And a piece of paper with a radio frequency scrawled upon it in black crayon.
“Guzman said to call him if Luna doesn’t show.”
This time it would be done a bit differently.
Sloan was now gone, in fear of his life, headed south toward Brady.
Savage would have to deal with Guzman himself. He dreaded doing so, for he was a quivering bowl of jelly in the presence of evil and vile men. It didn’t matter if they were face to face or speaking over the radio, he’d be terrified.
And no doubt Guzman would be able to sense it.
Perhaps capitalize on it.
Perhaps sense the desperation in Savage’s voice and charge him twice the going rate.
That would hit Savage where it hurt, for Savage was a man who valued gold and silver above anything else in the world.
But it had to be done. Red had to be dealt with once and for all. And it had to be done right.
It had to be done while Savage had an airtight alibi. Then that smartass Ranger, no matter how much he wanted to hang Savage, would have to admit defeat and go crawling back where he came from.
To harass others who weren’t quite as smart and resourceful as Savage was.
He dialed in the frequency and keyed the microphone, then tried his best to sound like Eddie had when he talked to other preppers.
For preppers talking to one another by ham radio, it was essential to get the information they were seeking without revealing too much information about themselves. A prepper, for example, might inquire of others where to purchase a four wheeler, but was always careful not to reveal his specific location, resources or weapons capabilities.
Preppers totally distrust other preppers.
At least the smart ones do.
Savage had decided that soliciting a contract killer over the airwaves was a lot like that.
A prepper has to explain his needs and what he’s willing to barter or pay without telling anyone where he is. For even if the man he’s dealing with on the other end of the radio is totally on the up and up, that may not be the case for others listening in.
Others listening in might covet what the seeker has and might be looking for a chance to catch him away from his sanctuary. For that’s when preppers are most vulnerable.
In Savage’s case, it might not be other preppers listening in.
It might be law enforcement. Maybe even the Texas Rangers.
Maybe that Ranger who’d harassed him in Blanco.
He’d have to speak in code. Hope Guzman didn’t think he was nuts.
And hope Guzman would understand, despite his gibberish, what it was he was looking for.
Luckily they’d dealt before, through an intermediary. And it wasn’t that long ago. Guzman should remember and should trust him. He should be able to put two and two together even if Savage’s words didn’t quite clearly convey his needs.
“Hello, hello,” he said into the radio. “I’m a friend of Ed Sloan’s. Anybody out there know him?”
There was a brief pause, then a man’s voice came back.
It was a voice with a heavy Spanish accent.
“I believe I do know a man named Ed Sloan. Nice man, tall and skinny. But not much to look at. He’d make a good match for my sister. She’s as ugly as a wolverine’s rear end herself.
“If you’re looking for him, though, I haven’t seen him in awhile. He jumped on the train to Uglyville, I imagine.”
“Oh, that’s where I’m calling from. Uglyville. Even more ugly because it’s raining here today.”
The skies outside the bank were crystal clear.
“Actually, sir, I saw Sloan just recently. But alas, he’s gone now. He set out for a place with sunnier skies to beat the coming winter. That’s why I’m calling.”
“Go on, my friend.”
It was the first time in a very long time anyone called Savage “friend.” And it didn’t mean anything, other than a conversation filler.
Savage continued, “Sloan visited with you not long ago on my behalf, since I’m getting older and don’t get around as easily as I once did.”
His voice was matching the inflection, the tone, the cadence of the Hispanic man on the other end.
And oddly enough, a tinge of the same accent.
“Sloan brokered a deal with you to buy a horse, and to bring it back to my ranch.”
“Ah, yes, my friend. I do indeed remember. And just how is that horse? Is he still healthy and still able to pull your plow?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry to say the horse has passed away. He was a good horse, but I suppose his time had just come.”
“So… should I assume you’re in need of another horse?”
“Yes, sir. The problem, as I said, is that Sloan is not here to act as my broker any more. And I, as I said, am too old and too ill to travel myself.”
“That is not a problem, my friend. I remember exactly where we delivered the horse last time. I even remember your name. But there is a slight consideration…”
“What’s that?”
“Good horses have become scarce of late. Most of them have died or been sold. Oh, there are a few still around. But since they are so scarce they are also very expensive.”
Savage swallowed hard and thought to himself, “Here it comes…”
He asked, “How expensive, sir?”
“I can give you a top of the line horse. He will exceed your every expectation. But I will have to charge you twice what I charged you for the first horse.
“I am sorry for that, but I must charge what my competitors charge or I will be out of business.
“But then again, I don’t have to explain to you that a good horse is well worth what it costs to purchase him.”
“Yes. Yes indeed.
“How soon, sir, will the horse be available?”
“If you agree to the terms, I can have him delivered within a week or so.”
