He could walk away. Go to the state police and let them handle it or blow it off on Rex. He’d get his truck back and he could move on.
Was that what he wanted? To move on? Anna’s face filled his mind and for the first time since Joan died he wasn’t sure what he wanted.
“Beer? Water?” Cecil offered.
“Beer, please.”
Cecil reached under the seat and brought out a small cooler, retrieved three beers and handed them out.
The can was cold and dripping with condensation. Ramage put the can to his forehead and closed his eyes. The van barreled through the growing dusk, darkness settling over the land like a blanket.
Chapter Seventeen
Twilight thickened as night crept across the plain, and the passenger van’s driver made a left on Ryland Street before One Man’s Garbage junkyard. The road ran around the yard’s eastern side and led to a dirt parking lot surrounded by mobile office trailers that looked like they’d never been moved. The van emptied, and the protesters scattered. Gypsy told many of the people she’d be in touch. Ramage, Gypsy and Cecil transferred to the couple’s camper van.
Ramage knew his new companions still had questions, and he was inclined to answer them since they’d been tactful enough to wait until they didn’t have an audience.
Cecil slid in behind the van’s wheel, and Gypsy and Ramage took seats at a small table behind the cab. The van was a mess; clothes strewn about, dishes in the tiny sink, and the bathroom smelled of roses mixed with shit.
Cecil started the van and said, “Where to?”
Gypsy looked at Ramage.
“Anna said we should meet her at Lucy’s.”
Gypsy shrugged. “Vamonos, my man.”
Without a word Cecil swung out onto the two lane and headed west, the van farting and coughing as it accelerated.
They’d been traveling forty minutes when Gypsy said, “Crap.”
Plumes of dark clouds soldiered through the dusk and rolled toward them across the plain.
“Sandstorm,” Cecil said. He pulled to the side of the road and shut the engine down. Gypsy moved to the back of the van and his two companions checked all the windows and closed the roof vents while Ramage sat in silence. He’d been all around the United States, but he’d never experienced a sandstorm.
Gypsy dropped back into her seat. “So how do you know Anna?”
Ramage said, “I don’t really.”
“What does that mean?” she said.
“We just met.”
The wind picked up and sandblasted the van. Cecil turned off the headlights and the three companions listened to the sound of sand scouring the van.
“Why are you helping her?” Cecil said from the cab.
That was a good question. Ramage knew the answer, but couldn’t admit it, not even to himself. “It’s a little self-serving, but I do care about her.”
“How’d you meet?”
Ramage told an abridged version of what had happened since Big Blue was stolen. Gypsy listened, nodding her head, occasionally adding a “really” or “I understand.” When he was done Ramage leaned back in his set and took a deep breath. He felt like he’d just given confession.
“I’ve heard of the Sandman. He’s a ruthless businessman and tough dude for sixty-three years old. His tentacles are attached to half of Prairie Home. Most of the townies are behind him out of fear,” Gypsy said.
“Not just that. I’m sure Anna told you,” Cecil said.
Ramage looked at Gypsy and lifted an eyebrow. “What?”
Cecil turned in his seat and pressed his nose to his face with his index finger.
At first Ramage didn’t comprehend, then understanding flooded over him. “Yeah, I know. Any idea how high he’s connected? Is Piranha a made man?”
“Does it matter? Based on how you handled those guards I’m guessing, made man or not, you can handle it.”
“Knowing would help me judge the level of support I’ll face when I… resolve our disagreement. Some of these mob guys take their hierarchy very seriously, regardless of how big an ass they feel their man is,” Ramage said. That was a polite way of saying if the guy was a made man Ramage would adjust his plans. He didn’t want the godfather on his ass. That would surely make Rex reel him in.
“No idea if he is or isn’t,” Cecil said.
“He sure acts like he is,” Gypsy said.
“What’s your deal? You guys just run around Texas, sleeping in a van and protesting the wrongs of the world?”
“Something like that.” Gypsy’s face had shifted to a scowl.
