“My friends and I are investigating something big. May involve Cross. That’s all I can say. Not looking to get Bernard in trouble. One more question. You know where Cross lives?”
“Uptown, big house from what I hear.”
Ike stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Al. I’ll bring a crowd next time I’m in town. I’m working my music back into shape. Maybe you’ll let me join you for a couple of numbers.”
Al smiled as Ike turned toward the door, wondering why he was asking questions about Cross. He hoped he didn’t say too much.
59
Jack and J.D. were met by a storm that had blown in from the Gulf, driving rain in their faces when they stepped from the door of Trombone’s. “Helluva time not to have a raincoat,” Jack muttered.
“Which way?” J.D. hollered to make his voice heard above the wind and rain. Jack looked both ways and at first saw nothing. Then he pointed to the left.
“I think I saw someone turning up that next street. Let’s give it a try.” J.D. took the lead, like a blocking back, breaking the storm for his dad. They arrived at the corner and looked down the street.
“I think I see him, up there about a half a block. Son of a bitch! Two men just stepped out of a doorway behind him. I’m going ahead. Catch up when you can.”
“Be careful, son,” Jack tried to caution J.D., who was already sprinting through the storm.
Cross heard something behind him as he pushed through the rain with his arm crooked over his eyes. He looked back to see two men closing on him. He took off in a run. Thirty years before it would have been a sprint. Now, with old legs and a slippery surface, it was no more than a slow trot. Two shots rang out. Cross was down. J.D. had closed the gap and pulled his weapon, firing at both of the men as they ran by Cross’s prostrate body. One of them turned and fired a shot over his shoulder, not coming close to J.D. Still, J.D. ducked and lost a few feet. The men turned the next corner. J.D. fired several shots in their direction as they disappeared.
J.D. stopped at the corner and crouched as he peered around it. One of the men was down. The other was nowhere to be seen. J.D. walked up to the man on the ground and felt for a pulse. There was none. As he rose, Jack huffed around the corner. “Cross is dead. I checked his wallet and confirmed his identity. What about this one?
“No pulse. This is one of the guys I saw in Fort Worth and again in New York. What the hell is going on?”
Jack shook his head. “Just another part of this damn mystery we have to solve.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved his gun, firing it one time into the air. “Now I have gunshot residue on my hand. Trade guns with me.”
J.D. stared at his father. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m a licensed law enforcement officer, about to call 911. I have a reason for killing him. You don’t. Now, check his pockets.”
J.D. did as he was told while his dad reported the shootings. “I found a cell phone, a wallet, and his passport. Shit, he’s Chechen.”
Jack glanced up the block. “I see a trash can up there. Go dump that stuff in it. We’ll need to be back here by dawn to retrieve it. Let’s hope the cops don’t delay us too long.”
A police car could be heard with siren wailing. It wheeled around the corner, lights flashing. Two cops leaped out with guns in hand. Jack and J.D. made a display of laying their guns on the sidewalk and rose with their hands turned out.
“Officers, I made the call. I’m Jack Bryant, a deputy sheriff in Tarrant County, Texas. That’s Fort Worth. This is my son, J.D. Bryant. We’ve been on the trail of that man around the corner and were about to apprehend him when two men stepped out of a doorway and shot him. His name is Adam Crossmore. I suspect he’s dead. We chased after the men. I shot this one. You’ll find a gun under him. I know he’s dead. The other one got away.”
“Let me see your creds, Deputy Bryant.” Jack reached into his pocket and opened his wallet. He handed his laminated sheriff’s identification to the officer who had “Sergeant Peavy” on his nametag. While he studied the card, his partner was checking the body. “No identification. Sig Sauer is under his chest. No pulse. You want me to go back to check the other one?”
Peavy nodded. “I’ll keep this card for now. You understand, Deputy, that we don’t take kindly to someone, even a deputy sheriff from Texas, coming into our parish with guns blazing. You better have a good reason.”
“How about the attempted murder of Texas Governor Rob Lardner and the killing of Edward Hale in Fort Worth back in the fall. We believe that Crossmore was involved in that attack. Could I suggest that we get out of the rain, maybe go back to the station? I can give you a couple of numbers to call.”
