Death is Not Forever (Barefield Book Book 3)

by Trey R. Barker

  “You think you can take me? Get to taking, then, and let’s see who comes out on...top.”

  Faith laughed, doubled over she laughed so hard. Finally, wiping tears from her eyes, she said, “Sorry. Just ain’t never heard such an empty rape threat in all my life.”

  His grin dissolved into a mess of pressed lips and bulging veins. “The fuck did you say?”

  She stepped up to him. “I never heard such a pathetic, empty, ball-less rape threat.”

  “That was no threat, bitch, that was—”

  “Murph,” Andy said. “Enough.”

  Andy had come over the small rise, appearing almost magically through the mesquite and cactus, waiting for the perfect moment to appear. His eyes—still piercing blue even after so many years—never left Bean. His face was stone, neither smile nor grimace. Inside the old man, Bean easily saw the skinny, anxious Ranger from years earlier. “Why are you here?”

  Bean offered his hand. After a considering, Andy took it. The man’s hand was death-cold in spite of the heat. Bean bit back his revulsion.

  “To see you, Andy. I came here specifically to see you.”

  “Why?”

  Bean started to reach into his pocket but the man with the shotgun—Murph—froze him. The gun snapped to Bean’s chest, pressed hard enough to back him up a step. He raised his hands. “He knows my gun is on my other side. I have something to show you.”

  Andy licked his lips, then wiped them dry. Finally, he said, “Slow.”

  The barrels still against his chest, Bean pulled the box from his pocket. “This was waiting for me at Johnny’s.”

  For a split second, Andy’s face eased. “God, I miss that place. How’s Johnny?”

  “Dead.”

  Andy sighed. “Damn.”

  He waved the shotgun away and Bean breathed more easily. “It’d been there a little while, waiting for me.”

  Andy frowned. “Why didn’t they just send it to you?”

  Bean held the box between them. “I don’t advertise my address, Andy.”

  “What’s in the box?”

  Bean said, “Hold your hands out.”

  Andy hesitated. “What’s in the box?”

  “Hands.”

  Murph brought the shotgun up a little, pointing now at Bean’s balls.

  “What’s in—” Andy snapped his mouth closed, swallowed, then put it hands out. Palms down, tanned and leathery skin skyward. Eight fingers, two thumbs. All exactly where they should be.

  “What’s in the box?” Murph asked. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  When Bean opened the package, Andy leaned forward. The finger had curled just a bit...almost as though it were beckoning to both men. Come with me...I have something to show you.

  Andy shook his head, bit back a grin, then laughed anyway. The sound, ragged and elderly, waddled across the scrub, bounced over the dead goats. “That supposed to be a threat?”

  “No, Andy, it was—”

  “A mope send it?” His eyes lit up. “The victim of a mope. They’re pissed ’cause you gave a weak-sister sentence to the mope.”

  “Andy, listen, it’s not—”

  “Somebody just got outta prison, maybe...chopped it from their cellie, wanted to give you a thrill, let you know they’re coming for you.”

  “Shut the fuck up for a minute.” Bean shook his head. “The mopes wouldn’t have known to send it to Johnny’s. The mopes know I’m elsewhere these days.”

  “Everyone knows you’re elsewhere...they just don’t know where.” He shook his head. “Damn, wish I’d thought of chopping a finger and sending it when I was a copper. That’s great. Scare the shit right outta you, huh?”

  Bean waited until Andy stopped laughing. “Never your style.”

  Andy sobered quick. “Yeah? Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

  “I know you plenty well. You came to the hospital when Mariana got shot.”

  “We all did.”

  “Yeah, but you came back. Tommy-Blue and JD didn’t.”

  Andy sighed, his eyes lost on the horizon. “That was a hard night.”

  Bean let the moment play out, hoping Andy would say something more. The man’s throat worked, up and down as though preparing the words, but there was only silence, deep and echoing and oppressive and filled with sun-heat and anger-heat.

  “So who’s the finger belong to?” Bean asked.

  “The fuck should I know?”

  “Thought you maybe sent it.”