It was longer than Savage wanted to wait. He wanted Red dead and he wanted it to happen yesterday.
But even if his hired gun was available, packed and mounted, it was still several days’ ride from south Dallas.
The time delay was reasonable.
“I accept your terms.”
“Very well, my friend. As I said before, I remember your name and address from our previous transaction. I trust you’ll be just as satisfied this time.
“You may start watching for your horse anytime after next Wednesday.”
Savage signed off and had mixed feelings about the transaction.
This killer was going to cost him a lot of gold.
But then again, with Red and her friends out of the way, he could always collect more.
-24-
John Savage was blessed with a great memory. And despite the fact he couldn’t see the danger in making enemies of an entire Texas town, he was a man of above average intelligence.
That was about the best that could be said of John Savage. For he was lacking in nearly every other human characteristic.
Most of them were readily apparent: the greed, the lack of empathy or compassion.
One of them was invisible, though he occasionally showed subtle signs.
He was slowly going insane.
When he was a boy, Savage’s father went away for awhile. His mother lied to him and said he went off to war, but little Johnny had always suspected that wasn’t the case. His father was a mountain of a man with a nervous twitch and a bad leg which caused a permanent limp.
Even little Johnny, at seven years old, couldn’t imagine a three hundred pound man limping from foxhole to foxhole, and what good he’d possibly be to his comrades.
Later on, he found out the “war” his father went off to fight was at an insane asylum. His “enemies” were his own personal demons.
When he was thirteen his father returned.
But for the rest of his life he seemed to be in his own little world. The nervous twitch Johnny remembered was gone, as were all signs of emotion. His
father spent hours each day staring out into… nothingness.
His mother dutifully gave her husband his medication.
Twenty seven pills each and every day. Johnny took the time to count them when he was bored one day.
But other than that, his mother had little to do with his father. She had her own life to live now, even occasionally letting one of her male suitors come by the house to pick her up or drop her off.
His father didn’t seem to care. Didn’t seem to notice, really.
His mother seemed to cut all emotional attachment she had for Johnny as well.
She started experimenting with some of her husband’s drugs around that same time. She discovered that some of them made her feel good. Some of them made her feel better about her lot in life.
Some of them just zoned her out the way they did her husband.
In those days doctors’ offices didn’t communicate with one another.
Nor did pharmacies. It was easier to drag John’s father to three different doctors, to obtain three different prescriptions, without anyone noticing.
In the end, she was actually taking more of her husband’s medication than he was.
The difference between the two was that she didn’t weigh over three hundred pounds. She’d weighed around ninety five for most of her life.
Her heart couldn’t take the massive amounts of narcotics her veins were pumping through it.
She died on her living room couch when John Savage was sixteen.
John found her there when he came home from school one day, his father sitting next to her and stroking her hair.
His father died one month later to the day.
He was told it was natural causes.
But dying of natural causes at age thirty seven just didn’t seem right to John Savage.
He wondered if his father knew more than he seemed to.
He wondered whether his father was really aware that his wife had been cheating on him for years. Had been using him to get her drugs.
Had stopped caring years before.
He wondered whether his father died of a broken heart. Of anguish he couldn’t express.
He wondered whether his father just decided not to live anymore.
Whatever signs of humanity John still possessed at that point faded away. He became even more cold and uncaring. The few friends he had pulled away. They abandoned him when perhaps he needed them the most.
But none of them was willing to hang around to suffer his abuse.
John Savage found solace in money. He found his love in possessions. He took the money his parents had in the bank and invested it.
He liked the way he felt when he had things others didn’t have.
He enjoyed the sensation of power when acquaintances came to him for loans. Acquaintances because he no longer had any friends.
He enjoyed telling them no, or granting their loans at exorbitant interest rates. It felt good taking advantage of others.
There were some things he didn’t particularly enjoy, though.
Oh, the loneliness wasn’t bad. As long as he had his material things to make him happy he’d live by himself.
The sleepless nights didn’t bother him much. It was his subconscious trying to tell him what a miserable wretch he’d become, but he never figured that out.
No, he’d just get up at three a.m. when he couldn’t sleep and read or watch television, then take a nap later on.
It was mostly his paranoia which got to him.
Maybe it was because he hadn’t felt love or affection from either parent since he was a small boy. As an adolescent his prevailing feeling was one of abandonment.
Perhaps it was because when he was at his worst his friends abandoned him, and took to talking about him and making fun of him behind his back.
Somewhere along the way he decided the rest of the world was out to get him.
That paranoia never really went away. It was why he had Tad Taylor eat part of any food he had brought in from the outside.
It was why he was such a light sleeper, and awoke immediately at the slightest of sounds.
It was why on this particular day, after he had talked on the radio to Guzman, that he looked around the bank and concluded that someone was trying to kill him.
