by Ted Bell
“Well, there you go.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just whupped. I’m glad you’re okay, that’s all. I’ve been worried about you ever since I left.”
“Well, I’m tired and worried, too, Franklin. Haven’t slept much in twenty hours. June and me grabbing alternating catnaps on the bench seat at a McDonald’s is not my idea of beauty sleep. That’s why I look so awful. Don’t say anything sweet, either. Let’s just drive and try to enjoy the scenery.”
“Nice Wal-Mart,” Franklin said, gazing out his window.
That quieted things down, all right.
They were driving into downtown San Antonio. Going back to the McDonald’s on Commerce Street. When Daisy first picked up Franklin at the airport, she had told him they were driving directly downtown before heading home to Prairie. There was a suspicious vehicle she and June had staked out. June was there now, watching from their stake-out position across the street from the truck.
“Take me through all this, Daisy,” Franklin said after ten or so minutes. “From after you handed off the envelope and sent Buddy Shirley to Southwest Medical to see about his gunshot wounds.”
“He’s okay. I called his momma this morning. Already back at work.”
“So then what happened? Where’d you manage to pick up all the bullet holes in your truck?”
“Well, like I told you before, we had just outrun the outlaw moving van when we saw a big fire burning over in Dolores. Those fires were started by a bunch of local Mexican druggies and teenage banditos calling themselves the Reconquistas, you see, and we chased ’em back south of the the border.”
“You and June?”
“Well, we helped. Mostly, it was a couple of bikers called Zorro and Hambone and their gang. Even the great Re-Conqueros didn’t want to mess with those bad boys. So, it was a whole lot of bikers, plus a lot of folks from the neighboring towns, plus me and June who helped chased them home.”
“I’m starting to see it.”
“You know what they were yelling the whole time we were fighting with them? The Reconquistas?”
“Nope.”
“We didn’t cross the border! The border crossed us! That’s the new Mexican anthem.”
“Where’s the burning and looting now?”
“Moving west on down the line for the moment. I hear it’s pretty bad when you get past Laredo.”
“Then you saw this truck.”
“Yes, on the way back to Dolores, we had passed Homer going the other way. He was following this huge convoy of tractor-trailer rigs headed north on 59.”
“I got that part.”
“You said from the beginning and—”
“Daisy.”
“Sorry. Well, later, when we were headed back to Prairie, we came up behind another truck headed north. We figured it was a straggler from the convoy got left behind. Blacked-out windows and all, with a big fat orange painted on the back. Some citrus company called Big Orange Groves in Lakeland, Florida. Florida tags.”
“Coals to Newcastle.”
“Exactly. That is exactly what June said when she saw that truck. What the hell is a Florida trucker doing delivering oranges in Texas? That’s what we wondered.”
“So you two decided to follow him.”
“We sure did. All the way north from Dolores up to San Antonio. Never went over fifty-five. Didn’t take the Interstate, took the parallel state road. An hour later, he pulled over at a little rest stop just south of town. Remote, you know. So we just pulled in behind him. Only two vehicles in the parking lot since it was about two in the morning. Got out of the truck, both of us, and went around to the cab. June on the passenger side, me on the driver’s side.”
“Carrying the shotgun?”
“Damn straight. June says that Homer’s got a weird feeling about these trucks. And I’ve seen enough and heard enough to share that feeling. I banged on the window with the muzzle of the gun. Nothing.”
“Nothing.”
“No one in the truck, far as we could tell. And then we climbed up on the running boards and tried to look in. The windows weren’t just smoked, Franklin, they’re really dark, like blacked out completely.”
“Blacked-out windows are not a felony.”
“Anyway, the damn ghost truck takes off with us still on the running board! I mean, come on! So I yelled at June and we both jumped off before he got rolling too good. She hurt her ankle anyway but she can still walk. I’ve got ice on it at McDonald’s.”
“So you jumped back in the pickup and followed him to San Antone.”
“We did. And now, we’ve got him cornered. You know, Homer thinks these trucks are—”
“Speaking of Homer, where is he? I’ve been trying to reach him all day.”
