Mr. Brown took a long drag as if would help him think. “You’re right about that, but I knew right from wrong growing up.” He made eye contact with Tom Bell. “You a Constable too?”
Tom moved his coat’s lapel. Mr. Brown’s eyebrows rose. “You’re a Texas Ranger? You don’t have any jurisdiction here.”
Ned snorted. “Don’t you Washington people know anything?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Our jurisdiction comes from what’s right.”
“What did you intend to do once you kidnapped an agent?”
Ned didn’t like the word, but had to swallow his pride. It was rough going down. “You’re putting a lot of polish on that word agent. That guy and his buddies was aiming to kill us. Your people had already tried it before. Our idea was to take one of ’em somewhere we could persuade him to give us the information we’re looking for.”
Tom Bell broke in. “It’s Ned’s idea of working his way up the ladder, and the truth is, there’s a certain amount of logic to his method, though we might have encountered some problems along the way, right?”
“Breaking the law doesn’t suit you two.”
“How do you know what suits us, son?”
Mr. Brown let his gaze slip from the Ranger’s cold eyes. “I grew up with men like you. Taking someone against their will is one thing, but now it sounds like you’re talking about torture, and I don’t think it’s in either one of you. Specifically what information are you looking for?”
“We want to find this Mr. Gray.”
“That’s a code name, just like Mr. Brown for me. You guys know you’re out of your league here, don’t you? Even if you find the name Mr. Gray goes by, it won’t be real either. He’ll have a whole dossier on that one as well, but it’ll be fake. Guys like him operate under so many layers of cover that you’ll never find out who they really are.”
“You tell us.”
“I don’t know his real name. He wasn’t like my partner. He lives well above my paygrade and I’ve only known him by whatever moniker he uses for each mission. I know how you feel, Mr. Parker. I don’t have your trust right now, but I want to help you guys and put an end to these experiments on the American people. I don’t have any stomach for that kind of thing.”
Tom Bell remained silent, watching Ned. Rubbing his bald head, Ned tried to make sense of it all. “Let’s get back to it. What do you want out of all this?”
“For one thing, I’m done with the Agency. I plan to disappear with my wife and kids. They don’t have any idea what I do for a living, other than I work for the government. We can make a clean break and when we’re somewhere safe, I’ll tell them the whole story.”
Ned nodded. “You know they’re gonna come looking for you.”
“They will, but every now and then an agent will disappear. They’ll investigate for a year or so, but with no proof that I’m alive or dead, they’ll stop and I’ll be gone.”
Tom Bell inclined his head. “For a CIA agent, you’re pretty naive.”
Mr. Brown frowned. “I don’t follow.”
Tom Bell tilted his head again as he watched. “You know the truth, don’t you, son?”
“The truth?”
“You know as well as we do that there’s only one way to deal with this man. You’d talked yourself into believing that you can disappear, but you’ll be looking over your shoulder every day for the rest of your life when you’re not worried sick that something’s going to happen to whatever family you have.
“These people will keep them under surveillance until you finally think it’s safe to contact someone, or feel that you’ve covered your tracks enough that you can go home at some time. But they’ll be waiting, and when you do, you’ll find yourself in a shallow grave somewhere.” Tom Bell paused. “Your idea to get away clean is for us to kill Gray for you.”
The house was silent except for the wind moaning under the eaves.
Tom Bell stood and drifted toward the window. “Now, you listen to me, son. This whole thing is out of control, right? You aren’t the law. In fact, you’re a long way from it. So far, I see you as the only option to solving this problem, so here’s what you’re fixin’ to do.
“Before we leave this house, you’re going to give us everything we need to help me and Ned here track him down. Give me what we asked for and I’ll turn my head long enough for you to disappear. If your information proves correct, you can stay gone and we’ll deal with Mr. Gray, right? It appears to me that if he’s gone, you’re most likely off the hook. We’ll take care of our part. But if you lie to us, and you need to know I despise a liar, I’ll track you down and kill you for the skunk you are.”
