Revenge of the Dog Team

by William W. Johnstone

  Again, he figured right. The Nevada crowd bought in, too. Here was where Mayhew’s plans went sour. He didn’t deal directly with the Iraqis; he worked through a middleman, a Washington, D.C.-based secrets broker named Biro Fleck. By pure happenstance, Fleck was also a colleague of sorts with Darius. Being the mirror image of Mayhew, Fleck sold Darius the knowledge that Mayhew had sold the toxic train secret twice.

  “So there you have it,” Doc Wenzle had said, summing up after giving Steve Ireland the briefing in his office at the Gall Building. “Will Darius make a try for the train? Given what we know of the man, it seems possible, maybe even likely. The route’s been mapped to avoid cities and towns wherever possible, but it’s a big country and a good part of the line goes through populated areas. A lot of opportunities for Darius to do mischief.

  “You’re going along for the ride. Osgood and Mantee, too. You’ll be in charge, Osgood is second.”

  “Great,” Steve said. “The three of us have to ride shotgun on a freight train filled with poison gas from here to Nevada. Is that all?”

  Wenzle said, “The train’ll be guarded by a squad of military policeman, elite trigger-pullers. They’ll be on board, like you three. There’ll also be support all along the way, including helicopters and spotter planes scouting the route. Local and state police to clear and protect the line.”

  “With all that coverage, what do you need us for?”

  “This is a covert op. As far as the public is concerned, the transport is just one more freight train passing through. Those boxcars could be hauling cars or auto parts for all they know. The Army’s keeping a low profile on this. The M.P.s on the train’ll be in civvies. They’re more for defensive purposes. You boys will take a more aggressive role. If anybody has to be shot along the way, we’d prefer it to be done by professionals who have handled similar tasks stateside and know how to cover their tracks.”

  “Yeah, and if it works the other way and we get killed, there’s nothing to tie us to the Army.”

  “That’s right. That’s the name of the game. Look on the bright side, Steve. You get out of D.C. just when the weather starts getting muggy and you get to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine of a cross-country trip.”

  “Unless one of those canisters rips open.”

  Wenzle made an airily dismissive gesture with his hands, as if brushing away the thought. “Oh, there’s little worry of that. Those HMCs are built pretty solid, I understand. They can take quite a pounding with no danger of rupturing, even in case of a derailment.”

  Steve said, “Unless somebody throws a grenade into them or something.”

  “There’s that,” Wenzle agreed, “but that’s why you’ll be on board. Anyway, if that should happen, you won’t have long to worry about it. A whiff of the stuff, or the touch of it on your skin, and you’ll be gone like that!” Wenzle snapped his fingers to illustrate the quickness of the “like that” he’d just mentioned.

  Steve said, “That’s quite a consolation.”

  Wenzle said, “At the end of your run, you’ll be right near Las Vegas. You can blow off some steam there.”

  “That’ll be a real treat.”

  “Plus, you might get to kill some bad guys along the way.”

  “Just so the trip isn’t a total loss,” Steve said.

  The legend the planners had worked out for Steve, Osgood, and Mantee was a real doozy. They were given cover identities as investigators for the Federal Railroad Association, with a Department of Homeland Security tie-in that carried major clout. Technically, Steve had the authority to call upon the M.P. squad on board for whatever assistance he might need. They were commanded by a Lieutenant Webber and his topkick, Sergeant Collins, neither of whom seemed overly enthusiastic about taking orders from someone they thought was a civilian.

  Tough, Steve said to himself. He had the authority and he’d play it to the hilt if that’s what it took to get the job done.

  The railroad personnel were mighty accommodating, reserving a private car for Steve and his teammates. They were shown to it by Wes Dudley, civilian foreman and crew chief for the transport. Barely had the last of their gear and armaments been stowed into the rear half of the car than, with a lurch, the train began moving away from the storehouse loading platform and into the Maryland countryside.

  Time passed, hilly country rising up around the right-of-way as the train entered West Virginia. Steve Ireland found himself recalling a last scrap of conversation he’d had back at the office with Doc Wenzle.