“What about you? You’re a survivalist truck driver?” Cecil asked.
“Something like that.”
“You act like a cop,” Gypsy said.
“My fifth-grade teacher said I should be a lawyer. That count?”
The darkness deepened, and the van rocked and swayed in the wind, and Ramage felt nauseas. He needed food, and he needed it soon.
“How long to get to Lucy’s?” he asked.
“’Bout another half hour,” Cecil said.
Silence filled the cab as wind whistled through weather-stripping around the windows.
“You’re not married?” Gypsy said.
Ramage looked at her, but said nothing.
“What? That a state secret? It’s not like I asked for your bank code.”
“Are you two married?”
Gypsy smiled. “Sixteen years.” She held up her right hand, revealing a speck of a diamond mounted to a thin gold band.
“Joan is deceased,” he said.
“Sorry.” Gypsy stared out the window, looked at the floor, and bit at her nails.
Ramage sighed. “She was Secret Service. Protection detail.”
Cecil said, “So a real bad ass. You mind me asking what happened?”
Ramage told the story again like a robot. How she’d taken a bullet for a senator that didn’t deserve her sacrifice.
“What about you? I’m figuring you haven’t always been a truck driver,” Gypsy said.
“No, I haven’t.”
She seemed to understand Ramage wasn’t willing to go any further, at least not yet, and she got up and joined Cecil in the cab. Ramage leaned back and listened to the sand scrubbing the van as it found every crack and empty space.
Thirty minutes later the sand stopped blowing and moonlight filtered through the thick clouds. Cecil cranked the motor and pulled back onto the road. The rumble of the engine, the tap and hum of the wheels turning, and the push of the wind was oddly relaxing as Ramage scanned the picture of the sand drop-off log on his phone, which showed six percent remaining power.
“Either of you guys ever hear of HTI Holdings?” Ramage said.
Cecil shook his head, but Gypsy said, “I’ve heard that name before, but I don’t know where. Do you have an address?”
“Not yet… shit, I’ve got no service,” Ramage said. Normally he paid very little attention to his cell phone. It usually sat in Big Blue’s glove compartment, off, unless he was waiting for a call from Rex, so he didn’t really know how good his basic service was.
“Let me try,” Gypsy said. She opened the storage box between the bucket seats and drew out a data pad. It was huge, almost the size of a small computer screen. “I get satellite internet with this baby. We need it because we’re always moving around.” She tapped the screen and the pad came to life. “Let’s see… HTI… got it.” She frowned and said nothing.
“What?” Cecil said.
“PO box in Prairie Home,” she said.
“Didn’t see a post office when I walked through town.”
“That’s ‘cause there isn’t one. Gloria at the five and dime takes mail and sells stamps, and there are ten PO boxes in there. She transfers everything a couple times a week to a postal truck that brings everything to a sorting facility in Odessa.”
“Do you know Gloria?”
“Sure. Everyone knows Gloria.”
Ramage looked at his wat
ch. 7:21PM. He didn’t know where Anna was or how long it would take her to get to Lucy’s. “We almost to…”
He trailed off as Cecil made a left into a sparse housing development and came to a stop before an old white house with seven cars parked out front. “Dinner hour,” Cecil said.
Ramage scanned the parking lot but didn’t see Anna’s pickup. “What time is Gloria’s store open ‘til?”
“Usually around six, but she’s there late most nights,” Gypsy said.
“Head over there. Anna’s not here yet. Maybe Gloria will tell us the who and what of HTI,” Ramage said.
“If you ask her nicely, she just might,” Cecil said.
Cecil rolled out of the lot and nobody spoke as the van drove through the darkness. After five minutes a few faint lights appeared on the horizon as they came down CR-115. Prairie Home was no metropolis. More like an outpost.
Gloria wasn’t what Ramage had expected, nor was her shop. Ramage remembered five and dime stores from his youth. They were the modern equivalent of a general store. He recalled buying candy, comics, and toys, while his mom bought paper, art supplies, and outdoor products. Whatever the food market didn’t carry, Josey’s Five & Dime had.