That got Peavy’s attention. His partner came from around the corner. “Other guy’s dead, too. Bryant’s right. I.D. on him says he’s Adam Crossmore. Lives in Uptown.”
“Call for backup and a CSI crew. I’m taking these two back to the station. See if we can’t clear up a few facts.”
Peavy elected not to handcuff two cooperative suspects. Once they were in the back, he locked the doors. They drove the few blocks to the French Quarter station. Once inside, Jack and J.D. were put into an interrogation room. In a few minutes Peavy returned with two coffees. “Hope you don’t mind if it’s black.”
Jack nodded. “Not as long as it’s hot.” He and J.D. both sipped for a few moments before Peavy began. “Let’s back up to the start. I did hear about what happened in that mansion in Fort Worth. Your card says you’re a reserve deputy. How’d you get involved?”
“Got to go back a little further than last fall. About three years ago J.D. and I tracked down and brought the Dead Peasants killer to justice in Fort Worth.”
Peavy rubbed his hand together as he searched through his memory. “Now I remember. He killed twenty or thirty people, even some over around Shreveport. You telling me that you caught him?”
“With J.D.’s help.”
“You a police officer, young man?
Up until then, J.D. had done what his father told him: Don’t speak unless spoken to. “No sir. I’m a football player. I just signed with the Cowboys.”
Peavy’s eyes lit up. “You’re shitting me. J.D. Bryant, I was hoping the Saints would draft you. Sure would have been nice if you were on the receiving end of Drew’s passes. That’s okay. Cowboys are my second favorite team.” He turned back to Jack. “Keep going, Mr. Bryant.”
“I’ll try to make this brief.” Jack told of his relationship with Walt Frazier and being persuaded to lend a hand at the fund-raising party, his appointment by the district attorney as special prosecutor and how they tracked the killer to the compound in West Texas.
Peavy interrupted. “I’m a backup on our SWAT team. We’ve studied that assault on the compound. Went off textbook perfect. You telling me you were involved in that?”
“Not quite perfect. We had one of our team hit and the head of the Alamo Defenders died. We wanted him alive.” Jack paused as he thought back to that night. “I was just supposed to be an observer, but one of our snipers took a slug to the shoulder. I took his place. I brought down the assassin.”
Peavy sat quietly as he allowed all of this to sink in. “Wow. You think I can get you back over here to talk to our SWAT team. First, though, why were you chasing Crossmore? You already had the one who pulled the trigger.”
“Trail didn’t end there. We followed it to Crossmore. We believe that he was involved in the money that changed hands to arrange for the killing. We were so close and then this had to happen. That guy that I killed or his partner killed Crossmore. Not sure what their involvement is in all of this.”
Peavy thought for a minute. “Okay, I believe every word you’ve said, but I need to get confirmation.”
“Can I give you my cell phone?” Jack handed it to Peavy. “Joe Shannon, the D.A. I mentioned, is on speed dial. He won’t like getting rousted out of bed, but he’ll calm down once you tell him what it’s about.”
Shannon answered, “Dam
mit, Jack, this better be important.”
“Mr. Shannon, this is Sergeant Peavy with the New Orleans P.D. I’ve got Jack Bryant and his son sitting across the table from me. He gave me his phone to call you. I just want to verify his story.”
Joe was instantly awake and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “Go ahead.”
When Peavy finished the story and described the events of earlier that morning, Joe said, “Everything he told you is gospel. I knew he was looking for this Crossmore. I didn’t know he was in New Orleans. If you want to release him and J.D. to my personal custody, that’s fine with me.”
“Not necessary, sir. We’re going to get a tape recorder and have them repeat the events in more detail. Should have them on their way by dawn. I don’t anticipate any charges being filed. If that changes, I’m sure they’ll cooperate. I hope you can go back to sleep.”
“Thanks, and tell Jack to call me as soon as he gets back to Fort Worth.”
Jack and J.D. walked out of the police station just as light was beginning to show in the east. Their guns remained in police custody. They walked casually for two blocks until J.D. said, “I’m going to run from here. I’ll meet you at the trash can.”
