The deputy told Devery, “You’ll have to wait outside. Only one visitor at a time back here.”
“Sure thing,” Devery agreed. “Take it easy, John Howard.”
“Only way to take it,” Stark said.
The deputy ushered Devery away and shut the door. Stark and Elaine sat down side by side on the bunk. “Tell me all about it,” she said.
Stark shook his head. “You don’t want to know all about it. There are parts of it I don’t even want to think about again.”
“Well then, tell me as much as you can. As much as you want to.”
Stark talked for a while, glossing over the most grisly parts of the story. When he’d been brought back to the holding cell after his talk with Sam Gonzales, he had gone over the place as best he could and hadn’t found any bugs, so he was reasonably confident that no one was listening in as he explained his theory about Ramirez being behind this frame-up.
When he was done, he had some questions of his own. “When Hammond’s men came to the ranch and searched the barn, did they have a warrant?”
Elaine nodded and said, “Yes, the deputy who was in charge made sure that I looked it over good and then he gave me a copy of it before they ever started searching. I told him he was wasting his time. And then they came out of the barn carrying those . . . those things.”
“They had to be planted there after I left.”
“Couldn’t the deputies themselves have planted them?”
“It’s possible,” Stark said, “but I think it’s more likely some of Ramirez’s men, maybe even the killers themselves, slipped onto the ranch and put them in the barn.” A chill went through him as he thought about the Vulture’s men being that close to Elaine without anyone knowing about it. “I think most of the deputies are reasonably honest and do their jobs the best they can, despite Hammond being crooked.” He paused and then asked, “Did they find anything else? Did they search inside the house?”
“They searched everywhere,” Elaine said. “They said the warrant gave them the authority to search the entire premises.”
“I’m surprised they got Judge Goodnight to agree to sign that warrant,” Stark muttered.
“Judge Goodnight didn’t sign it. It was signed by Judge Bates.”
Stark frowned. Louise Bates was a local justice of the peace, a lawyer from somewhere in the Northeast who had moved to Del Rio a few years earlier with her husband when he retired from his job with a big chemical company. He was still relatively young, but his health was bad and his doctor had advised him to seek out a warm, dry climate, something Del Rio had in abundance. Stark had never heard anything bad about Louise Bates, but he supposed not being a Texan and having been in the area only a few years, she wasn’t fully aware of what was going on in the Rio Grande valley these days. Her liberal background, too, would make her quick to leap to conclusions whenever anybody starting throwing around words like “vigilante.”
“I reckon it’s legal,” Stark said, “or Hammond wouldn’t be trying to get away with it. He knew Harvey Goodnight wouldn’t sign a warrant for a fishing expedition like that.”
“So if Sam can’t get the search thrown out, the evidence will go in and you’ll be charged again, this time with murder.” Elaine’s hands knotted together.
Stark took them, separated them, and held them in his own hands. “It’ll be all right,” he told her. “Everybody knows it’s crazy to accuse me of killing those fellas. Hammond can frame up all the evidence he wants, but no one will ever believe him.”
“You don’t know that, John Howard. All he’s got to do is convince a jury. Twelve people. There are probably a lot more people than that in Val Verde County who don’t like you. Not everybody thinks you’ve been doing the right thing by fighting Ramirez, you know.”
Stark nodded grimly. “I know. That’s why we have to fight these charges tooth and nail. I trust Sam, and I don’t plan to give up.”
“Neither do I. I’ve never given up on you, John Howard, you know that. Even when you were over there in Vietnam, with all that fighting and dying going on all around you, I always had faith that you’d come home safely to me.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “I have faith in you now.”
That made Stark feel better than he would have thought possible under the circumstances. He put an arm around her and sat there holding her for a long time as they drew strength from each other. Two halves of one whole. That was the way it had always been with them, and nothing could ever change it.
Twenty-nine
Stark spent a restless night, his sleep haunted by nightmares of what he had found in that desolate canyon the day before. He was sure that by morning he must look as bad as he felt.
