The Surge - 03

by Joe Nobody

  “College…” he continued, the words requiring significant effort to form. “Go to…. Deadly,” the now barely audible voice whispered.

  “I don’t understand, sir. What is in College Station?” the ranger asked.

  It was too late. Carson’s chest never rose again. Zach ripped apart the banker’s shirt, prepared to do CPR until the EMTs arrived. One glance at the dead man’s wounds told the ranger it was hopeless.

  Pissed and frustrated, Zach stood and shook his head. “Damn it! Damn it all to hell!”

  Did Carson have a kid at College Station? Was that where the banker’s ex-wife lived … or his parents? What the hell was he talking about?

  The ranger’s thoughts were interrupted by raised voices rumbling from the bar. The two civilians who’d shot Mr. Mercy were growing angry. “What now?” Zach muttered, moving to check on his newest buddies.

  “We played 18 holes this afternoon, and it was damn hot out there. We were thirsty, so my brother-in-law and I came in for a cold brewski. All of a sudden somebody starts shooting!” one of the Samaritans was telling a cop. “Those guys were going to kill everyone in here if somebody didn’t do something. One of the bullets shot my beer right off the table. So we drew our guns and took one of them out. That’s when we found out that second fella was a ranger.”

  The brother-in-law eagerly nodded his agreement with the statement. “So why are we in handcuffs? We have our concealed weapons licenses. We were defending ourselves. I want to go home. My wife is going to be pissed,” his voice trailed off as he checked his watch. “Oh my God, that woman is going to kill me. I’m so late.”

  Despite the stress, adrenaline dump, and frustration, Zach had to chuckle. Only in Texas. Only here was a man more concerned about his wife being irate than being involved in a deadly shooting. Mr. Mercy should know better than to blast a man’s beer off the table in these parts.

  “There’s no need to keep these men any longer. Is there, officer?” Zach asked the local sergeant nicely. “They did law enforcement a favor and should be receiving our gratitude, not our suspicions.”

  “Sir, the district attorney wants a full investigation into any situation involving the discharge of a firearm and the loss of life,” the local officer countered.

  “I’m sure these gentlemen aren’t going to skip town, Sergeant. I’m also positive that they would like to go home, settle their nerves, let their families know they’re okay, and probably throw back a good shot of strong bourbon. I know I sure would about now. You boys aren’t going to skip town, are ya?” Zach asked, turning to face his rescuers.

  “No, sir. Why would we do that?” responded one.

  “I ain’t leaving, no matter how mad my wife is,” came the other.

  “I didn’t think so. Let ’em go, Sarge. They’re the white hats in all this. I’m sure they’ll be glad to come down to the station first thing in the morning and go through it all again … and again … and again.”

  The two civilians nodded eagerly, signaling their agreement.

  The local cop didn’t want to, but Zach held rank. “If you say so, Ranger.”

  Zach saw the EMTs arrive, one team heading immediately to the man the ranger had nearly decapitated with the beer mug. “I’ve got a pulse,” announced the medic.

  “That’s about all we’ve got,” said his partner. “Did this guy get shot in the head?”

  The ranger moved over, kneeling beside the two paramedics. “He took a beer mug to the skull. Is he going to make it?”

  “He’s breathing. That’s all I can say at the moment,” frowned the EMT.

  After they had loaded the unconscious henchman onto a stretcher, Zach gave strict instructions to the local cop who was escorting the prisoner during his ambulance ride. “If he wakes up, don’t let him call anybody, speak to anybody, or even pass a fucking note. Call me at this number, immediately. If I don’t answer, call Major Putnam at Company E.”

  An hour later, Zach was trudging away from yet another crime scene, leaving multiple dead bodies in his wake. Dreading the upcoming report to Major Putnam, Zach reached in his jacket and fished out his cell phone.

  Peering down at the screen, he began a series of curses. The glass looked like a spider’s web, and there wasn’t any sign of life in the crushed device. “Now, I’m really in trouble.”