  “You said that Mayhew fingered the train not only to Darius, but to some Iraqis at the other end of the line in Nevada,” he’d said.

  Doc Wenzle said, “That’s right.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’ll be taken care of. Our man out there’s on the case.”

  NINE

  The man called Kilroy arrived in Adobe Flats on the day of Choey Maldonado’s funeral.

  Earlier, Hard Tack Brady had been thrown out of the Doghouse Bar by its owner, Nigel Sharkey. The Doghouse was a dive, a gin mill on the southern edge of the Anglo part of town. It was a place of last resort for Brady; most of the other bars in that part of town wouldn’t let him in to throw him out. Nigel Sharkey was more tolerant than most, but he’d warned Brady off the last time the weathered desert rat had been in the bar, when he’d caught Brady stealing a shot of whiskey that had been set up for a paying customer. Brady had downed the shot when the patron wasn’t looking, tossing it back and sidling away fast. Sharkey, tending bar, had been looking, though. He’d tagged Brady for it, read him the riot act, and bounced him out of the dive.

  The Doghouse was a flat-roofed, one-story, whitewashed wooden frame building that fronted Fremont Street, which ran east-west through town and marked the line of demarcation between New Town and Old Town. New Town was where the Anglos, the English-speaking element, resided; Old Town, which had been settled first, was where the Hispanic folks made their homes.

  It had been early afternoon when Hard Tack Brady went into the Doghouse Bar. The Doghouse made no pretense of being anything than what it was, a gin mill. A real rummy bar, it made the average honky-tonk look like a gilded pleasure palace. No hot food was served, no live entertainment offered, no dancing allowed. That last was an unnecessary prohibition because what few couples patronized the joint were there for the same reason as the other customers: to get a load on as quickly and cheaply as possible. Hustlers, the oldest and most slatternly mattress-backs in town, frequented the bar in the wee hours, not to drum up business but to spend the night’s meager earnings on drink. Mindful of the needs of its alcoholic clientele, it was the first bar to open up in the morning and one of the last to close at night.

  Brady eased open the door and eased inside. The space was dim and cool, especially after coming in out of the naked sun. An air conditioner wheezed fitfully, wafting out puffs of moist, clammy lukewarm air. Even a dive like the Doghouse had to have air-conditioning, to cope with the desert heat.

  The building’s long side fronted the street. Opposite the entrance, on the far side of the floor, a wooden bar ran parallel to the street. It was lined with stools that supported about a half dozen of the town’s most confirmed drunks. A TV was mounted on the wall at one end of the bar, tuned to a ball game. Between the bar and the front door were a handful of tables and chairs. In the daytime, they were for thirsty workers who ducked in during their lunch hour for a quick shot and a beer or two, but the rush was long over and the tables and chairs were unoccupied now. There was sawdust on the floor, and the space smelled of stale beer and raw whiskey fumes.

  Brady stood motionless, accustoming his eyes to the gloom after the sunbaked glare outside. Behind the bar, Nigel Sharkey needed no such interlude, his eyes already acclimated to the bar’s cavelike interior. Recognizing Brady, he came out from behind the bar and started toward him.

  Sharkey, about five-seven, was wiry and energetic, balding and bony-skulled, with thick black eyebrows and sideburns
that came down to mid-cheek. He rolled up his sleeves as he crossed to Brady.

  Brady began, “Now, Nigel—”

  That was as far as he got before Sharkey laid hands on him, grabbing the collar at the back of Brady’s neck and the belt at the small of his back. Lifting him up bodily so that Brady was up on his toes, he hustled him toward the door, a swinging door with a spring mechanism that automatically closed it to keep any of that air-conditioned air from leaking outside.

  Using Brady as a battering ram to open the door, he swept him across the wood-plank sidewalk and pitched him out into the street. Fremont Street was made of dirt, hardpacked and unyielding except when it rained, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Brady sprawled in the dirt, his hat falling off. Sharkey stood there with arms folded across his chest, waiting to see if Brady was minded to contest the issue. Rising on his knees, Brady groped for his hat. Shapeless and sun-bleached, it was the kind of hat that one used to occasionally see adorning the head of a swaybacked old nag pulling the wagon of an old-time junkman. Jamming it on his head, Brady rose shakily to his feet and stumbled off in the opposite direction.