After breakfast Sam Gonzales stopped by with the news that the arraignment would be at two o’clock that afternoon. “Normally it would have been this morning,” Sam said.
“They’re dragging their feet for some reason, probably because Wilfredo doesn’t really want to go forward with the case and Hammond is pressuring him to do so.”
“Elaine told me the search warrant was signed by Louise Bates.”
Gonzales nodded. “I found that out and talked to her. She said Sheriff Hammond called her and told her it was an emergency, that if he didn’t act fast your ranch hands might dispose of the evidence against you.” The lawyer shrugged. “I hate to say it, John Howard, but I don’t think the lady likes you very much.”
“I don’t even know the woman,” Stark said in exasperation. “I think I was introduced to her once, at some civic function.”
“Yes, but she’s from Massachusetts. She doesn’t believe in anyone taking the law into their own hands. She says there’s never any justification for that.”
Stark frowned for a moment, but then he began to laugh. He put his head back and just about roared with amusement.
Gonzales stared at him, and when Stark’s laughter began to die away, he asked, “What’s so funny?”
“Somebody from Massachusetts thinking that there’s never any justification for taking the law into your own hands. I’m sure glad Sam Adams and Paul Revere and the rest of those old boys up there didn’t feel that way. You’d look damned silly with a powdered wig on, Sam.”
Gonzales grunted, and then that mental image made him laugh, too. “When you’re right, you’re right, John Howard. In the meantime, I’ll go get ready for the arraignment. It doesn’t look like we’ll be able to dodge it.”
Sam departed, leaving Stark alone again. He had extracted a firm promise from Elaine the night before that she would stay out at the ranch today, no matter what happened. Devery and some of the other men were guarding her around the clock, and Stark figured she was safer there than in town. He had worried all along that Ramirez might try to strike back at him by hurting the people he cared about. That was what had happened with Hubie, W.R., and Everett. He didn’t want Elaine falling victim to the same fate.
Late in the morning—or at least what felt like that time; without a watch Stark couldn’t be sure—footsteps once again approached the cell, and the door was unlocked. A deputy said, “Come with me, Mr. Stark. You’ve got another visitor.”
Stark followed the man down the corridor, thinking that Sam was probably back, but when he was taken into the interview room, he saw that a stranger was sitting at the table. The man was black and middle-aged, with gray hair and glasses that gave him a slightly professorial look. The dark, sober suit he wore, though, practically shouted that he was a government man.
“Mr. Stark,” the man said without offering to shake hands, “my name is Raymond Whitby. I’m with the Internal Revenue Service.”
Stark resisted the temptation to make some crack about the IRS being after him now, too. There was too much of a chance that was exactly the case. Instead he nodded in acknowledgment and said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Whitby?”
“Nothing. I’m just here to inform you that the Service has filed charges of tax evasion and nonpayment of taxes against
you, and we’re hereby seizing your property, both real and personal, to satisfy the debt that you owe the government.”
Stark was still standing. He had to lower himself slowly into the chair across from Whitby as all of that soaked in on his stunned brain. “That’s not possible,” he finally said.
“Oh, it’s very possible, I assure you,” Whitby said. He picked up a briefcase from the floor at his feet, opened it, and took out a thick sheaf of papers. “Here are copies of all the documents relating to the case, including your tax returns. You’ll see that for the past five years, you’ve underpaid your taxes to the tune of . . . let’s see here . . .” Whitby looked down at one of the papers, but Stark had the feeling the government man knew exactly what the numbers on it were. “Yes, two hundred thousand dollars. Approximately. It’s actually a bit more than that.”
Stark shook his head. “I’ve barely made that much taxable income in the past five years. There’s no way I could owe that much in taxes. Just look at my tax returns.”
Whitby turned the documents around and pushed them across the table. “Look at them yourself, Mr. Stark.”