  “Yeah, asshole, I sent it. I sent it to Johnny’s so you’d find it, wonder who it came from, and come all the way here to see me and ask me if it was mine.” He glanced at Faith. “Dragging a little girl with you.”

  Faith sneered. “Ain’t a little—”

  “A little girl man enough to threaten my friend,” Andy said. “That’s impressive.”

  Bean eyed Andy hard. “Listen to me...that night is why I’m here.” He closed the box, put it back in his pocket. “That digit isn’t the only thing I got.”

  “Wha’?” Murph looked confused. His head swiveled between Andy and Bean. “Digit? The hell is—”

  “A finger,” Andy said.

  Murph snorted. “You got a cock, too?” He spit a blast of brown saliva to the ground. “Knew you were a fucking fairy.”

  Bean crossed to Murph, shoved the gun left and slugged right with everything he had. Fist to face and something snapped. Warm blood drenched both of them. Murph staggered and Bean kicked his kneecap. The man went down, the shotgun hit the dirt and Bean kicked it way.

  Faith shook her head. “Judge...one. Asshole...zero.”

  “Fucking fairy just kicked your ass.” Bean yanked the .380 and pressed it against Murph’s skull.

  “Ease up, Judge,” Andy said. “We got no problems here. He’s going back to the house, patch up that broken nose.”

  “The hell I am,” Murph said. “I’m going to kick—”

  “Get the fuck outta here,” Bean said. “Let the adults talk. You can bury your goats later.”

  Murph stood and squared up with Bean. His hands clenched to fists and blood dripped freely down his nose. “I’ll see you again...fairy. I’ll see you again.” He turned and walked down the same rise Andy had come up. The sound of his boots in the dirt faded.

  “He’s got a long memory, Judge. No reason to humiliate him like that.” Andy picked up the man’s shotgun and held it loosely, pointed well away from the three of them.

  “Tell me what happened that night.”

  Andy looked away, letting his gaze catch the late afternoon sun, but Bean could see it. A studied non-chalance, a feigned indifference. Total bullshit. Bean had seen that same look, an affected blankness, on the faces of hundreds of low-rent criminals. Drunks who hit someone with a pool cue in a bar fight, teenagers who roamed through unlocked cars looking for loose change or a GPS or CDs of something other than their Dad’s country music.

  Finally Andy cast his eyes on Bean. “Sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”

  “Lying?”

  “About?”

  Bean licked his lips. “There was a note with the finger. ‘They lied to you.’”

  Andy laughed. “That’s it? That’s the big mystery? Why the hell you asking me?”

  “Because you were there.”

  “There where? You got a vague note attached to someone’s finger and you immediately assume me?”

  “Andy, don’t embarrass yourself. We both know where.”

  “Bullshit. We don’t know anything. You don’t...I don’t...that girl came with you doesn’t. Nobody knows anything. That’s the way it always is.”

  “Please, Andy, I’m begging you. What happened? How did Mariana get shot?”

  Andy swallowed, leaned his ass on the hood of Bean’s car. “Damnit, Judge. Nothing happened. We arrested, we got in a gunfight, Mariana got shot. The note is bullshit.”

  “The note is straight up.”

  “And how do you know that
?”

  “Because—” Bean stopped suddenly. Because Mariana told me, he almost said. Because she told me with her silence. Bean swallowed but couldn’t get the razors out of his voice. “How did she get shot?”

  “What the fuck?” Andy stood, glared at Bean. “How the fuck you got the balls to question me? We went to arrest. We got ambushed. She got shot.” His eyes bored in on Bean. “We defended ourselves. DPS said so.”

  “Judge,” Faith said. “Easy, now.”

  “Goddamnit,” Bean bellowed. “I don’t care about DPS and their fucking whitewash.” Bean squared, clenched his fists. “Tell me what happened. I don’t give a shit if you guys blew away some low-life mule. I give a shit about somebody who was exploiting humanity like that?”

  Andy kicked some dust from his boots. “Step off, Judge. You’re crowding into a place you don’t wanna go. Step. Off. Now.”

  Faith put a hand on Bean’s arm, tried to pull him back, but Bean shook her off easily and crowded Andy, using his height to intimidate the man. “You tell me or I’ll leave pieces of you all over this fucking desert.”

