“What should we do?” Hannah said.
“There are two houses left,” I said.
“Let’s start with the control room.”
“Why there?” I asked.
“Because I’m not real sure I want to know what’s going on in the third house.”
We looked toward the control room as the ground shook like a minor earthquake had hit, and then the windows of the structure blew out and glass shrapnel spewed everywhere.
Hannah and I jumped back.
The control room began to burn, and we turned to the last place on the hill.
The holy ground.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-THREE
I suppose we knew all along what had been happening at the compound even if we didn’t give voice to our suspicions.
The girls, the underage marriages, a patriarchal organization, the rife sexuality implied by that combination.
I liked to think that people who claim to be part of something righteous and good might be different, not affected by the basest of human desires.
But that was a mistake. Men have been men since time began. Some have lusts best not described, for fear that others will fall prey to their particular strains of darkness.
I entered the third house, gun in hand, Hannah right behind me.
A guard stood in the foyer. He offered no resistance when I disarmed him. He was scared of what lay ahead. Within the next few seconds, I understood why and couldn’t say that I blamed him.
The leaders of the church, we later learned, had used a unique interpretation of their scriptures as support for allowing cameras to record the blessedness of the wedding night, especially those nights involving young, attractive brides. The so-called conjugals.
At some point, the church hierarchy discovered there was a market for such images. They also figured out that the younger the bride was, the higher the price the pictures (and later videos) could command.
A variety of criminal organizations, the Russians most lately, handled the retail distribution, selling the images on the Internet. The money flowed through several different offshore accounts before eventually ending up in the electronic vaults of the First National Bank of Piedra Springs.
But I didn’t know these details when I took the guard’s weapon and bound his arms with his own belt.
I began to understand, however, when we entered the main part of the house.
A king-size bed dominated what used to be the living room. The bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled. A comforter lay bunched at the foot.
Except for the professional-grade lighting equipment and expensive video cameras, everything felt cheap and dirty. Dismal and pathetic, anything but titillating.
On one wall, out of view of the cameras, hung a series of photographs—men in white shirts and black suits, the leadership structure of the church, no doubt. Interspersed with the photographs were framed plaques of various Bible verses.
The implication was obvious. What happened here was sanctioned, even sanctified by the church.
Hannah stared at the pictures.
A shot of Silas was toward the end. His face appeared younger, but the clothes were identical to what he had been wearing today.
She walked up close to the bed and knelt so that the mattress was at eye level. She looked at me and said, “What the hell is this place?”
I couldn’t tell whether she meant this room or the whole compound. Either way, it didn’t matter.
“They’re running a porn operation,” I said.
“What?”
“They’re filming themselves.” I pointed to a camera. “With the girls. Having sex.”
“I don’t under—” She got to her feet. “How can they call themselves a church and, and—” She looked at the bed.
I didn’t reply because there was nothing to say. I was tired all the way to my bones. My knee hurt, and there was a throbbing pain in my temple. After a moment, I headed for the hallway leading to the back half of the home. Together, Hannah and I explored the rest of the house.
Three bedrooms, two of which were empty.
The door to the last room was open.
A girl in a long-sleeve dress sat in the middle of a sofa, legs crossed demurely at the ankles.
She wore a thick layer of makeup, blue eye shadow, cherry-red lipstick, heavy rouge on her cheeks.
“Hi there,” I said.
She didn’t reply.
“How old are you?” I asked.
She looked at Hannah and then back to me. A moment passed. Then, she said, “I am twelve, sir. Are you here for the conjugal?”
I shook my head. “There’s not going to be any of those today.”
Hannah took her by the arm, led her from the room. A few seconds later, we were all outside, blinking in the sunshine.
I pulled the walkie-talkie from my pocket, turned it on.
Throckmorton’s voice immediately rang out. “Baines, where the hell are you?”
I told him.
“You haven’t left yet?” His voice was shrill. “I am giving you a direct order. That’s a crime scene. You need to exit that location ASAP.”
“You don’t understand,” I said.
Silence. Then: “What was the explosion? Looked like one of those houses blew up.”
“The holy ground.” I paused. “That’s what this is about.”
My voice, even to my own ears, sounded strangely hollow.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “I’m not following.”
“There’s a twelve-year-old girl up here with us.” I told him about the cameras.
No response from the radio.
Hannah covered her mouth like she was going to be sick.
I stared at the smoldering control room.
The guards in the control room had tried to destroy the smallest structure, the place where the images were processed and stored, but they hadn’t quite succeeded. Not that it would have mattered, with what was going on everywhere else. It would take weeks, but between the three houses and the old prison, a good forensics team could uncover a mountain of evidence.