Stark picked up the top paper, which was one of his tax returns. He and Elaine had always done their taxes themselves, rather than hiring an accountant, so Stark was very familiar with the forms. He stared for a moment at what was written on this one, and then his eyes snapped up to Whitby.
“This isn’t my return!”
“I believe it is,” Whitby said calmly. “Turn it over. You’ll see your signature, along with that of your wife.”
Stark flipped the document over and saw the familiar handwriting, but he still shook his head. “It’s not possible. This has been forged, or changed somehow.”
Whitby snapped his briefcase closed and said smugly, “That’s what nearly all the tax cheats say when we finally catch up to them.”
Stark resisted the temptation to throw the stack of papers in the IRS agent’s face. “I still say you can’t just seize my property. You have to go to court.”
“Certainly we do have seizure powers. To put it bluntly, if we say you owe us money, we can take everything you own, and you have to go to court to get it back if you think we’re wrong.” Whitby smiled. “Of course, under your current circumstances, I think you’re already going to be busy in court without dealing with this matter.”
“You son of a bitch,” Stark breathed.
Whitby smiled again. “I work for the IRS, Mr. Stark. I’ve been called much worse than that.”
“You know a man named Ramirez?” Stark asked suddenly.
“Who?” For a second, Whitby’s confusion seemed genuine. Then he said, “Oh, you mean that alleged drug smuggler you’re feuding with. I’ve read about the man in the newspaper; that’s all.”
Stark actually believed him. Not even Ramirez had the power to bring the IRS into this game on his side. But Stark wasn’t through.
“What about Calhoun? Zachary E. Calhoun? Or John Kelso?”
Whitby shook his head. “Never heard of either of them.”
Stark, though, had seen the flicker of recognition in Whitby’s eyes when he mentioned Calhoun’s name. The man from the National Security Council was behind this, Stark thought. Calhoun worked for the president. He could bring enough pressure to bear to get the IRS to go along with the campaign to break Stark. It was hard to believe that the United States government would go to so much trouble to ruin one of its own citizens just because they regarded him as an embarrassment.
It wasn’t really the government, Stark reminded himself. It was just the petty little bureaucrats who liked to think they were in charge. They had forgotten that their real bosses were the people . . .
But the people had allowed them to forget about that. The people had taken the power that rightfully belonged to them and placed it in the hands of men and women like Whitby and Calhoun and Kelso. Because it was easier that way. Because they felt safer, whether they really were or not. Because the press and the politicians constantly told them that was what they were supposed to do. Don’t think for yourselves. Trust us. We’ll take care of you.
We’re from the government, and we’re here to help you.
Stark gave a hollow chuckle.
“Something funny?” Whitby snapped.
“No. Not a damned thing. Are you going to leave me anything at all?”
Whitby shrugged. “Photographs, personal effects, things like that. We’ll be seizing your property, including the house and all the other buildings, your cattle, your farming equipment, everything of tangible value.”
“What about my wife?” Stark said tautly. “That’s her home.”
“She signed the returns, too. She’s equally liable. But we’re not completely heartless, despite popular belief. Some of our agents have gone out there today to inform her of the situation, and she’ll be given a reasonable amount of time to vacate the premises.”
Stark felt his tension ease slightly. Sam Gonzales didn’t need anything else on his plate right now, especially something like a fight with the IRS, but it was going to be up to him to buy Stark and Elaine some more time.
“Twenty-four hours,” Whitby added.
Stark stared at him for a second, then exploded, “What?”
“Mrs. Stark will be given twenty-four hours to vacate. Approximately. We’ll be generous and call it noon tomorrow.”
Stark sat there, stunned. He wanted to dive across the table and smash his fist into Raymond Whitby’s face. But he knew that wouldn’t accomplish a damned thing except to get him deeper in the hole that was threatening to swallow him.
He was starting to understand how the fella Job, back there in the Old Testament, must have felt.
