The Survivors Club

by J. Carson Black

  “You know what it looks like.”

  Danny nodded.

  The killer or killers had left footprints—mostly sneaker prints, called “running w’s” because of the tread. There had been no attempt to cover up the footprints, because whoever killed Hanley didn’t care. Whoever killed Hanley had left the casings—all thirty of them—because he didn’t care.

  He wasn’t covering up anything.

  In fact, it was just the opposite.

  Whoever did this appeared to be making an example of George Hanley. Everything played into that—the thirty rounds, the spent casings, the footprints all over the place, and God knew, there were probably fingerprints, too—somewhere. More than that, there was the duct tape on George Hanley’s mouth—to shut him up.

  Don’t talk. A message.

  “What do you think about the duct tape?” Tess asked Danny.

  Danny kept his eyes forward, tracking the tractor-trailer rigs slowing down on the freeway for the exit. Their engines growling through the gears. “My guess, the guy put it on him after he was dead.”

  Tess agreed. She thought the tape had been affixed to Hanley’s mouth as an exclamation point.

  “I think the guy who killed him was ready for him,” Danny added. “Maybe caught him by the doorway and walked toward him, shooting.”

  That was how Tess saw it, Hanley being pushed back by the hail of bullets and falling into the wall of the ruin.

  Then whoever killed Hanley drove his car to a ravine a half mile down the road from the ghost town, rolled it to the edge, pushed it over, and torched it. Accelerant had been used. Tess made a note to ask any ranchers or squatters in the neighborhood if they saw the fire the night before. No one had called it in, but the people around here minded their own business.

  The object of this kind of killing was to terrorize. But who was there to terrorize in this situation?

  George Hanley was a retired cop who owned a dog and gave tours of Credo. What would anyone in a group like Alacrán or Sinaloa want with him?

  “Plata o plomo,” Danny said.

  Plata o plomo. Tess had heard the popular narcocorrido before—a song that glorified the drug runners and cartels. Plata o plomo was the choice in Mexico: silver or lead. Go along with us and you will be paid handsomely; go against us and you will get bullets.

  A wind sprang up out of nowhere, blowing sand across the empty parking lot and making the yellow tape shiver. Then it was gone. Another semi shifted down, the sound familiar in the west and comforting. Tess glanced at Danny. “How’s Theresa?”

  “Nada. The doc might induce labor if it goes on much longer.”

  “Fingers crossed,” Tess said.

  “One way or the other, guera,” Danny said. “You know what they say: what goes in’s gotta come out.”

  The warped humor of Danny Rojas.

  CHAPTER 5

  They split up. Danny would be testifying at a homicide trial just before lunch, and would probably be gone for most of the day.

  Tess followed Ruby Road to the end of the blacktop and her plain-wrap Tahoe clunked over the washboard road. It was a long, bone-jarring drive.

  This was Border Patrol country. It was rare for Santa Cruz County to send anyone out here—certainly not on patrol. She was alone.

  She passed the gate to the ghost town of Credo on the left. The gate was a continuation of wire fence. A wire loop held the gate and the fence post together. The ranch gate could be unlooped and dragged across the road to make way for cars.

  Tess noticed a van from the medical examiner inside the fence. She decided to come back when they were gone. When she went back to the crime scene she wanted quiet and a chance to think. She drove around the bend and up another hill.

  Around another bend there would be a couple of trailers and an even more primitive camp.

  Tess slowed at the sight of an old travel trailer backed into a rocky hill. It sat on a spur off an old ranch lane. Thirty yards beyond the trailer, where the road bottomed out in the streambed, a couple of tree-limb posts were strung with two strands of wire across the wash. Tess noticed that tin cans had been stuck on top of the limbs, and they’d been shot to pieces.

  The travel trailer was shaded by a camo tarp. The sixties seemed to be a theme here: a faded Game & Fish truck, pale green, stood out front, the emblem painted over. A campfire ring and a makeshift table made out of scrapwood kept a cheap kitchen chair company under the tarp.