  Zachariah Bass was bone-tired, hungry, discouraged, and needing some down time to regroup and refocus. Sam was in the hospital, and there were a lot of dead men to be buried.

  Detective Gus Monroe was one of them.

  His instinct to dial Sam’s cell phone, but his unit was out of commission.

  He needed someone to verbally go over everything that had just happened. Cheyenne would listen, but she wasn’t a cop and was probably still trying to figure things out herself. Major Putnam was a superior – and that didn’t count.

  He thought about BB. Sitting in his pickup, Zach remembered the first time he’d met the hard-nosed, old-school law dog.

  There had been a homicide outside of Marfa, a local rancher found dead along a fence line.

  “It was them damned illegals,” the foreman had spouted to the responding deputies. “We see ’em all the time, crossing our spread, leaving trash and garbage lying around, and stealing anything that isn’t nailed down.”

  Indeed, the dead man’s wallet, watch, and rings were missing.

  The deputies, however, weren’t convinced. Yes, there was some illegal alien traffic in the area, and petty theft wasn’t unheard of. That being said, none of the local lawmen could remember the last time any of the border crashers had committed murder.

  The bunkhouse was in an uproar over the boss’s death. A dozen capable, well-armed men were outraged and spoiling for revenge. A mob mentality was spreading to a couple of the neighboring outfits. Fearing a swell of violent backlash against anyone with a darker complexion, the county sheriff called in the rangers.

  At the time, Zach was still like a new colt - a little shaky on his legs and unsure how it all worked. His captain decided the situation warranted some special help. “I’m calling BB,” the superior had informed his newest ranger. “If you keep your mouth shut and your ears and eyes open, you’ll learn more today than any class at Texas Tech or the academy back in Austin. Listen to the man. Learn from him. You’ll be glad you did.”

  BB arrived at the crime scene pulling a horse trailer behind his state-issued pickup. Before long, Zach and his mentor were in the saddle, “Because the elevation allows you to see things from God’s point of view.”

  BB didn’t bother with the area surrounding the body. “That’s polluted ground by the time I’m called in. Between the deputies, EMTs, witnesses, and everyone else tromping around, you typically won’t find much there.”

  The two rangers began by circling the crime scene, riding slowly with eyes scanning the ground. A quarter of the way to the south, BB pointed at something that Zach couldn’t see.

  The old timer sat still now, his eyes seeming to examine every single pebble, stem, and a clump of sage. “Do you see it?” BB asked.

  “No, sir. Sorry, but it just looks like hardpan to me,” Zach replied honestly.

  The lanky tracker dismounted, took a knee and pointed at a single, quarter-sized stone. “That rock has been moved at least a quarter of an inch. Only a boot would do that, not a paw or hoof. That little stone has been flagged.”

  BB then moved a stride away, again extending a gloved finger. “See that little indentation? That’s the edge of a heel.”

  Zach had spent his fair share of time hunting and thought he knew how to track everything from coyote to jackrabbits. He soon realized his skills were like comparing a little league ball player to a seasoned pro.

  Ranger Bass spent the next hour learning new terms, such as ‘crying,’ or the natural weeping of vegetation fluids after being squeezed by a footfall.

  The old ranger was patient with his younger counterpart, explaining the difference between a “scuff”
and “heeling,” pointing out the “transfer” of material from one location to another.

  The two mounted lawmen progressed slowly, partially because BB was teaching, mostly because he wasn’t taking any chances on losing the line of sight.

  “You have to imagine the man walking,” BB explained. “Learn his direction and length of stride, and the clues become a lot more obvious. Ask yourself where the next step would land. Look for it.”

  After a few hundred yards, the two rangers approached an odd disturbance in the hard-packed soil. The older ranger grunted, “Now, we know that illegals coming across the Rio Grande didn’t kill that rancher.”

  Zach didn’t get it, staring at a small hole that looked like someone had fired a bullet into the ground. “Sir?”

  “That’s the mark of a motorcycle’s kickstand, son. And over there, I bet you’ll find tire tracks.”

  Sure enough, after spurring his mount, the new ranger found the pattern of a narrow tread.