Texas & ‘stuff was a different beast.
Immediately upon entering the store Ramage was assailed with the scent of a floral perfume he didn’t recognize. The shelves were fully stocked with products, half of which Ramage had never seen before. There was an entire section devoted to the Texas flag; t-shirts, shot glasses, mugs, pens, buttons—if a flag could be printed on it, it could be found in this section. Most of the stuff had a layer of dust on it. Next to the entrance a magazine rack filled with porn, sports papers, cattle auction announcements, and a few tattered paperback books that looked like they’d been used as toilet paper and put away wet. An out-of-order soda machine was on the opposite side of the door. Shelves contained household sundry items, processed foods, snacks, and booze. There was a cold case full of beer and wine, and in the back of the establishment a US Postal sign hung above a counter, behind which sat Gloria propped on a stool.
She was younger than Ramage had envisioned, no more than thirty, and she had dirty blonde hair with a red scar that ran from the right side of her mouth around her cheek. She smiled as Ramage approached and the scar gave her a Joker-like quality. She was self-conscious of the scar, because as soon as their eyes met Gloria reigned in her smile.
“Hi, Gypsy,” Gloria said. “Who’s your friend?” She looked Ramage up and down. Cecil waited in the car.
They’d discussed Ramage’s cover and Gypsy played her part perfectly. “This here is Theo from the EPA.”
Gloria’s eyes grew wide and she stepped back, like Ramage was going to throw cuffs on her. In a guarded voice, she said, “How may I help you?”
Ramage had gotten good at judging people, but he couldn’t read Gloria. “I just need to know who pays for a PO box you have here.”
She looked at the floor, then at Gypsy. “A person’s mail is protected by federal law. I don’t know if I can give that information out.” She looked at Gypsy searching for help.
“I understand. I’ll come back tomorrow with the state police. They’ll—”
“Staties?” She looked like a bird had just shit in her soup.
“Well, yeah. This becomes a police matter if I can’t do my work,” he said. As it came out of his mouth he thought it sounded like total bullshit, but judging by Gloria’s face that’s not how she felt.
Gypsy leaned forward and whispered in Gloria’s ear, and the woman shook her head emphatically.
“OK,” Gypsy said. “Thanks, Gloria. Owe you one.”
Ramage said nothing and gave Gloria a two-finger salute as he followed Gypsy out of the store. Out in the parking lot she said, “It’s the Sandman’s company.”
They made their way across the lot. Ramage opened the van door for Gypsy and they jumped in.
“Any luck?” Cecil said.
“Sandman,” Gypsy said.
Cecil nodded and turned the van around, bumped up onto the road and headed for Lucy’s. Ramage’s stomach growled, and anger rose in him as he thought of the Sandman’s little fiefdom. He’d never seen himself as a Robinhood, but time brought changes even the most vigilant overlook. The moon glared down filling the plain with pale light and casting the scene in black and white. Except, nothing was black and white, and Ramage struggled to see the color.
Chapter Eighteen
There was no sign identifying Lucy’s place. No placard showing the diamonds of their travel rating, or any notifications that indicated the white house was more than it appeared. An old black Chevy pickup sat in the driveway, and cars of various types lined the road. Light spilled from the large bay window, and inside diners ate and drank. It looked like a holiday party.
Anna’s pickup was at the end of the line, and Cecil parked and the trio headed inside. The house was a basic box style: the front door opened into a small foyer with a dining room to the left, living room to the right, and stairs straight ahead. The dining room had three large round tables packed in it, and they were all empty. The living room had been converted into another dining area, and smaller two and four-person tables filled the room. The place smelled like onions and grilled beef.
Five people sat eating; a table of two, and three singles. Everyone looked up when Ramage and crew entered, but he didn’t see Anna.
An elderly woman Ramage pegged as Lucy bustled from a door in the rear of the living room carrying plates of food. She went to the table of two, delivered their dishes, and turned to head back to the kitchen. When she saw Ramage and the twins her face lit up.