Mr. Brown swallowed. “You’re a Texas Ranger. You and Parker have to follow the law.”
“That’s where you keep getting it wrong, son. We shed those shackles when you almost killed his grandson with that junk you sprayed over our little community that only wants to be left alone.”
Tom Bell startled both Ned and Mr. Brown when he drew the .45 on his belt. The 1911 was already cocked and locked, and Tom Bell pointed it at the CIA agent with his finger on the trigger, guaranteeing he meant business. “You told us yourself that nobody knows we’re here. You see, our plan came together. We have an agent who knows everything we need. It’s time to start talking. I sold my soul to the ol’ Devil a long time ago, son, so you don’t have any idea what I’ve had to do to preserve the safety of Texans. But now the stakes are larger and your people involved me.”
Ned saw Tom’s finger tighten. “Tom, if you kill him, we’ll have to start over.”
The Ranger lowered the muzzle toward Mr. Brown’s knee. “I’ll break him down then, until he talks.”
Mr. Brown’s face turned white. He’d been around enough to know the old man wasn’t kidding. At the same time, years of deception kicked in and he worked the angles. If he gave Mr. Gray up, they’d kill him, satisfying their need for retribution, and leave. If they failed and were killed, he’d manufacture a convincing story that he’d saved the agents back at the motel and fed the old men the information that led to their deaths.
He almost smiled. It was a win-win. “Fine. I’ll do it. You’ll let me walk out of here and disappear.”
“I already told you I would. I don’t lie, son.”
“All right. As long as you leave my name out of it if you get caught.”
Ned leaned forward on the table. “We’re listenin’.”
“I know where you can get your hands on Mr. Gray. But he’s not going to like it.”
Tom Bell smiled. “What he won’t like is tangling with Old Country sittin’ here.”
Chapter Eighty-three
Over twelve hundred miles from Washington D.C., and only five miles from Center Springs, Cody’s Motorola crackled. “Cody?”
“Mornin’, Miss Martha.”
“Right back atcha, but you’re not gonna be as happy in a minute. Got a call from Oak Peterson out in Center Springs. There’s some people fixin’ to fight up at his store.”
He was barely at the Powderly water tower on Highway 271 and spun the wheel, screeching into a U-turn. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“It might be over by then.”
“Good, then I’ll just collect them that’s able to walk and bring ’em in.”
“I’ll stand by with an ambulance.”
“You do that.”
John Washington’s deep voice filled the speaker. “I’ll be there by the time you show up.”
“Save some for me.”
John’s car was already on the shoulder in front of the little frame country store. The lot was buzzing with unfamiliar cars instead of the usual pickups and dusty sedans. Big John had a local farmer backed against the fender of a Chevrolet, and was pointing a finger at two seething strangers.
Leaving the m
otor running and the door open, Cody slipped from behind the wheel, almost knocking his hat off and aggravating him to no end. Loud voices across the lot full of onlookers told him a fistfight was only seconds away. “What’s going on here!?”
The sun-browned farmer named Herman Wales pushed away from the car fender. “Cody, you need to do something ’fore the rest of us do it for you.”
“One of ’em was fixin’ to swing on Herman here when I pulled up.” John interrupted. He spoke directly to the sheriff, his voice unusually friendly. “I told them two to back off and that feller in the hat called me a nigger. Don’t matter that I wear a badge, he don’t know me well enough to call me that.”
Cody’s irritation faded at the comment. John’s voice was of normal tone, not low and dangerous, as when he was mad. He was having fun with the strangers wearing jeans and jackets. The one with a hawk nose had his receding jaw set, his face red with anger. His eyes were glassy and he looked like he’d torque off at any second. He wore a battered fedora that had been recreased into a rough semblance of a cowboy hat.
Cody aimed a forefinger at him. “We’ll talk about what you called my deputy in a minute. What’s your name?
“Clint. This’s my runnin’ buddy, Marshal.”