“You need to get the feds involved,” I said. “This is probably an interstate situation.”
The radio crackled, but no response was forthcoming. The girl we’d rescued from the third house stared at the horizon and hugged herself.
I shielded my eyes against the sun’s glare and peered at the front entrance. More police cars were on the highway, but other than that, nothing had happened.
Throckmorton spoke again, his voice sounding subdued. “What about the hostage?”
I looked at Hannah. “She’s safe. What’s your ETA?”
No response.
“Throckmorton? Are you still there?”
Static from the speaker. Then: “The AG is talking to the governor. The guv wants to bring in the DOJ.”
“Good for the bureaucrats,” I said. “Now tell me when you’re coming in.”
“Soon. We’ve got a bunch of CPS caseworkers on-site now at least, but air support had a mechanical issue. They’re hours away.”
Air coverage was critical. The compound and surrounding area were too vast to exert control without helicopters.
“Soon?” I said. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means we’re sitting on a leaky gas tank and nobody wants to give the go-ahead to light the first match.”
I swore. Then I had an idea.
“There’s a cattle trail by the creek. Just to the west of your location. It’s unguarded. Send in CPS and some troopers that way.”
A few moments passed. Then he said, “OK. That’ll
work. We’ll put a sniper up there, too. That should help when the big push comes. Hold your position until they get there.”
I lied to him and said I would do as he asked. Then I turned off the radio and gave the device to Hannah. “You stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
I stared at the trail that ran south, the way Silas had gone. “He’ll get away if I don’t go after him.”
“I’m going with you,” Hannah said.
“What about your niece?” I pointed to the old prison. “She’s down there somewhere.”
“How am I going to find her in all that, especially with those people shooting at me?”
“You should stay with her, then.” I nodded toward the girl we’d rescued.
The youngster stared at us like we were talking statues. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
I hopped on one of the four-wheelers.
“The troopers will be here in a couple of minutes,” Hannah said. “She’ll be OK.”
I cranked the ignition. The engine caught, the fuel gauge indicating a full tank.
“Please.” She stepped in front of the four-wheeler. “I don’t want to stay in this place anymore. The girl is safe for the moment. There’s nothing that can happen to her now.”
I hesitated, foot on the gearshift. I understood. The houses on top of the hill made me feel dirty and ashamed, even though I’d had nothing to do with what had gone on here.
I looked at the girl. “Stay right here. You’re going to be OK. People are on their way who will take care of you.”
The girl nodded, a shy smile creasing her face for the first time.
I turned my attention back to Hannah and pointed to the rear of the seat behind me.
“Hop on.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
The trail that Silas McPherson had taken headed south, following a dry creek bed.
The vegetation was sparse—cactus and cedars, scrub oaks, tufts of creosote bushes that looked like olive-colored medicine balls.
I pushed the four-wheeler to its limit, bouncing along at nearly fifty miles per hour, a blisteringly fast pace when you’re on the back of an open vehicle on rough terrain.
Hannah held on tightly, her arms around my torso.
The terrain grew rockier and more uneven, arroyos and narrow gorges overtaking the flatlands where the old prison was located.
We gradually climbed higher, making our way toward an escarpment covered in mesquite trees.
After a few minutes, the trail cut to the west, through a narrow canyon filled with chalky white boulders. Then it switched back and we found ourselves atop the escarpment, zipping through a grove of mesquites, the thorns on their branches clawing at us as we sped by.
Hannah saw the other four-wheeler first.
She squeezed my arm, pointed to a clearing just to the right of the path, a flash of painted metal.
The four-wheeler that Silas had used to escape sat under an old windmill.
I pulled off the trail, stopped behind the vehicle, and killed my engine. Away from the path and in the thicket of trees, visibility was minimal. I strained to hear any movement, but there was nothing but the whisper of the breeze and the creak of the old windmill.
The rear of Silas’s four-wheeler was damp with transmission fluid, and the air nearby smelled like burned insulation.
I felt the engine block. It was warm but not hot. He had a head start but was now traveling by foot.
“He’d stay on the trail,” Hannah said. “Let’s keep going.”
I nodded.
“How far to the road?” she asked.
We’d been traveling between forty and fifty miles an hour for nearly ten minutes. That put us about seven miles south of where we’d started.
I tried to remember the details from the map that Throckmorton had shown me. The highway to Del Rio couldn’t be too much farther.
“Maybe a mile or so.” I still had the two Glocks, one that I’d taken from the guard back at the third house, the second being the pistol I’d retrieved from the roof of Jimmy and Dale’s.