Lucy wore faded jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a white apron. Long gray hair fell to her shoulders in greasy strands, but Ramage could tell she’d once been beautiful. Her blue eyes looked flecked with silver and care lines marked her face, but her skin was free of blemishes and scars. Ramage was having trouble guessing her age and settled on between fifty-five and sixty.
“Well, hello. Anna’s waiting in our private room.” Lucy leaned in and Ramage was overwhelmed by the scent of body odor and grease. “She figured you guys needed some privacy,” she whispered. “Follow me.”
Lucy flung a dish rag over her shoulder and led the party through the dining room and down a short hall to what clearly had once been—and might still be—a tiny bedroom. Judging by the posters on the walls, and the dresser in the corner, Ramage figured it was a kid’s room most of the time and served as an overflow room on busy nights.
Anna got up to greet Ramage as he entered, and hellos and pleasantries were exchanged, and drink orders taken. Lucy disappeared to get menus, and everyone took seats around a card table covered with a white linen tablecloth.
“So, you made it,” Anna said.
“Thanks to your boy here,” Gypsy said. “Cecil and I would be in the Odessa tank right now if it wasn’t for him.”
Anna smiled and squeezed Ramage’s hand. The heat of her touch made him smile and he remembered their “almost” kiss. “How did you make out?” Ramage said.
“Very strange,” Anna said.
Lucy returned with two white wines for Cecil and Gypsy, a beer for Anna, and a Jack Daniels Manhattan for Ramage. He took a sip and savored the burn of the whiskey as it slid down his throat. He closed his eyes, warmth spreading through him. He said, “Strange? How so?”
Anna recounted following the empty sand truck to the refinery and what she’d seen at the gas station.
“He put gas in the rear of the trailer? Now that makes no sense at all,” Ramage said.
“Didn’t you check the trailer out when you were in there?” Cecil said. “I thought you told us you dug a hole or something.”
“I did, but only one, and in the middle of the load. If there was something smaller than a washing machine buried in there I might have missed it.”
“And the guard at the refinery had no idea what the rig was doing there, Anna?” Gypsy asked
.
“None. He said different types of trucks enter the site all the time for a variety of reasons. Garbage, deliveries, equipment…”
“I saw the trailer get emptied. I know there was nothing in there when it left the fracking site, so it must have picked something up at the refinery. Only way any of this makes sense,” Ramage said. “Even then…”
“Yeah. I feel like we’re putting a puzzle together, but we don’t have all the pieces,” Anna said. “You have any luck?”
Ramage recounted seeing the sand drop off, how the truck sat for almost an hour before it left. He told how they’d investigated HTI Holdings, and how the Sandman was at the center of it all. In Ramage’s mind that left one course of action.
Lucy returned with the night’s menu, a laser printout on white copy paper. Ramage ordered the cowboy steak and another drink.
When they finished ordering nobody spoke. Cecil appeared lost in thought as Gypsy nursed her wine. Anna had her head down, staring at a rip in the tablecloth. Ramage knew what had to happen next, and he sensed so did his companions, but nobody wanted to say it aloud for fear of it becoming real.
Ramage said, “I think it’s time for me to take a look inside the compound. Get my truck back and see what the hell they’re doing in there.”
Anna wagged her head. “I followed the truck back there at the end of the day.”
“No other stops?” Cecil asked.
“None. Compound, fracking site, gas station, refinery, back to compound,” Anna said.
Ramage nodded and took a long pull on his drink. “You see Piranha and his rig anywhere in your travels?”
“No. You?”
“No,” Ramage said. “Doesn’t mean anything. If they’re smart, whatever they’re doing is spread around.”
“Not all eggs in one basket,” Gypsy said.
“Exactly,” Ramage said.
“But what if they think like that writer… can’t think of his name. He said to put all your eggs in one basket and watch that basket,” she said.
Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1) Page 11