Elaine tried cleaning and puttering around to keep her mind off what was happening, but that effort was a dismal failure. She couldn’t stop thinking about John Howard being locked up in that little cell, waiting to find out whether he was going to be put on trial for the murders of three of his best friends. It was all crazy, of course, but their whole life was that way these days.
Having Devery Small and a couple of other heavily armed men underfoot all the time didn’t help matters. Elaine was grateful for their presence, though. There was no telling what a madman like Ramirez might do.
She was in the kitchen when Devery came in and said, “There’s a car comin’ up the road, Elaine. I don’t know who it is.”
She sighed. “More trouble, I’d bet.”
“Well, you stay inside here while me an’ the boys see about it.”
She nodded, but as Devery went out to greet the newcomers, she drifted into the living room and stole a look through the curtains over the picture window. She saw that a man and a woman had gotten out of the car, which was a dark, late-model sedan. Evidently the woman had been driving. She was in her thirties, blond and attractive, wearing gold-framed glasses. The severe suit she wore and the way her long hair was pulled back told Elaine that she was either in business or from the government. Probably the latter, Elaine decided.
The man was tall, a little paunchy, with brown hair. Devery talked to both of them for a moment, then turned and gestured toward the house. They all started that way.
Elaine met them at the door. Devery gave her a worried look and said, “Elaine, these folks are from the Internal Revenue Service. I checked their bona fides.”
“Thank you, Devery.” To the strangers, she said, “Come in, please. Can I get you something, some coffee or iced tea?”
The woman shook her head without waiting for the man to respond. Clearly, she was in charge here. “No, thank you, Mrs. Stark. You are Mrs. Elaine Stark?”
“That’s right.”
The woman introduced herself. “Charlotte Grayson. This is Mel Littlefield, my associate.”
“I’m glad to meet you,” Elaine lied. “If this is something to do with our taxes, I’ll do what I can to help you. My husband’s not here right now—”
“We know where your husband is,”
Grayson said. “One of our agents is paying him a visit in jail.” She turned to Littlefield, who put his hand inside his coat and took out a folded document. He handed it to Grayson, who handed it in turn to Elaine. She took it without really thinking. Grayson went on, “That’s an official notice of seizure. The IRS is taking control of this property in lieu of payment of back taxes. Mel?”
Littlefield took out another paper and stepped forward to give it to Elaine. “This is an eviction notice,” he said. He sounded a little regretful, but that might have been just a pose. “You’ll have until noon tomorrow to vacate the premises, Mrs. Stark.”
Devery couldn’t stand it anymore. He burst out, “Wait just a doggoned minute! You’re takin’ the ranch and kickin’ Elaine off of it?”
Grayson turned her cold stare on him. “That’s right. And you are . . . ?”
Devery swallowed, evidently realizing that he was getting into deeper waters than he wanted to. “Uh, my name’s Devery Small,” he said. “I’m one of John Howard and Elaine’s neighbors and old friends.”
“This matter doesn’t concern you, Mr. Small,” Grayson said. “It’s between Mr. and Mrs. Stark and the government.”
“It’s crazy, that’s what it is!” Elaine stared down at the papers in her hands. “None of it makes any sense. We don’t owe any back taxes! We’ve always paid what we owe, and paid it on time.”
“Not according to our records. Our agent should be going over all this with Mr. Stark right now. I suggest that if you have any questions, you talk to him.”
“No, I’m going to talk to your boss,” Elaine snapped. “You can’t just waltz in here and tell me to get the hell out of my own house!”
Again sounding almost apologetic, Littlefield said, “Actually, we can, Mrs. Stark. It’s all perfectly legal. But if you want to speak to our supervisor, that would be just fine.” He took a business card out of his pocket and held it out toward her. “Here’s the number you should call—”
Elaine snatched the card from his hand, crumpled it, and threw it on the floor. “Don’t think you can come in here and pull this good cop, bad cop routine on me. As far as I’m concerned, one of you is just as bad as the other.”
Vengeance Is Mine Page 30