  “And stay out!” was Sharkey’s parting salute, followed by the spring-mounted door slamming shut behind him after he went back into the bar.

  Brady shuffled away, brushing the dust from his palms. He’d been pretty shaky before going into the bar, and the bone-jarring thud of measuring his length in the street had done him no good.

  He’d expected no less a welcome at the Doghouse, but there always a chance that Sharkey would be away from the bar on some errand, leaving it to be tended by his nephew, Neal, who might have let Brady try to cadge a drink from one of the barflies. So ended his immediate prospects of getting a drink.

  He stood swaying, facing the beginnings of Old Town across the street. No use trying his luck there, at least for the present. Most if not all of the businesses there were closed now, out of respect for the Maldonado funeral. Not out of respect for Choey, who’d be missed by few if any.

  The cantinas wouldn’t reopen until the last rites had been delivered. Brady decided to have a look at the funeral himself. At least that way, he’d know when the services ended and business resumed. Maybe one of the family would buy the house a drink in memory of the late lamented. The late unlamented, he mentally corrected himself. Plenty of folks would be happy to celebrate Choey’s passing, but they dared not show it, not in Old Town, which was run by the Maldonados.

  In New Town, it’d be different. There’d be plenty of celebrating going on there later, especially in Sime Simmonds’s joints. Simmonds ran New Town, its vice district anyway, and there was no love lost between him and Clan Maldonado. Of course, Sime’s people knew to bounce a penniless booze hound like Brady on sight, but once the joints got crowded and the festivities started rolling, there might be a way for Brady to insinuate himself into the mix and hustle some free drinks.

  There had to be. Sobriety was not an option. Too long without a drink and he’d crack up. It had already been a long time since his last, and he was feeling mighty poorly. So the funeral it was. Pointing himself west, he started toward the end of Fremont Street. There were other, more direct ways to the graveyard, but not for him. He might not be welcome, and in any case had no desire to call attention to himself with the Maldonados and their hirelings. Not to mention the local law.

  Hard Tack Brady was a local character of a type that had existed since silver had first been discovered in the mountains to the west some centuries ago. He was a desert rat, a prospector. Or at least he used to be. Every year, for nigh onto four decades now, he’d spent the winter months doing odd jobs between drinking binges, building up a small stake to outfit himself with some tools and supplies to go prospecting in the warm-weather months. He’d never hit the mother lode, nor even made a modest strike, but from time to time, he managed to hit some minor veins of silver and eke out a minimal living.

  In recent years, though, the binges had lasted longer and the odd jobs declined from few to virtually nil. This year, he’d failed to raise a stake with which to outfit himself. He should’ve hit for the high country when spring first broke. Now, here it was late in June and he lacked the price of a single shot of rotgut, no less the wherewithal to outfit himself with a sleeping bag, pick, shovel, panning tray, canteen, and supplies of canned beans, bacon, salt pork, and other minimal necessities.

  Too much to think about now; he’d better concentrate on something simpler and more immediate, like making his way to the graveyard. Trudging west along Fremont Street, he cut an odd, shambling figure. In his early sixties, rawboned and hollow-cheeked, he had long, unkempt hair and a ragged beard. Where the skin of his face showed, long exposure to the elements had left it as brown and seamed as old saddle leather. Outdoor living had partially offset the ravages of booze, leaving him in surprisingly fit condition. The hot, searing sun in a cloudless sky affected him not at all. He was a desert rat. Heat was the least of his troubles.

  It didn’t take long for him to reach the western edge of town; Adobe Flats was a small town, numbering a population of several thousand souls. Beyond lay a flat, and then the foothills of the Tres Hermanos Mountains. He turned left, going south. It didn’t take long to get to the southern edge of Old Town either.

