Slow Falling (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 6)

by George Wier

  “What,” Hank asked, “honor among assholes?”

  Johnson grinned. And then all hell broke loose.

  *****

  He kicked the table and then shoved it at me. It smacked into my forehead and bowled me over backwards and little green lights winked on and off inside my head. The wooden folding chair collapsed under me.

  There was a blur around me as the table slid off of me and Patrick and Sheriff Dupree fell forward onto the table underside, caught off balance as it swept into them at ankle height. The table edge slammed into my stomach and all the air left my lungs.

  I caught my breath and shoved upwards with my arms in a sudden burst of adrenalin and the table and the two men flailed to my right.

  And to my left, Hank and Johnson were in a whirlwind blur of mortal combat.

  *****

  Many years ago when I was young, I took judo and karate classes. I was never into earning different colored belts, I simply wanted to get in shape and know how to take care of myself if I ever had the need.

  Anyone who has ever been around the martial arts is familiar with katas. In modern times they have almost become a form of dance, but anciently the kata was a method of teaching all of the moves in a given art in a single series of fluid motions. The discipline that it takes for the practitioner to attempt to perfect his own kata is enough to make any novice balk and discontinue the study. But when they are truly mastered they become almost a beauty to behold. And when the dance is between two aggressors bent upon the destruction of the other, it becomes a dance of death.

  Hank Sterling and Ralph Johnson danced such a dance. It was fluid poetry commingled with a lethal brutality, and much like witnessing an awesome, unavoidable, and at the same moment, beautiful collision, we were rapt before it.

  Johnson punched Hank to the left and Hank blocked and swept and turned the sweep into a three-hundred sixty degree whirl and a renewed attack upon Johnson's own right, which was likewise upwardly blocked. Hank dropped and rolled backwards to pivot on his hands while his legs drove upwards into Johnson's chest, connecting. Johnson tumbled backwards and rolled.

  “My God,” Patrick said, “but those old men can fight.”

  I noticed the offered hand and took it. Patrick helped me to my feet.

  Johnson gained his feet and rushed at Hank and let forth a scream between clenched teeth as he came.

  Hank side-stepped, bent low, tapped Johnson with his toe and the man went flying face first into the concrete wall, missing the window to the outside night by mere inches.

  For the first time Hank seemed to notice the three of us standing there looking at him. He shrugged, bent over and picked up Johnson's Smith & Wesson revolver which had come to rest near his feet. He calmly walked over and lifted Johnson's body by the back of his shirt collar, turned him over and lifted him to his feet. He nonchalantly placed Johnson into a one-armed choke hold and placed the business-end of the revolver against his temple. It must have been the cold steel against his head, or maybe it was just that the timing was perfect, but his eyes snapped open.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now,” Hank said.

  Johnson grasped for Hank's arm, but the grip around his neck tightened.

  “They'll give you the death penalty,” Johnson spat.

  “I don't care,” Hank said. “I've died many times.”

  “But why would you?” Johnson asked. His eyes darted back and forth, searching either for understanding or a way out, or both at once.

  “For Pho Tuc,” Hank stated.

  We watched. It was a scene but it wasn't our scene.

  “But that was... over forty years... ago,” Johnson managed. The pain and effort was etched upon his face and pours bled sweat.

  “It was this morning,” Hank said.

  “You're insane.”

  “No. I'm the most rational I've ever been in my entire life. You, however, are a monster. Now, I want that reason, or I will snap your neck.”

  “I... I...”

  But it had become apparent that Johnson would not be giving any reasons very soon. As we watched his face went from red to purple and then his eyes rolled back in his head and his body went lax.

  “Damn,” Hank said.

  “He passed out,” Sheriff Dupree said.

  “Yeah. I can't kill him like that. Deputy Kinsey, if you'll handcuff him we can set him up in a chair until he comes to.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I want to have a talk with this man.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Before Johnson came around I made three phone calls, one of them to Julie to let her know I was alright, one to the Texas Rangers Headquarters in Austin, from which I gleaned the information I needed for the third call. I needed an ace in the hole, and I found what I was looking for.

  *****

  “The Falling,” I said after Johnson's eyes opened. “What does it mean?”

  “I have no idea of what you're talking about,” Johnson said. He sported a knot on his forehead twice the size of mine. “You'd better get me out of these cuffs. In this State you can't take a Peace Officer prisoner without serious consequences.

  “They're not his handcuffs,” Sheriff Doyle Dupree stated.