“Looking for you, too. He took the day off. Says he’s got the flu. But we know different because we saw him. He finally called Wyatt. He’s following that convoy headed north, is what he’s doing.”
“Wyatt’s got an APB out on that van we caught looting and Wyatt’s got the Medical Examiner’s office trying to identify the men June shot. He’s also covering Homer’s butt on the J.T. Rawls shooting, not that it needs covering in my humble estimation.”
“Wyatt’s a fine peace officer.”
“He’s not you, but never mind that, here we are.”
Daisy pulled into the parking lot on the backside of the old McDonald’s on Commerce Street. There was one spot left in the shade of an oak and she took it. Even though it was January, it was a warm day.
“I don’t see any truck,” Franklin said, climbing out.
“Right around the front, parked in an alley off Commerce. Here, we can just use this back entrance.”
They hurried inside and found June sitting on a banquette near the front. She seemed very upset and shook her head at the sight of the sheriff coming quickly toward her.
“Hey, June,” Franklin said, smiling at her as he approached the table where she sat. “That videotape of yours is being looked at by the president of the United States this afternoon.”
“It is?” she said. “That’s great.”
“How ’bout that, June? Isn’t that fantastic? What’s wrong?”
“Sorry, Daisy. Sorry, Sheriff. I lost the truck.”
“Lost the truck? What?” Daisy said, running over to the window.
She looked back at June and her husband and said, “She’s right. Shoot! The truck’s gone!”
65
H ow in heck’s name could you lose a truck, June?”
“I swear I was only gone three or four minutes,” June said,
“Damn it to hell!”
“Tell us what happened, June,” Daisy said, calming down a little.
“Oh, the Secretariat Syndrome. You know.”
“What’s that?” Franklin asked.
“She had to pee,” Daisy told her puzzled husband.
June said, “Yeah. Couldn’t hold it another second. Went back to the ladies’ room and, wham, he was gone when I came back.”
Daisy already had one foot out the door. “We’ll find him. Let’s go, honey. He can’t have gotten far.”
“Sheriff?” June said, climbing to her feet, “Homer called my cell-phone here maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago. Asked that you call him back. Sounded kinda urgent.”
“Where’s the phone?”
“Right here.”
“Where is he?”
“Somewhere in Virginia. Some pretty little farm, he said. He’s got it staked out but he needs to know what to do next.”
She handed Franklin the phone.
“Now what?” he said, looking at it.
“Just hit star 69. It’ll ring him automatically.”
“Homer?” Franklin said, a few seconds later.
He’d walked with the phone and sat down at a table over by the window where nobody could hear his conversation. He’d sent Daisy and June out to look for the Big Orange rig. Seemed like a wild goose chase, but then, he’d been wrong before.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“You know I followed the trucks. You know I shot and killed J.T. Rawls.”
“I do.”
“You ain’t mad?”
“Homer, I heard what happened in Gunbarrel from Wyatt. He says it was a clear case of self-defense. We don’t have time for this now. Tell me where you are and what your situation is.”
“Sheriff, I’m in a little farm town in Virginia. Somewhere south of Washington, DC.”
“All right. You know the name of the place?”
“Lee’s Ferry. It’s right on a river.”
“What have you got?”
“Okay, the truck I followed all the way? We came up Route #1 north of Richmond. All the way to Fredericksburg. Then he cut east till he came to the river.”
“Where’s the truck now?”
“It’s an old farm. Couple of hundred acres. Pretty place. The Yankee Slugger is tucked away under some trees by the river. Just setting there in the snow. Doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere. They came out and looked at it a few hours ago. Just walked around it a few times. Bent down and looked underneath. Then they all went back inside the house and pulled all the curtains shut.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Folks living here.”
“Where are you calling from right now?”
“The kitchen.”
“Their kitchen?”
“Yessir. There is a couple living here, like I said. And, Sheriff, these folks don’t look like native Virginians to me. Arab, I think, if you’ll excuse the racial profiling. A man and woman and a younger guy, I guess their son maybe. They got in a car and left here, oh, about half an hour ago. Driving a late-model Cadillac, maroon in color. Thought I’d have a look around inside the house while they were gone. Nice and warm in here. Fire going and all. That’s when I called June to check in.”