When Jack arrived at the corner, J.D. had the Chechen’s wallet, cell phone and passport in hand. “What do we do now?” he asked his dad.
“We’re going back to the hotel, bring Ike up to speed, see what he learned, shower and have breakfast. Then we’re on the next flight back to DFW. We’ll sleep when we get home. The sooner we can get out of New Orleans the better I’ll like it.”
60
Jack had leaned back in his chair in the RV and was snoring quietly when phone rang.
“Jack, this is Mary Frazier.”
“Mary, nice to hear from you. How are you doing these days?”
“Is Walt in Fort Worth?”
“Not that I know of. I haven’t talked to him since last week.”
“Then, I’m getting worried. He’s gone. Missing.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” Jack said as he walked to the front of the RV to retrieve a bottle of water.
Mary struggled to get her emotions under control. “It all started at that Halloween fiasco last fall. You know he had a hard time getting over what happened in Desert Storm. For years he couldn’t get past it. Oh, he finished college and got on with the sheriff’s office and then made it into the DPS. For eight or ten years he had nightmares, woke up in a cold sweat. I can’t tell you how many times I woke up with him yelling, ‘Incoming’.”
“Mary, Walt told me about most of that. I know he was able to put that behind him over time until this past Halloween. He told me that something that night triggered the PTSD again. I’ve been trying to talk him through it, as much as he’ll let me. I know you’ve done the same. Tell me about Walt disappearing.”
“This isn’t the first time. Over the past six or eight months, I’ve gotten up in the morning to find him nowhere in the house and his truck is gone. Usually he comes back by dark. Never tells me what he’s been doing. Now he’s been gone two days. He doesn’t answer his cell. Jack, I don’t know what he might do. He’s told me that he doesn’t want to spend years again, fighting this PTSD.”
“Have you notified the DPS?”
“This morning. They’re on the lookout for his truck, but after two days he could be in Mexico or Colorado. Who knows?”
“You just need to stay there with your boys. I’ll have the Tarrant County Sheriff put out the word to sheriffs around the state. We’ll find him.”
Walt hadn’t intended to disappear that morning. He had found in the past when the demons were filling his mind that driving through the hill country west of Austin calmed them. He usually would wander the backroads that meandered through the cedar covered hills and over low water crossings through dry creeks that only occasionally would be flooded by spring storms. When he found a stream with water, he would usually stop, find a rock under the shade of a tree, and immerse his mind in the water that rushed by. After an hour or so, he would climb back in his truck and continue his odyssey. The hills and water seemed to bring some peace to his tormented mind. On this day, he found himself following the Pedernales River to Johnson City and paused to study the memorial to President Lyndon Johnson who most Texans thought had served his country well. Walt wondered how Johnson endured watching President Kennedy die with a bullet to the brain. Was he tormented by re-living the event? If so, Walt didn’t recall reading about it in history books.
Walt stopped in Fredericksburg for lunch at a German restaurant and was soon headed west again. When he arrived at I-10, he knew he should turn back, but something pulled him onto the interstate and he continued west. After three more hours he realized where he was going. Something in the back of his mind told him he needed to re-visit the compound. He could just make it before dark. The small towns on the interstate flew by at eighty miles an hour. He stopped for gas and a cup of coffee in Ozona. At Fort Stockton he turned onto 285, a highway he knew well by this time. As he passed through Pecos his mind turned to their assault on the compound. He realized he was no longer thinking about the barracks but about their success in capturing Miriam Van Zandt with a minimal loss of life.
He turned right on 302 and stopped where the command RV had been stationed. He wanted to retrace his steps to where he and Jack had rescued Sal and also have a look at the compound. Looking to the west at the setting sun, he would need a flashlight for the walk back to the truck. He took one from the driver’s door pocket and started the walk, his mind full of the events after the attack that led up to this time in his life. Nothing about them caused nightmares. He, Jack and the others had accomplished their mission. He spotted the bluff above the Pecos and started walking through the twilight. He found the rock that Sal was leaning against and paused to think about him. Then he climbed to the top of the bluff and was surprised to find that the Pecos had water flowing through it. Then, he reminded himself it was spring and the water was to be expected.
