face seemed somehow familiar, but the bare overhead bulb was behind the man.
The warrior waited a long ten seconds, then started to pull the door open. The screech of protesting metal forced him to stop. The old hinges were too noisy. Pulling slowly on the handle, he painstakingly worked the door back an inch at a time. When he had it wide enough, he pressed his face close to the doorframe and peered out into the hall, just in time to see the denim-clad hulk step through the door to Ronny Sipe's office.
Border Sweep Page 11