  “Judge.” Andy’s words were edged with heat that matched the burn in his eyes. “Mariana’s dead. She doesn’t give a shit about any of this now.”

  Bean leaned into him, chest to chest. “Keep my wife outta your mouth.”

  The air hung between them, hot and dry, smelling of dust and mesquite, of dead animals, of blood and piss. A harsh breeze carried sand that coated their skin and peppered their eyes and crunched between their teeth.

  “None of this matters,” Andy said. “Because Mariana is de—”

  Bean grabbed Andy’s shirt and threw him to the ground, then fell on top of him.

  “Judge, no.” Faith jumped on top of them, tried to separate the two men.

  Jeremiah! Stop that. What the hell are you doing?

  Bean launched a weak punch that bounced off the ground before it hit Andy’s shoulder. He threw another and grinned when Andy’s lip split and bled. He tried for another, but Faith grabbed his arm and twisted it backward.

  “You wanna know?” Andy yelled. “You stupid fuck. You wanna know what happened?”

  Bean snapped from Faith’s grip, yanked the empty .380 from his pocket and shoved it under Andy’s chin. “Yeah, stupid fuck, I wanna know. Who shot my wife?”

  Andy stopped fighting. He breathed hard through his nose, the sound a thin whistle on the air. “You gonna shoot me? Dead as the goats, huh? I guess living with blood on your hands ain’t nothing new, is it?”

  “Not in the least.” Bean pressed the gun tight. “Who shot my wife?”

  “I don’t...I don’t know.”

  Jeremiah...stop. You don’t need to do this to him.

  “Bullshit. You were there. One of the heroes.”

  Andy laughed. “So many heroes that night.”

  Jeremiah, listen to me, it doesn’t matter who shot me. Just come home to me. Get this girl home and then—

  “The news accounts all called the four of you heroes,” Bean said. “We both know that was bullshit. We both know that at least one of you was hiding in the field, pissing himself and crying and praying he didn’t get killed when Zapata and his men arrived.”

  For a long moment, Andy stared at Bean. “You talked to Tommy-Blue? How is that old fucker?”

  “Cancer’s got him again.”

  “Yeah, I thought so. Damn. Maybe he was a coward about some things, but he was a decent man.”

  “Yeah? Not the word I would have used. He jumped right in on the lie, didn’t he?”

  “We all did.”

  “Not me.”

  Andy laughed. “You most of all, you just don’t realize it.”

  “The fuck does that mean?” Bean asked.

  “You wanna know? You think you got balls enough for that? Let’s start with Zapata.”

  “A smuggler, an enforcer, and a piece of shit.”

  Andy shook his head. “A bajadore.”

  Bean’s hand eased off the .380. It came away from Andy’s throat. The skin on Bean’s scalp tightened. “Bajadore?”

  “Baja...what?” Faith said.

  Jeremiah, don’t listen to—

  “What’s he talking about?” Faith said. “Baja-doors?”

  Damn you, Jeremiah.

  “There it is,” Andy said. “Got your eyes full now, don’t you? Seeing it now? Even a little bit?”

  Bean swallowed. Yeah, he’d known Zapata was violent, had no compunction about human life, about misery and torture, about getting young kids hooked on blow, enslaved by weed, but this was something completely different.

  “Hang on,” Faith said. “What the hell’s he babbling about?”

  “Bajadore,” Bean said. Didn’t matter the heat, Bean’s balls frosted.

  “Which means what, exactly?” Faith glared at both men, her gaze bouncing back and forth.

  “Literally? Tunnel rat.” Bean’s throat was rough-grit sandpaper.

  “Like through the drug tunnels? So...wetbacks?”

  Andy kept his gaze on Bean.

  “Thieves,” Bean said.

  Faith shook her head. “So?”

  Andy snorted. “They steal from everybody. Cartels, tourists, coyotes...DEA, ICE, Border Patrol. They tap into Pemex pipelines and steal the Mexican government’s oil, sell it straight to brokers in Houston.” He looked at Bean. “They’ve snatched a couple of oil rigs from around Barefield the way I hear it. Drove ’em right the fuck outta the yards, straight over the border with illegal papers.”