  They moved faster now, the machine’s weight making the trail easy to follow. An hour later, the two lawmen crested a ridge and found themselves staring down on a small group of buildings constituting a neighboring ranch.

  It didn’t take long to find the matching dirt bike, the modern cowboy’s choice to ride fence and count head.

  The two rangers arrested a cowpoke a short time later. There had been a poker game a few nights before. The dead rancher had been a big winner, the guilty ranch hand the loser. The man was convinced he’d been cheated and had accidently bumped into his nemesis while chasing down strays. An argument ensued, quickly leading to a pulled knife and a dead man.

  Now, sitting in the country club’s parking lot, Zach reminisced about what he considered a simpler time for the rangers. “That was law enforcement,” he grumbled. “That was solving crimes and locking up criminals. What the hell am I doing now?”

  Overwhelmed, Zach’s mind retreated to a time spiced with gratification and a sense of accomplishment. It had been so much simpler that day, riding on a horse in open country, searching for an outlaw. He could still hear BB’s words as if they had been spoken yesterday, “Crooks can fool cameras. They can cover their financial tracks. But a man crossing the earth always leaves a sign.”

  The ranger glanced over at the Jaguar parked a short distance away. A CSI team was already pouring over the luxury vehicle, but Zach had little faith they would find anything of value for his investigation. It was most likely stolen. There had been no identification on the two shooters. Even the “hidden” serial numbers on their Glock automatics had been ground flat. The men he was chasing seemed to have found a way to get around BB’s rule. They were crossing the earth without leaving a sign.

  Or were they?

  The Jag was inundated with a half-dozen roving flashlight beams. The trunk, hood, and all four doors were open, men and women poking and prodding the sedan in every orifice. The ranger’s eyes, however, remained fixed on the windshield. There was a tollway automatic payment card next to the rearview mirror.

  Zach exited the pickup and approached the woman obviously in charge of dissecting the Jag.

  “I assume the vehicle is stolen?” the ranger asked.

  “No, no report has been filed,” came the stoic response.

  Zach was stunned. Had the cartel goons finally made a mistake? “Who is it registered to?”

  After flashing the ranger a firm, now-isn’t-a-good-time scowl, the lady officer flipped two pages on her clipboard and answered, “A Dr. Myer Dattatreya. The license plate doesn’t match the registration, but the toll card belongs to the doctor.”

  “And the owner lives where?” Zach fired, his energy returning.

  “Says here Dr. Dattatreya is currently residing at 2404 West Pecos Street, College Station.”

  The ranger perked at the city’s name. There it was again. The dying banker’s last words rushing back into the forefront of his mind.

  “We are trying to contact Dr. Dattatreya at the moment, but so far, the College Station PD hasn’t had any luck,” the tech added.

  “Thank you, officer,” Zach said with as much charm as he could muster. “You’re doing an excellent job here; I might add. I’m very impressed with the Abilene PD at the moment.”

  The woman flushed for a brief second, obviously pleased to hear such words from the tall, handsome ranger.

  With his warmest smile, Zach continued the flirt, “You wouldn’t happen to have a cell phone I could borrow … would you?”

  After a late night stop at headquarters in Austin, which included acquiring a requisition for a new phone and filing the minimal paperwork, the ranger caught a few hours of sleep and a quick, hot shower. He was on the road for College Station before dawn the following morning.

  While driving east, Zach decided to call Sam on his new phone. The lady ranger was having breakfast. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Terrible. I’m going to go insane if I have to spend much more time in this place. They wake you up at all hours of the night, the food is terrible, and my nurse is Attila the Hun’s great, great, granddaughter.”

  “Could be worse,” Zach chuckled. “I bet you would be even more sleep deprived if you were on the road with me.”

  The two officers exchanged thoughts and theories on the case as Zach headed toward the small, central Texas town.

  “Have the College Station cops found the doctor yet?” Sam asked.

  “No, and that is troubling. Not only is he missing, but there is very, very little information regarding the man. He received U.S. citizenship after working as an academic at Texas A&M for 11 years, yet the campus police said he’s no longer listed as being on the university’s staff.”