  “Besides that,” I said, “ I made a call to Austin. You were a Special Ranger. You used to investigate cattle rustling. That is, before you retired. Which you are, by the way. Retired.”

  “He's still not going to tell you anything,” Hank said.

  “Oh, I don't know about that,” Patrick said. “Those are my handcuffs, by the way. So, so much for being no more than a Deputy Sheriff.” Patrick held up his hand and extended his forefinger.

  Johnson stared at him.

  “I bet I can make you talk,” Patrick said. “And all I have to do is use this one finger.”

  “Torture, huh?” Johnson said. “I've been tortured by the best.” He turned his head toward Hank. “As well you know, Corporal Sterling.”

  “I don't think that's exactly what he had in mind,” Hank said. “But I wouldn't push Deputy Kinsey on it. You've been warned.”

  “Do your worst,” Johnson said, and spat on the floor. “I'm not telling you assholes a damned thing.” He turned his head towards the wall.

  “Go ahead, Patrick,” I said, and handed him my cell phone.

  Patrick made a show of pressing the buttons, then held the phone to his ear.

  “Yes ma'am,” Patrick said into the phone.

  “No, ma'am. He isn't talking.” He refuses... Yes ma'am. Just a second.”

  Patrick stepped beside Johnson. “It's for you,” he said.

  “I'm not talking to anybody.”

  “Oh? I think you'll talk to her. It's your wife this time, dipwad.” He pressed the phone to Johnson's ear and held it. The rest of us watched and waited.

  I'd gotten the number to Johnson's home from the Ranger Barracks during my second call while Johnson was still knocked out. With it, I'd called his home and spoken with his wife. She had wholeheartedly offered her support.

  Whatever it was Mrs. Johnson told her husband over the phone while the rest of us watched, it was at least loud and unpleasant. Johnson winced, and it reminded me of a time I had pulled a nail out of a friend's bare foot when I was a kid.

  “Yes, dear,” Johnson said. “Yes, dear.” If it were possible, the voice grew louder. “Yes.”

  “Alright,” he said, and then nodded to me slowly.

  Patrick took the phone from Johnson's ear, turned it off and handed it to me.

  “Just curious,” Sheriff Dupree said, “but what did your wife tell you?”

  The man sighed deeply in defeat. “She said that if I didn't tell you what you wanted, she's going to go this minute and start cleaning out my bank account. Then she'll change the locks on the house. If I try to come home, she says she'll kill me. I believe her.” Johnson looked up at Hank. “You would like her, Corporal Sterling.”

  “You can stop calling me that,” Hank said. �
�And as far as your wife is concerned, I'd be in love with her if she hadn't married the murdering-est son of a bitch in the Southwest. So why don't you start talking. Better listen up, Bill.”

  *****

  Johnson had retired from the Ranger Service three years previously and had hired on as security for a new technology plant being constructed near the hip-joint between the Texas Panhandle and far West Texas. During that time he was mainly paid as a security guard, but with the occasional bonus for his “consultation” work. With his status as a retired Ranger came the perk of being able to cut through bureaucratic red tape when all other resources had been exhausted. The parent company, Nanotech, which also owned Central Texas Diagnostics Technology, knew they were getting both a ruthless killer and a lap dog at the same time, and Johnson had no other source of income than his pension and his social security benefit.

  “And then,” Johnson said, “they started shutting the door on me. This was after they got the clearance to build the plant and after I had smoothed the way around things like environmental impact studies and oil and gas leases, the last of which is pretty important in this neck of the woods. Oh, I was still paid and all, but they became more secretive. Especially about Hague.”

  “How long have you known Dr. Hauge?” I asked.

  “Since the beginning. A little over three years now. It was Hague who hired me. Now, I didn't exactly apply for the job to begin with. Somehow he heard about me, probably from the rancher who sold Nanotech all that worthless land. But then a few months back this other fellow started calling me, giving me my assignments. I asked to talk to Hague, but I got nothing but silence.”

  “And you haven't seen or heard from him since?” I asked.

  “Nope. Not a peep. But it was always 'Hague wants this' or 'Hague wants you to do that.' I got tired of it. I suppose I started back-talking a bit.”

  “Not nearly enough,” Hank chimed in.

  “That'll do, Hank. Take the cuffs off him, Patrick,” I said.