  There was a stake and a chain, too—for a dog.

  She had a bad feeling about this, partly because of the way the place looked, but also because of Danny’s Blade Runner comment.

  As Tess pulled up, the trailer door squeaked open and a tall tanned man stepped out.

  Two things she noticed right off the bat: First, he was really tanned.

  The second thing: he was armed with a Winchester repeating rifle.

  And it was aimed at her vehicle. “What do you want?” the man yelled.

  Tess took him in: he was tall and the color of beef jerky. Gray-blond hair in a ponytail. Flip-flops.

  He wore a dirty guayabera shirt and nylon running shorts circa 1970.

  “Who the hell are you? What do you want with me?”

  Tess buzzed down her window and said, “Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Office. I want to ask you about a fire the day before yesterday.”

  He lowered his rifle an inch. “Fire?”

  Tess kept her hands up and palms out. “May I get out of the car?”

  “Stay where you are!”

  Tess had parked diagonally to the clearing, so if she got out, the engine block of the SUV would be between her and the trailer. She opened the door and held her hands up.

  “Come out from behind there,” he said, motioning with his weapon.

  “No. You need to put down your rifle. Otherwise, you’ll be facing a lot more law enforcement than just me, and I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot.”

  “I have the right to defend my property.”

  The ownership of the property was doubtful, but Tess ignored that. “You have nothing to fear from me. Lay down your weapon and let’s talk.” At the same time, she slid out of the car, canting her body so that her right side was hidden. She inched her hand down to her side, unsnapped the holster, and drew her SIG Sauer. She called out, “Did you see the fire?”

  “Fire?” he said again.

  “A car was burned about fifteen miles down the road. You must have seen it.”

  “I did not! Cease and desist! You are trespassing on my property!”

  “Can’t we talk?”

  “You can’t be the sheriff! I talked to the sheriff yesterday. He looked nothing like you!”

  “That was my partner, Danny.”

  “Danny?” He was puzzled. “Another one? How many are there of you? Why are you harassing me? Throw your weapon out. Do it now or I won’t be responsible for what I might do! A man has a right to defend his life and his property.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  There was a pause. “Okay. Leave your weapon in the car.”

  “I will,” Tess lied. She watched as he lowered his rifle again and scratched an ear.

  “Okay, then.” He took a deep breath.

  “I just want to talk to you. Like the other guy, Danny. Remember? He came by and talked to you and then he drove away.”

  “Okay,” he said again. He’d made a one-eighty-degree turnaround in a split second. “I don’t want any trouble. You have backup? They’re not on their way, are they?”

  “No. I’m just here to ask you about the fire. Like my partner Danny was. You remember he just asked you some questions and left? Please put down your rifle.”

  He lowered his rifle all the way, then walked out from under the tarp and set his rifle carefully on the ground. He stepped back.

  “Thank you,” Tess said, easing her SIG Sauer P226 back into her holster but keeping her hand close. “Thank you.”

  He nodded. Suddenly he loo
ked shy. “You can’t come in, though. The place is a mess.”

  “That’s fine. We can talk out here.” Tess did not move from behind the door and the engine block. “Anybody else live with you? Anyone inside the trailer?”

  “No. I ride alone.”

  “Did you see the fire?”

  “Of course I saw the fire.” Another one-eighty.

  “Do you remember what time it was, Mr.…?”

  “Name’s Peter. Peter Deuteronomy. Rhymes with lobotomy.” He giggled at his own joke.

  “You believe in the Bible,” Tess said. “That’s good.”

  He smiled. “You a Christian?”

  “Yes.” She was, and she wasn’t, depending on the things she saw on any day. But right now she was a true believer. He hadn’t shot her, for which she was thankful.

  “Some of us around here, we have a Bible study. I could ask them, if you want to join.”

  “Thank you, but I have my own. What night do you guys meet?”

  “Tuesdays at seven o’clock p.m. Over at Matty Thompson’s house.”

  “Oh. That’s when we meet, too.”