  Bean nodded, unsurprised. “Too many legit rigs right now to check every rig moving along the roads.”

  “They steal from everybody,” Andy said. “Sell cartels’ product themselves...sometimes even back to the cartels. Sell government guns to Arabs all over South America...or straight to the Middle East. They take illegals hostage and blackmail their families for money. But mostly...”

  The breeze kicked up, whistled through the mesquite, like a faraway moan from a dying lover, or a man shot nearly to death on the side of the road.

  “Mostly what?” Faith asked.

  “Mostly they—” Andy stopped.

  “Kill,” Bean said.

  Silence came down between the three. A heavy blanket in the stifling heat.

  “So...a standard cartel asshole,” Faith said.

  Andy shook his head. “Not even close. Snatch illegals off the trails north, hold them hostage. Call the families and demand money. If the family hesitates—”

  “They kill ’em.” Faith shrugged. “Okay. Not to sound horrible, but that’s fairly standard for this third-world part of America.”

  When Andy grinned, his teeth bared, a predatory wolf’s grin. “Not even close, little girl. If the family hesitates...the bajadore will torture the victim...while they’re on the phone with the family. The family loses their mind, sends every fucking peso they can possible get together and wait and hope.”

  Faith swallowed. “And?”

  “And the victim is already dead, Faith,” Bean said. “Dead before the money even gets to the bajadore. Usually what they hear over the phone is the last few minutes of their loved one’s life.”

  “Body tossed in the desert, snacks for whatever comes along.” Andy took a deep breath. “That’s what Zapata was, Judge. The kind of guy who kills slow and painful and a piece at a time. And who kills everyone.”

  “Apparently not,” Bean said. “The four of you got out alive.”

  Andy opened his mouth but someone else’s voice boomed through the air.

  “Told you I’d see you again, motherfucker.”

  21

  Murph let fly with a double blast. The shotgun flame licked the dry desert air toward Bean. Buckshot whizzed past Bean while the shell’s wadding tumbled to a stop at his boots.

  “Shit.” Diving for the cover of the car, Bean dropped his .380. He hit the ground in a dusty heap. Good job, tough guy, he thought. Just like a kid in his first fight. Drop the damn g
un.

  “Murph,” Andy yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Gonna kill me a fairy judge.”

  Murph fired again and buckshot tore open the front passenger quarter panel. Faith screamed and yanked the passenger door of the car open. Bean hear the springs squeak as she climbed in.

  What the hell, girl, we ain’t going anywhere?

  “Andy, get control of that fucking zombie. I’ve done enough killing today.”

  “Gonna kill me, asswipe?” Murph was thirty or so yards away from the front end of the car.

  “Murph!” Andy’s voice was lost beneath the shotgun’s bellow. “Get your ass back to the house.”

  Bean’s back was to the driver’s side of his car. The hot metal burned through his shirt. Sweat poured off his face. The .380 was ten or twelve feet away and sitting in the open. No way he could reach it without Murph seeing him.

  Plus, he finally remembered, it was empty. Hadn’t had a chance to reload the magazine since the fiasco with Sombrero Man.

  “Damnit,” he said.

  “I ain’t taking his bullshit,” Murph said, racking the gun, expelling an empty shell.

  The sound of his voice moved and Bean assumed he was tracing a wide circle around the car. Bean scooted quietly toward the back end.

  “I’m telling you to get outta here,” Andy said.

  Silence.

  “Murph?” Andy asked.

  “Yeah...I guess I ain’t taking any more of your bullshit, either.”

  Bean hooked around the back end of the car as Murph came around the front.

  “Hah! Gotcha.” Murph laughed and fired. Buckshot scraped along the side of the car, creasing the metal.

  “You gotta handful of dick, moron.” Bean looked under the car, saw Murph’s feet pacing him toward the back end. Are you stupid, Bean thought. My gun is right there. You just gotta look down.

  But Murph kept moving. Which was fine with Bean. Move both of their asses around the car. Get to the .380. Then get into the glove box for a fresh magazine. Then shoot that son of a bitch in the ankles and in the face when he hits the dirt.

  Or...get shot to pieces by a whacko with a shotgun.