“Where are you two from?”
“Over in Stumptown.”
Cody shook his head. Stumptown, a small town from “behind the pine curtain” in East Texas, was nearly two hundred fifty miles from Chisum. The gold rush was gaining momentum if it had reached that hotbed of racism. Only Grove Town down on the Gulf Coast was worse. “That clears up a lot.”
As if dismissing the two, he turned back toward Herman. “What got y’all tangled up?”
“Cody, I’ve done had it with this gold business. I run these two off from my place once this morning. They’d parked in front of my gate and were heading across the pasture when I got there. After that I come in here to get a loaf of bread for the missus and they pulled up and got to saying things about us folks that live here.”
“Did they threaten you?”
“Naw, but I’m tired of this, and it wouldn’t surprise me none to find ’em sneakin’ back onto my place the first time I turn my head. If I do, they’re gonna get a load of birdshot in their asses.”
“You won’t shoot nobody.” Clint smirked. “All I said is that these scratch farmers up here ought to be more friendly to their betters.”
John’s eyebrows raised. “Betters?”
“You ought to know about that, mor’n most.”
“Sheriff Cody.” John’s voice had an edge this time. “Can I visit with this feller around back of the store for a minute?”
Marshal seemed to have more sense than his friend. He took half a step back. Clint on the other hand, didn’t seem capable of controlling his mouth. He pointed at Herman. “We wasn’t hurtin’ anything. All we wanted to do was poke around a little, and this sonofabitch got to raising his voice…”
“Be careful.” Cody’s words floated out, calm and cool.
The younger man didn’t get to finish his statement. Digging his right heel into the gravel-and-bottle cap parking lot, Herman threw a right, powered by more than a lot of shoulder. It landed flush on Clint’s jaw and his feet left the ground. He landed on his shoulders and didn’t move, knocked clean out.
John grunted. “Never mind.”
“Told you.” Cody caught Marshal’s eye. “So, what do you have to say?”
“You gonna let him beat up on my friend.”
“Wasn’t gonna let him do anything. He kinda surprised me, too. Herman, you’re under arrest.”
The farmer shrugged and examined his knuckles. “Okay.”
“Now buddy, I suggest you drag your friend’s carcass there into the car and leave. There ain’t no gold treasure in Center Springs. I’d advise you to tell everyone who brings this nonsense up that it’s not a good idea to come around.” He chuckled. “Or to insult a former lightweight boxer.”
Marshal stooped to pick up his friend. John stopped him. “Hey.”
“Uh, yeah?”
“What was that you two from Stumptown called me?”
“He said it.”
“Remind me.”
“Sir, he called you…”
“You can stop there. The ‘sir’ done got you off the hook for the time bein’. Now, y’all get on out of here.”
They watched him drag Clint’s dead weight into the backseat of their Dodge Monaco. Marshal slipped behind the wheel and started the car. Cody stepped forward and put one hand on the man’s open window. “Y’all don’t come back here no more.”
“Yessir.”
He left and steered toward the Lake Lamar Dam. John watched the car pass the cotton gin. “You know where Miss Pepper is right now?”
Cody grunted. “No, but I want to find her first.”
Chapter Eighty-four
Three days after leaving Mr. Brown and the safe house, and exactly three weeks after Gold Dust entered the Lamar County atmosphere, Ned and Tom Bell sat in pale-yellow shell-back lawn chairs outside the Candlelight Motel, not far from Crane Creek in Missouri. It was unusually warm at forty-nine degrees, but the cloudy skies promised to keep the temperature from falling much farther. Ned sipped on a bottle of Coke.
Tom Bell had a water glass full of ice and whiskey. He tilted it, swallowed, and sighed in satisfaction. “You sure don’t look like yourself.”
Ned looked down at the pea coat over his new blue cotton shirt and khakis. “I don’t know how folks wear these kind of britches. They don’t fit right.”