  His face fell. “Too bad, but at least you’re washed in the blood of the Lamb.”

  Tess nodded. “So can I ask you about the fire? You saw it? Do you remember what time that was, Peter?”

  He looked down at the ground, shifted his feet on the rocks. “I think it was during Pickers. I saw it over that hill.” He pointed. “Just a light, but I could tell it was flames. And smoke.”

  “So that would be what time?”

  “It was a rerun. They had the American Pickers marathon. So I can’t rightly remember. It was still light, though.”

  “Evening?”

  “No. Dusk.”

  “Dusk. Like around six p.m.?”

  “Uh-huh. You want to hear about the shooting, too?”

  “I would, yes.”

  “Somebody must’ve been shot up bad. Maybe it was the guy you’re looking for. It was an automatic weapon—an AK-47, I’ll bet. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Like that!”

  “How long was it between the shooting and the fire?”

  “You think the same guy who was shooting set the fire?”

  “Could be.”

  He looked down at his own rifle. Tess hoped he didn’t have second thoughts. She eased one hand down to her own unsnapped holster.

  “How long, do you think?” Tess asked again.

  He frowned. “I dunno. Maybe a half hour?”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Nope. People are always shooting around here. There are a lot of bad guys. That’s why I tell intruders I shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Comforting. “So you think the fire was around six-thirty p.m.?”

  “Sounds about right.” He was staring at his weapon again, even took a step toward it. Tess didn’t think he wanted to shoot her. She hoped it was because he just didn’t want to be away from it very long.

  He said, “I heard someone start up a car and drive away after the shooting. Then I saw the fire.”

  “All this happened between five and six-thirty at night?”

  “Pretty sure. Can I get my rifle now?”

  “Tell you what. I’m going to get into my car and drive away. Let me get back in the car, okay? And when I drive around that hill, you go pick up your rifle.”

  “Sounds fair.” But she could see his hand itching. He was looking at the rifle the way a dog looks at a ball he can’t quite get to.

  Tess went to three other squatter camps in the Atascosa Mountains. No one answered at two of them, and an older gentleman in a newer travel trailer invited her in for iced tea and a grilled cheese sandwich. He remembered seeing a light in the sky, but it was too far away for him to hear anything. He, too, thought the time was around sunset.

  She had a time frame.

  By the time Tess got back to Credo, the place was deserted.

  The ghost town looked the same as it did yesterday: adobe dwellings slumping into the earth, wood shacks bent out of shape by the elements, corrugated steel roofs were a patchwork of silver and rust. In mid-April, the mesquite was just budding out in halos of bright green.

  The crime scene tape was still wrapped around the falling-down cabin, strung out to include two white oaks.

  The Tahoe bumped along the dirt track and she parked behind the stone foundation of the stamp mill. The oaks and mesquite grew wild there, and Tess knew the vehicle couldn’t be seen from the road. It wasn’t an overt act of concealment, but Tess didn’t want to attract the attention of anyone driving along the road. Tourists and hikers used this road, and she didn’t want to deal with anyone today.

  As she’d done the first time, she started seventy yards or so away from the cabin where Hanley had died and walked all the way around. As she walked, she looked down at the ground, but also at the hills and mountains and mining buildings of Credo, paying particular attention to windows, doorways, and trees. With her eyes, she tracked the cabin where Hanley was shot and killed, getting closer with each circuit.

  Found “high sign” on an animal path coming down one hill.

  Strands of burlap clung to the bushes and mesquite. Burlap meant someone had been moving drugs—most likely marijuana. She found a thread of flannel, as well. Flannel was a good shirt for early spring. The fabric breathed, it could be cool or it could be warm, and repelled burrs and thorns. That was why border crossers often wore flannel shirts.

  Tess had a few small plastic evidence bags with her, and tweezers. She took a few samples of the flannel and burlap, and photographed the bush they’d been caught on. Plenty of footprints—maybe even more than last time.

  Even though the road was blocked by a padlocked gate, anyone could come through here on foot, or even on horseback. Anyone with wire cutters could get through a four-strand wire fence with horses or mules, or slip in on foot.