I handed the latter to Hannah. “You know how to use a gun?”
“I can figure it out.” She slid the pistol in her back pocket.
“Let’s go.” I cranked the ignition and threaded the four-wheeler back to the trail.
This time, I drove slower, wanting to be more aware of what was around me. The engine was noisy, signaling our presence, so I needed to keep an eye out for Silas or any possible attacks.
A few hundred yards later, the trees thinned out and the trail snaked across a plain covered with buffalo grass, green and healthy from the recent rain. At the end of the plain was a limestone bluff, and I sensed that the highway was on the other side, not very far away.
“There.” Hannah pointed to a tiny figure in black, a smudge between us and the bluff.
A buzzard circled high overhead, and I wondered what the bird’s presence signified—nearby carrion or wishful thinking?
The figure started to run. I sped up.
The bluff was not high, maybe thirty feet above the plain.
Silas scrambled up the limestone as we got closer.
The trail veered to the left, taking a more gradual slope to the summit.
I drove that way and circled around to meet our target when he made it to the top.
We arrived at the same time, a flat spot by a gravel road.
Sheriff Quang Marsh was already there, waiting for us.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Nine Months Ago
The Frisella brothers were cold.
I knew this because they were banging on the door of the walk-in cooler at Pirate Red’s, hollering about how they were freezing to death, demanding to be let out.
The restaurant was still closed for remodeling, meaning there was no food service, but the place was open for a certain type of customer. I’d known the patrons I was after would be there.
It was eight o’clock in the evening, the day my life changed. Seven and a half hours after Chloe sat down at my table at the diner and upended my world.
Now, Chloe and her two partners, Keating and Boulay, were going to pay for their crimes.
The three crooked cops were kneeling on the greasy floor of the kitchen, hands behind their heads.
I aimed my service pistol at Chloe.
My father-in-law cowered behind me. Frank held his revolver in one hand, a Smith & Wesson snub-nose, the gun he’d shot the week before that had been in the lockbox of my truck. A gun whose serial number was attached to his name. The weapon dangled from his fingers like he was afraid it might bite.
Frank was not having a good day. Arrested for bank fraud, slapped around by his son-in-law, informed that his daughter and grandchildren had been murdered, now forced to confront their killers.
His breath was coming in heaves, his face pale, limbs trembling.
I, on the other hand, was feeling remarkably calm. Considering the circumstances, I actually felt good, in control for once.
Chloe said, “You do get the fact that if you kill three cops, there won’t be a rock big enough for you to hide under?”
“Three crooked cops who killed my family,” I said.
“That’s not how it’s going to play out.” Chloe shook her head. “Trust me.”
Keating, the guy on the end, sneered at me, his eyes rattling in their sockets like marbles in an ashtray.
I walked to where he knelt and smashed the barrel of my pistol across his mouth.
He fell over. A couple of teeth scattered across the tile, blood pooling underneath his chin.
No one spoke. Frank whimpered in the background.
She cut her eyes toward Boulay, an angry expression on her face. Then she looked back at me.
“An unfortunate turn of events,” she said.
I tightened my finger on the trigger, the muzzle aimed at her face. The anger inside me was a living, breathing thing, a mass of poisonous heat worming its way through my veins.
“Don’t screw up any more,” Chloe said. “Beat the shit out of us if that makes you feel better. But you’re not shooting anybody.”
“You think giving you a beat down will bring my family back?” I said.
She shrugged. “Do you think killing us will?”
I didn’t respond. Instead I placed the muzzle against her forehead.
She didn’t flinch. “Boulay was the shooter. Break his arms and legs. I’ll help you.”
Boulay looked at her. “What the fuck?”
Chloe stared at my eyes. “But you need to get over this idea that you can just kill three cops and get away with it.”
“What if I don’t want to get away with it?”
“You’re a Texas Ranger,” she said. “Not suicidal. You wouldn’t last an hour in prison.”
I moved the gun from her head. “You’re right.”
She smiled, appearing to relax just a tiny bit.
I pointed to my father-in-law. “Frank’s going to do it.”
Chloe quit smiling.
“He was arrested today for bank fraud,” I said. “You killed his daughter and grandkids. He’s out of his head. Doing you will probably get him only another year or two.”
“Ah, shit.” Chloe shook her head.
“He takes out three crooked cops,” I said. “Bet they treat him like a king in prison.”
A sheen of sweat had appeared on Chloe’s upper lip. “Don’t be stupid, Baines. They’ll nail you as an accomplice.”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “But probably not. I did try to stop him. Isn’t that right, Frank?”
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