-25-
Savage actually felt pretty good after speaking on the radio to Guzman.
He wasn’t happy about the price he’d have to pay. A total of sixty thousand dollars in gold coin and shavings. Twenty for Red, twenty for the mysterious young man who was now accompanying her, and twenty for Lester Brooks.
It was a hefty price, but once they were out of the way there would be no one else in Blanco to challenge him.
It would be worth it in the long run.
His elation faded quickly after he turned off the radio and went down the stairs and into the main part of the bank.
And noticed the liter bottle of whiskey, still on his expansive oak desk, its screw-on cap lying on the desk beside it.
He remembered leaving it there. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was his on again-off again paranoia, and how it chose this particular time to rear its ugly head.
It suddenly dawned on him how easy it would be for someone to pour something in the bottle to poison him.
This particular brand of whiskey wasn’t aged and mellow. It was rotgut and burned all the way down.
His usual habit was to drink top-shelf liquor when he was sober. It was very well distilled, smooth and gentle on his throat. Then, as he became intoxicated, he’d switch over to the cheap stuff. When he was feeling little pain and could therefore better tolerate its nasty burn.
If someone poured poison into his rotgut he’d likely not be able to detect it, since it tasted horrid anyway. He already had to wince when he swallowed the stuff, and typically shivered after it went down.
There was no way, in his mind, that poison could possibly taste any worse.
His suspicions that his booze might be poisoned made him look around at other things as well.
The partially-eaten bag of potato chips on the credenza behind his desk: had he opened them and eaten from them?
He didn’t remember. But he picked them up and threw them into the garbage can.
Just in case someone dumped out some of the chips, sprayed a nasty chemical on them, then returned them to the package.
For a logical mind, going through all the trouble of breaking into the bank to poison Savage’s foodstuffs just didn’t pass muster.
But logic and paranoia mix about as well as oil and water.
Savage began to panic.
Then he began to tear through his pantry, a back room he used to store his long-lasting foodstuffs.
The canned goods were safe, he reckoned. They couldn’t be tampered with without it being very apparent.
Everything else was suspect.
He examined the bags of ramen noodles and microwave popcorn for tiny holes a syringe might have left behind.
He sniffed his candy bars, trying to detect any suspicious aromas.
He cried as he realized how easily one could inject poison into one of his beloved cigars.
By the time he heard a knock on the door he’d created a large pile on the floor just outside his pantry.
A large pile of stuff he wanted to throw out.
He stole over to the bank’s doors and peered outside to see Jesse and Luis Martinez standing on the walkway outside, nervously looking around.
For a brief second Savage wondered whether they’d come to kill him.
He almost didn’t open the door.
But the greed won over the paranoia. He needed these men, both for his project to reopen the old market and to fleece the townsfolk even more.
And for another project he hadn’t yet discussed with them.
He opened the door and said, “Quickly. Come in!”
-26-
Savage was sweating profusely. He had the jitters. He looked as nerv
ous as the proverbial whore in church.
In short, he was a mess.
The brothers had heard the rumors and assumed he was in his present state because he came very close to being arrested the night before.
And that was partly true, for that was where the stress had its roots. It started with the fear he originally felt that the gig was up. That he was off to Austin to stand trial for the murders of Gomez and Duncan. And perhaps even the murders of Red’s loved ones.
His initial fears the night before involved his hanging from a tree in the courthouse square, and built from there.
The brothers had agreed before they came in not to ask about the shooting. Savage had been grumpy enough lately. They didn’t want to rile him any more.
But Jesse was as curious as a young kitten and couldn’t help himself.
“What happened last night? We heard there was a shooting, and somebody got killed.”
“Two business associates of mine betrayed me. I had to shoot them both dead. They fell right where you’re standing.”
Jesse looked at the wooden floor beneath his feet. It was dried now, but Savage didn’t clean often enough to be very good at it.
The streaks he made when he mopped up the carnage were still very visible.
Savage saw no harm in telling them about the shooting. In his mind, it might serve as a warning to them that he was a force to be reckoned with. That if he killed two other men for betraying him, they might meet the same fate.
The problem was that the brothers knew he was full of manure. He just didn’t have the guts to gun down two men in a fair fight.
But they didn’t call him on it.
Instead, Luis explained why they were there.
“We just finished unloading another load into your warehouse. We want to be paid for it. And for the load we delivered yesterday when you weren’t around.”
Savage started to balk at the request for double payment.
But he thought better of it. They had indeed been due back the day before with a load. And thus far they hadn’t ripped him off. At least as far as he knew.
He reached into his desk drawer and withdrew two tiny silver ingots, then handed them to Luis.
“How many more loads will it take to fill up the warehouse?” he asked.
No Help From Austin: Red: Book 5 Page 8