“Homer. They left the fire burning. That means they won’t be gone long. Can you see or hear the owners approach? When they come back from wherever they went?”
“I can, yessir. House is on a hilltop. Long driveway down the hill. I can see the main road from this window I’m at right now. Called Old River Road and there’s a white picket fence all along the property. Plenty of time to slip out of the kitchen door and back into the woods where I’m staked out.”
“Any idea yet what’s in these trucks you followed?”
“Whatever it is, it ain’t good, Sheriff. That’s all I can tell you. I was thinking about taking a crowbar to the rear doors while nobody’s here. But, I’ll need some help, they come back and catch me breaking in their truck. Little nervous about calling in local lawmen in case it’s all a bunch of nothing, though.”
There was a long pause before the Sheriff spoke.
“Listen, I’m going to get a taxi back to the airport. Is Lee’s Ferry closer to Washington or Richmond?”
“Based on the mileage markers I saw, I’d have to say a lot closer to Washington. It’s north of Fredericksburg. You can take Route 1 South and get off at state road 635 to Cherry Hill.”
“Homer, sit tight, I’m taking the next flight out. I’ll rent a car and find you. Is there a street address on River Road?”
“No, sir. But there’s a sign at the end of the driveway. ‘Morning Glory Farm.’ ”
“I’ll find it. Do not approach these people when they return. Do not go near the truck. Until I get there, you see something happening you don’t like, you call it in to the locals. Let them handle it.”
“It’s starting to snow pretty hard now. Really coming down. Hope your flight gets in.”
“I hope so, too. You get anything to eat?”
“Stole an apple from the bowl here. All right if I steal a little food from the pantry? I’ve been living on Twinkies and R.C. Colas for three whole states.”
“Take something they won’t miss from a high shelf and get out of that house, Homer. Now, git!”
“Sheriff?”
“Yep?”
“I might be wrong about all this. What these trucks mean, all of them headed north like they are. All along I’ve been thinking it was drugs. Now I’m not so sure.”
“I hope you are wrong, Homer, but I’m not so sure anymore, either. I’ll be there soon as I can.”
66
AMAZON RIVER, BRAZIL
F ocus. Concentrate. Look where you’re going, not where you are,” Hawke said. He was standing, feet planted wide apart to brace himself, at Stiletto’s helm. Stoke could only hear him because of the headphones he was wearing.
It was two in the morning. Having notified the police and searched the entire hotel and grounds for his missing friend, Hawke had decided he’d no choice but to press on without him. It had not been an easy decision to make. There was a big moon hiding behind swiftly moving clouds. Not much traffic at this hour, only the small double-decked ferries and few big cruise ships headed upriver to Manaus.
Hawke, outwardly calm but still angry, was driving the powerful offshore boat flat-out over the wide river, hurling masses of foaming white water out to either side of the razor-sharp hull. Stiletto was hammering east on the Amazon, backtracking down to the Madeira River before she’d make the turn south and head into the deep jungle of the Mata Grosso.
Hawke was in a hurry, running at the extreme edges of the powerful vessel’s performance parameters. Stoke could see the digital speed readouts flickering red over Hawke’s head well enough. They were doing nearly 130 knots. In the dark.
This would be pushing it in broad daylight. On the open sea, running in a flat calm. But at night? On a damn river? Stoke didn’t even want to think about what would happen if they struck a submerged object at this speed. Radar only picked out what was on the water, not what was under it. At this speed, it was hard enough to avoid the lighted navigation buoys that were blurring by now and then, disappearing astern almost before you saw them coming.
“You want the helm, Stoke?” Hawke said, his eyes riveted on the onrushing river. All lights in the wheelhouse were extinguished. He was only a silhouette, standing at the wheel in the pale reddish light of the control fascia overhead. Everyone on the bridge deck was wearing headsets in order to hear. The noise of three 1,600-horsepower gas turbine engines at full bore, even muffled, was overwhelming.