He glanced around the remains of the compound, remembering their latest trip where Colby had spotted the memory drive. “Nice job, team,” he said to no one but whatever varmints were starting to come out as night fell. He had no desire to wade the river and set foot on the compound. Seeing it again was enough. Mark up two successes there, both of which he was a part of. He made his way down the bluff as the stars began to appear and walked toward his truck, remembering the last time he had walked in that direction, he had been supporting Sal. Again, no bad memories.
After spending the night in the LaQuinta in Pecos he turned on his phone to find that Mary had tried to call him eight times, the last being an hour ago. He thought about calling her back but was not ready to explain his actions. In fact, he was not sure what he was trying to accomplish, only that he was feeling better. He made his way to I-10 and turned east, back toward San Antonio. After a few miles a sign pointed to Highway 277 and Del Rio. He thought of Fox and his contributions to the mission. On the spur of the moment he turned south to Del Rio and Laughlin Air Force Base. It wasn’t a long drive, less than an hour on the mostly deserted highway. When he approached the base, he stopped at the guardhouse.
“Morning, Corporal. I’m looking for Colonel Floyd Foxworth. Could you direct me to his residence?”
The corporal shook his head. “Sir, I’m not permitted to do that.”
Walt dug into his pocket and pulled out his i.d. “I’m a sergeant with the DPS. I’ve worked with Fox on a couple of missions but never met him. I was hoping just to say hello.”
The corporal studied the i.d. “I suppose I can call him. Wait here.” He stepped back into the guardhouse and returned a minute later. “He said he would be delighted to see you. He’s off today.” He handed Walt a yellow stickie. “Here’s his address. Turn around and go back to the light. Take a right. His is the fourth street. Take a left and you’ll find his house.”
Fox was waiting in his front yard when Walt stopped
at the curb. Walt stuck out his hand in greeting and got a hug in return. “Walt Frazier, welcome. I recognize you from my camera that’s in the video room in Austin. Come in, come in.”
When they walked through the door, a middle-aged woman greeted him. “I’m Flo. Fox has told me over and over about the compound mission. It was the most fun he’s had since he started flying that drone. Let me get you some coffee.”
Walt followed her to the kitchen where there was a fresh pot of coffee. Flo reached in the cabinet above it and handed him a large mug. “How do you take it?”
“Black, thank you, ma’am.”
Fox refilled his mug. “Come on out to the back patio. It’ll be pleasant out there until the sun hits about eleven o’clock.” They walked out a glass door into a back yard, filled with a large pool and surrounded by spring and summer flowers. “Have a seat. I swim fifty laps in that pool every morning. Then, I work in the flower beds on the days I’m not flying the drone.”
“Beautiful yard, Fox.”
“Thanks. It gives me pleasure and my grandkids love the pool when they visit. This is not on the way to anywhere. So, why am I honored by this visit?”
Walt absent-mindedly scratched his nose while he thought. “Damned if I know. I left Austin yesterday morning, intending to take a drive in the hill country. I ended up at the compound. I was headed back this morning when I saw the sign to Del Rio. Here I am.”
“Something about our mission bothering you?”
Walt shook his head. “Not that one.”
Fox had been around the military his entire life. He suspected something. “Were you in the military before you became a trooper?”
“I was a young grunt in Desert Storm.”
“Go on,” Fox encouraged.
“I, uh had some experiences there that stayed with me for a while after the war.” And then the story came tumbling out. After thirty minutes and another mug of coffee, he described the recurrence of his PTSD at the Halloween attack.
When he finished, Fox rose to pull a weed from a rose bed and turned. “Let me tell you, there’s nothing good about war. Maybe the generals like playing their chess games. They’re never on the front lines where the killing is happening. For the rest of us, it’s about death, mangled limbs, nightmares and terrible memories. For those of us who have been in real combat, we don’t even like to talk about it. Just brings back those memories. What I’m about to tell you I’ve told to very few in my life, but you need to hear this.
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