Tom plucked at the collar of his flannel shirt with two fingers. “These wool pants don’t fit like jeans, neither, but they’ll do the job. This ugly coat’s warm, though.”
“I’ll be glad to get back into my own clothes.”
“It won’t be long. These are working, though. We blended in just fine. The manager behind the desk didn’t raise an eyebrow.”
“Texans sound enough like Missourians that he don’t know, or care.”
Ned bit his lip, staring at the Missouri plates on his Fury. They were off a rusting car sitting on two flat tires on a rundown road in a town south of their location. He chuckled. “That was a good trick back there in Washington, giving that feller twenty dollars to go get our car out of that motel parking lot.”
Tom’s teeth gleamed in the fading light. “He didn’t know what to think when I told him I couldn’t go back and get it because I’d got caught with another man’s wife and had to leave. That couple I run off gave me the idea.”
They’d met a down-on-his-luck drifter in a coffee shop a mile away and told him Tom needed to get his car back, but was afraid the fictional woman’s husband would be waiting. Twenty dollars was a fortune for the drifter and he took the job after Tom convinced him that the husband was looking for a white-haired man with a matching mustache, and not a youngster in bell-bottom jeans and sneakers.
“He walked right up there before daylight and drove that car away like nobody’s business.”
A dark car containing two men followed it out onto the street, but Mr. Brown pulled out in front of them, blocking the sedan at the entrance long enough for the drifter and the Fury to disappear around the corner. His headlights blinded the agents, who were so frustrated they simply waved Mr. Brown out of the way.
Not realizing the missing agent they were also looking for was sitting in front of them, they spun out of the lot. By then the CIA agent lost the advantage and couldn’t pick out one set of car tracks from any other in the slushy streets. Mr. Brown pulled through the lot and out the other entrance, where he disappeared forever.
Ned suddenly felt homesick, watching waves of complaining southbound geese fly over the Missouri motel. “I want to get those tags off there as soon as we can.”
“Tomorrow.”
N
ed watched a tall man emerge from his room and unlock his car. He withdrew a long tube from the backseat and slammed the door. The motel was an historic stop for fly-fishermen headed to the Crane Creek that wound down a wooded and bluff-lined canyon less than ten miles away.
“Say this place is full of fishermen?”
“Yep. We’re just two more anglers in a bunch of other fishermen.”
“Anglers.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to say that.”
Ned sighed. “Tomorrow I want to go home.”
Chapter Eighty-five
An early morning mist drifted across the smooth surface of spring-fed Crane Creek, a twenty-three-mile tributary of the James River south of Springfield, Missouri. Hungry McCloud rainbow trout finned in the current, sipping the last of the late season bugs behind the protection of rocks and the occasional downed log. The creek wound through its rocky bed, trimmed by box elder and sycamores wearing colorful autumn leaves.
Standing calf-deep in the frigid water, recently retired CIA agent Joe Hill gripped the pipe stem in his teeth and made a false cast with a bamboo fly rod he’d purchased at an ungodly price from a high-end fishing store in Alexandria. It was worth the price to fish the Crane with class. The spring creek was home to one of only three populations of McCloud Rainbows in the country. Hill waded two steps farther upstream, feeling the current melt the gravel under his wading shoes.
The yellow humpy fly fell exactly where he wanted, at the edge of an eddy beside a rock protruding from the far bank. He mended the drift and watched the water. Even then he was surprised when the surface boiled and he missed the strike. “Dammit.”
He yanked and the leader tangled in the small branches that grabbed the line and refused to let go. Mumbling under his breath, he unwound the thin monofilament and noticed a wind knot that he hadn’t seen.
“Dammit again.” He perched a pair of reading glasses on his nose and squinted at the tiny knot. The Missouri fishing trip was exactly what he needed to separate himself from the Gold Dust fiasco that would take weeks to unravel. A realist, Hill knew the organization and saw the writing on the wall. His superior knew the operation’s failure spelled the end of Hill’s career and accepted his resignation on the day he submitted the letter.
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