“Like to watch you a little longer,” Stokely said carefully, “then I’ll take her.”
In truth, he wasn’t at all anxious to take the helm from Alex. He wanted Hawke’s mind fixed on the boat and the river, not on what had happened to his friend Ambrose Congreve. And whatever was waiting for them in the jungle. The “Reckoning” as Ambrose said it was called in the code letter. Better to keep Hawke focused, concentrating on driving the boat as fast as it would go for long as he could. Stoke knew Hawke had to be thinking exactly what he was thinking.
Get there fast.
If Top had their friend, and there was not much doubt now that he did, Las Medianoches henchmen would soon be breaking that dear man into a million little pieces to find out what he knew. Congreve could not long survive the vicious blend of voodoo tortures Top’s terrorists practiced in the jungle.
The boat heeled sharply to starboard. A second later, she slammed hard to port. Hawke had just missed a low-lying barge, towed by a small tug plying her way downriver. Much as he wanted to, Stoke couldn’t tell Alex Hawke to slow the boat down. Unless they found this damn River of Doubt, unless they found Muhammad Top, soon, the terrorists would have their Day of Reckoning. And Hawke’s best friend Ambrose, the man who’d been a father to him since early childhood, would be gone the hard way.
In the end, Stoke knew, everybody talks anyway.
“Nav,” Hawke said quietly into his lip mike. On the primary navigation monitor mounted above him, the image of the boat was rapidly moving easterly across the GPS map displaying the Amazon. They were rapidly closing the distance to the mouth of the Madeira River.
“Navigation here, sir.”
“Nav, when do we pass through zero-five-zero south, zero-fifty-five west?”
“Local time or Zulu time, sir?” Zulu was Coordinated Universal Time, which had replaced Greenwich Mean Time as the world’s standard.
“Local.”
“Zero-two-twenty, sir.”
Hawke stole a glance at his watch and edged the throttle a notch forward. Except for the dull roar of the engines, it was deathly still on the bridge. Everyone strapped into his seat, keeping conversation to a minimum. All probably thinking the same thing. Hit a log or an oil drum at this insane speed and you’re dead before you know it.
“Focus is the big one at this speed, right?” Stoke asked Alex, not wanting his friend’s mind to wander down any bad roads even for one second.
Hawke was silent for a moment, his eyes scanning the river of blackness the boat was devouring at a staggering rate. He saw something ahead, a pinpoint of light, put the helm over a fraction and the boat heeled sharply, then corrected. On an even keel once more, Stiletto surged forward.
“Yes. Focus,” Stoke heard Hawke say in his headset. The voice was calm, almost no emotion at all. “It’s oddly cerebral. What you’re thinking about determines what you tell the boat to do. What your inputs are. That’s why you must always be thinking ahead of the boat. The further behind the boat you are mentally, the more forced and rougher your inputs are likely to be.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“The enemy of concentration is emotion,” Hawke said, verifying Stoke’s instinctive theory. “Or, exhaustion. Most high-speed accidents occur when the guy driving the boat becomes afraid he’s in over his head, doesn’t think he quite knows how to exit this turn. Panic rules. Or, he’s running on pure adrenaline. Can’t do that, either. You have to quiet your mind enough to listen to the boat. Let it tell you what it wants you to do, and do it. This boat gives you a lot of feedback. But you’ve got to stay ahead of it. Ready to drive? I’d like to grab an hour or so of rack.”
“Yeah. I’ll take it. Just a sec.”
Stoke had been watching Hawke carefully. He’d gone a little crazy with the local Military Police commander when nobody could help him find Ambrose. Realized, finally, they’d have to shove off without him. He seemed calmer now. Stoke thought Hawke could handle it now, do what he had to do in the next day or so. He’d already moved into his mission performance zone. He’d pushed emotion back in that dark closet where it rightly belonged. Still, he looked exhausted from pushing the boat hard all the way down from Key West, three days in open ocean. Stoke thought he’d soon be no good to anyone without some rest.