  Running parallel with the mountain range, Highway 61 ran north-south through the center of town, cutting it in two. West of the highway and south of Old Town was a plaza, its southern edge bordered by the Church of San Miguel, a mission church dating back to the days of the conquistadors. It was an imposing structure built in Spanish Colonial style, and its long axis ran east–west, its eastern façade sporting a pair of belfry towers. Its exterior was finished in whitewashed stucco with lots of timbers showing. To the west and rear of the church was the graveyard.

  Mirroring it at the north edge of New Town was a Protestant church with a white steeple and its own graveyard, for the use of the Anglos.

  Hard Tack Brady was ecumenical in his way, being an object of derision and contempt to a majority of members of both denominations.

  The San Miguel graveyard had its own caste system, with the more modest graves with their simple markers and crosses being arrayed on the flat, while the more expensive tombs and memorials occupied the foot of a gentle, near slope of a ridge at the western end of the cemetery.

  Circling the graveyard’s northern perimeter, Brady climbed the ridge to a weedy knoll overlooking the scene. Its top was crowned by a cluster of low, gnarly shade trees. Brady paused, resting, standing with one hand pressing a rough-barked tree trunk. Circling the tree, he moved cautiously among the tall grasses, searching for snakes. Venomous ones, rattlers and sidewinders. This country was thick with them. Finding none, he found himself a good resting place overlooking the cemetery and church. He sat down on the ground with his back against a tree. It felt good to be out of the sun, in the shade. A handful of small birds perched in the branches, panting in the heat.

  Choey Maldonado was getting a first-class finish. The service must still be going on; periodically, organ music sounded from inside the church. The west side of the church was lined with big, black shiny cars for the grieving family and friends.

  In the graveyard, at the foot of the ridge, a tentlike canopy open at the sides stood beside a freshly dug grave. Grouped around it was a riot of color, caused by big, bushy masses of floral tributes, urns, bouquets, memorial wreaths, and the like. Off to the side, well out of the way of where the mourners would gather, stood a yellow earthmoving machine, the backhoe that had dug the grave out of the hard, clayish soil. The mound of newly excavated dirt was reddish brown, like the sands of Mars.

  Brady smacked parched lips, his mouth and throat dusty dry. His craving for drink was a powerful need. Oh, well, nothing for him to do now but endure it and hope for an end to the drought sooner rather than later.

  His eyelids felt heavy; he gave them a rest by closing them. He pulled his hat brim down over his eyes, deepening the dimness. Th
e heat of the day had a lulling effect. Around him, the droning hum of insects rose and fell, like surf breaking on shore. Brady drifted off…

  He came awake with a start, jolted out of sleep. His heart was beating fast. For an instant, he was befuddled, disoriented. How long had he been asleep? For all he knew, it could have been instants, minutes, or hours.

  It was still light out, blue sky and masses of sunlight all around, so it couldn’t have been too long. He knuckled his eyes with his hands, rubbing the sleep out of them. A shadow fell across his face, causing him to look up.

  Beside him stood a man, a stranger. About six feet tall, he had the sloping shoulders of a heavyweight fighter and a blocky, square-shaped torso. He wore a tan flat-crowned, broad-brimmed hat that was turned up at the sides. Nothing unusual about that. This was the West, where cowboy-style hats were not a costume but a basic item of everyday apparel.

  Under the hat, he had short sandy hair and was clean-shaven, with a wide, open, friendly face. His eyes were blue, his thin straight nose looked sharp as a knife blade, and he showed an easy grin. He wore a sleeveless white denim vest over a gray T-shirt, baggy wide-legged brown jeans, and cowboy boots with sharp-pointed toes. He said, “Howdy.”

  Brady grunted in response, unsure of what to do. Was the newcomer a guard or suchlike, come to roust him? He wore no uniform, badge, insignia, or sidearm. His right hand clutched the rolled top of a brown paper bag that contained a weighty object of some kind.

  Seeing the bag, with its seemingly familiar contours and recognizable shape, Brady’s heart gave a lurch. Could it be…? No, no, that was too much to hope for. And yet, he found himself daring to do just that.

  The stranger said, “Hope I didn’t startle you.”

  “Not at all,” Brady said, the words thick and clumsy in his dry mouth.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “It’s a free country.”