  She worked her way to the cabin.

  Every shell casing—all thirty of them—had been circled with iridescent orange paint before being taken for evidence.

  Tess couldn’t think of one instance of an enforcer for one of the cartels killing a US citizen on this side of the border.

  She crossed her arms and rested her hands under each armpit, so she would not be tempted to touch anything. She stepped up onto the cabin’s porch. Even at this time of the day, a chill emanated from the doorless entry.

  Tess paused outside the doorway. The smell of musty adobe overlaid the membranes of her mouth and nostrils. She peered into the darkness at the opposite wall. Blood everywhere. Geysers of it on what was left of the chalk-like gypsum board.

  From the trajectories and blood spatter and the way Hanley was found, Tess was sure her theory was correct: he had been pushed back by the assault, and stumbled backward until he hit the wall.

  She closed her eyes. And saw him.

  Grouped shots, mostly center mass, Hanley’s neck turned into pudding. Two shots to the face—both eyes.

  The duct tape pasted across his mouth.

  Hanley’s Denali was a burned-out husk—there would be little, if any, evidence. They’d identified it by the VIN number. Plaster casts had been taken of the tire treads near the place where the Denali had been driven off the road, as well as shoe prints. But they would need something to match them to.

  Tess looked around the cabin. There were long sections of the rafters open to the sky, sun and shadow striping the concrete floor.

  He’d had a weapon, but didn’t draw it. This surprised Tess. You’d think that out here he would hear someone coming. There was no way someone would be able to sneak up on an ex-cop. Tess knew Hanley would have kept the careful habits that had seen him through his sixty-eight years. If she were him, coming out here late in the day like that, she would have scouted the area. She would have looked for trouble ahead of time.

  Looking for trouble was what cops did. Didn’t matter if you’d been out of the life for years. Old habits die hard.

&nbs
p; A dove in the rafters shifted and cooed.

  It came to Tess just like that, and she knew it was true.

  He was meeting someone.

  A clatter above, and the dove took off, its wings whickering as it sped away.

  Tess froze. She was here alone, in a place known as part of the smuggling corridor.

  She heard footsteps on the sand and rock.

  Careful to keep away from the stripes of sunlight, Tess stood back from the paneless window and looked in the direction of the footsteps.

  A man was walking down the lane toward the ghost town. He’d left his vehicle, an older model Range Rover, near the gate, and had just slipped through the wire.

  Looked like a hiker. Hiking boots, the thick socks, the ballcap, the sunglasses, the cargo shorts. He carried a bladder of water on his back, and a drinking tube snaked around to lie on his chest, not far from his lips.

  “Stay there!” Tess called. “This is a crime scene.”

  The guy looked at her quizzically, but kept coming, his hiking boots skating a little on the rocks as he came down the hill.

  “This is private property and a crime scene!” Tess shouted. Aware of her weapon, her hand close. “You are not allowed to be here!”

  The guy raised a hand in greeting and kept coming.

  He was carrying; a small gun, might be a .32, on his left side—a lefty.

  Tess spread her stance. She unsnapped her holster and drew her SIG Sauer—the second time today. As she’d done earlier, she kept it hidden behind her hip. “Sir—I am giving you a warning. Stay where you are.”

  He stopped and held up his hands. I’m harmless.

  “Is that the cabin where George Hanley was shot?” he said. “Looks like it.”

  “Do you know George Hanley?”

  “May I approach?” His hands still up.

  He was a good-looking man, lean and sinewy, somewhere in his mid-to-late thirties. The dark aviator shades made her think of a model in one of those fashion magazines. They also covered his eyes.

  “Do you know anything about Mr. Hanley?” Tess repeated. “Are you a friend of his?”

  Hands still up. “Can I approach?” He crunched forward and came within fifteen yards of her, saw her face, and then stopped. Whipped off his sunglasses. “Look, I understand why you’d want me to keep my distance—I know that’s standard police procedure. You’re just being a good cop.”