  “What’s so weird about that?” Sam responded. “He went into the corporate world or started his own business.… Could be anything.”

  “He hasn’t filed any tax returns with the republic,” Zach continued. “We’ve got a request into Washington for any records they have, but you know how long that takes.”

  “Let me know what you find out, okay? And Zach, please promise me you’ll come bust me out of this place if they don’t let me go home tomorrow?”

  The thought of Sam fussing with the nurses and doctors provided Zach with some much-needed comic relief. “You got it, partner,” he chuckled. “I’ll tie a rope around your window bars, and pull them out with my horse.”

  “You don’t have a horse.”

  “I’ll use my pickup then. We rangers have to keep up with the times, I suppose.”

  The ranger arrived at College Station just after 9 AM, his first stop being police headquarters. A few minutes later, he was talking with the patrol supervisor who had been tasked with finding the missing doctor.

  “His address is a rented home on the southeast side of town. My officers found no sign of foul play. The place was locked and tidy. We didn’t go in, and I don’t think there’s enough probable cause to get a warrant. A phone call to the landlord this morning confirmed the rent was paid on time each month, and that Dattatreya was a quiet, trouble-free tenant.”

  Zach nodded his agreement. “No idea where this guy works?”

  “Not yet. There is no social media presence that we can find, nor any relatives as far as we know of. We are positive he was a professor in A&M’s veterinary school. One of my buddies on the campus force looked up his record for me. Single, no dependents. Resigned three years ago.”

  “Did he just retire?” Zach inquired. “Maybe he was enjoying the quiet life.”

  “Doubtful. He is only 44 years old. We also know that he travels back to India from time to time. We’re trying to run that down as well.”

  The ranger rubbed his chin, “Who was his boss at A&M? Have you had a chance to interview anyone over at the school?”

  “No, everything was pretty locked down by the time we got the call last night. I’m hoping to get someone over there this morning.”

  Zach offered his hand and said, “I’ll take car
e of that for you, Sergeant. Appreciate the help.”

  It took the ranger some time to find the right building in the maze that was the massive university. Since the secession, the institution found itself in a constant state of accelerated expansion.

  Two of the republic’s new military academies, Texas’s versions of West Point for the Army and Colorado Springs for Air Force, were being developed in conjunction with A&M. Corpus Christi was the new home for the Naval, Coast Guard, and Merchant Marine schools.

  Once he’d finally managed to navigate the huge construction projects and found the right location, Zach had to show his badge three times before he was finally ushered into the office of an associate dean.

  Dr. Herbert Womack wasn’t a tall individual, nor did the intellectual appear to be athletically inclined. At just under 5’9”, a good 40 pounds overweight, and sporting a billy goat beard, the ranger wasn’t initially impressed. After experiencing a handshake that was wet, lethargic, and exhibiting the enthusiasm of a dead snake, Zach wanted nothing more than to finish the interview and get on with his day.

  The ranger wasn’t the only one, Dean Womack making it absolutely clear that he had far more important items on his agenda than talking with a cop.

  “Do you know Dr. Myer Dattatreya?” Zach asked the rather stuffy gent.

  “Yes.”

  There was more than a hint of apprehension in the dean’s response, the ranger initially interpreting the fellow’s attitude as unfavorable toward law enforcement. He probably got a speeding ticket yesterday and is still pissed, Zach thought. Or maybe his daughter ran off with a deputy instead of that nice young man in the lab coat working on his Ph.D.

  “When was the last time you saw Dr. Dattatreya?”

  “What’s this about, officer?” Again, there was an edge.

  “A missing person case,” Zach replied.

  The academic seemed surprised by the response. “Who is missing?”

  “The doctor,” Zach answered, mystified by Womack’s obvious stonewalling.

  The man across the desk was again taken aback by the ranger’s statement. With a sudden case of fluttering hands, he said, “That’s absurd. I just spoke with Myer yesterday morning. He was initializing an important phase of his latest research. He’s not missing; he is sequestered at the lab.”