  Within a minute Johnson was rubbing his freed wrists and was spilling everything else he knew.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The M.O.L.E. facility sat secluded in the middle of a five thousand-acre spread that encompassed most of the northern extent of Kermit County. It abutted a portion of what is known as The Sand Hills, or rather one of the extended patches of sand dunes that comprise the Sand Hills State Park, which lies several miles south. The Sand Hills hills are, essentially, a shore without an ocean. In such a vast and desolate area of the country the locals have little other outlet but this one area, where they are prone to take the family or a few friends, drive twenty or so miles outside of town, bring along a few cases of beer and have a fine old time and camp beneath the stars.

  The place where we were going was thirty miles from the outskirts of Odessa in Kermit County along State Highway 115, a stone's throw from the southern New Mexico border.

  Patrick, Hank and I took a ride with the State Trooper helicopter pilot up and into the night while Sheriff Dupree got back into his vehicle to head back home. I hated seeing him go, but there wasn't enough room in the chopper. He had other duties to tend to, and it wasn't in his job description to attack private installations in other counties.

  It was a ten minute ride by air to the industrial plant Hank had pointed us to, and from the air the compound was a vast, one-story plant laid out like the tentacles of an octopus—or, possibly, the splayed hand of a mole. There was a small parking area to the east and south, but not many vehicles there.

  The dunes of the Sand Hills shimmered below us in the bright moonlight.

  “Where do you want me to put down?” Davis asked us over the headphone intercom system. “It has to be away from all the sand.”

  I recalled what one of the pilots had once told me who had been there during the rescue attempt to get the American hostages out during the Iran Hostage Crisis, as it was officially dubbed. The disaster and appalling loss of life had been due to the fact that sand and helicopter air intakes are not the best bedfellows.

  “Set us down half a mile away. Over there,” I pointed. “That looks like a low hill. Can you put us behind it? And can you kill your lights?”

  “Sure,” our pilot said. “I can do anything. But when we're close to the ground I'll have to turn on the landing lights. There won't be enough light to land safely, otherwise.”

  “That'll do just fine.”

  We circled to the north away from the plant and just before descending the our running lights winked off.

  When we touched down Hank was the first out. I noticed he had a backpack with him. I meant to ask him about it once the chopper was gone. Patrick started to doff his headphones preparatory to getting out, but I shook my head.

  “No,” I said, halfway out the door. “I can't ask you to come any further.”

  “Who needs to be asked?” he said.

  “Actually, I'm not asking. I'm telling. This is a two-man job. “I'll need you to come back for us, though. Make sure you do, alright?”

  “Bill, what do I tell Julie if something happens to you and I wasn't there to help?”

  “Tell her I told you I threatened to make sure your investment account tanked in the next stock market sell-off. Tell her I hit you in the jaw and knocked you out, which I will do if provoked. But you won't have to tell her anything unless you forget to come back for me.”

  “Alright already,” he said. “You're such a jerk, Bill.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “Sometimes I have to be.”

  “Good luck,” he said. I took off my headphones and handed them to him.

  “See you later,” I shouted at him and stepped back and away, bent low beneath the whirring blades and the hurricane from overhead.

  “What?” he shouted.

  I laughed and shook my head. “Nothing,” I yelled.

  Patrick closed the door. Once Hank and I were clear we turned to watch the chopper rise up and disappear into the night.

  “What's in the backpack?” I asked.

  “A little food, mostly brown rice. That pistol that I had in the glove box and a little ammunition. I guess that's about it.

  “Okay,” I said.

  We walked around the distant low hill until we could see the lights of the sprawling facility.

  Hank shouldered his pack. “Well,” he said. “Here goes nothing.”

  *****

  The half of a mile turned out to be more like two miles. We walked it with only bright moonlight to guide us through low sagebrush and grayish desert sands. We skirted the outermost dunes of the Sand Hills and I noted how closely they resembled the open deserts of Arizona or the dunes above the breakwater line of any given Gulf Coast beach, albeit more reflective of the light. Whiter, perhaps. I would have to look it all up one day and find out where they came from.

  The lights of the complex grew, and as we approached I kept looking for the parking lot. It was further south of us, hidden by the plant. I had noted on our descent the highway cutting through the desert sands which were now to our left. We were coming from the north and slightly west.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” Hank said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  We walked to within a few hundred feet of the plant and stopped. Hank slipped his backpack off and opened it up. He knelt and fished around until he came up with his forty-five and a couple of clips. He inserted a clip, chambered a round, checked the safety and slipped it into his belt. He pulled out his shirt tail and let it out over his belt.

  “To hide the gun,” he said.

  “Don't shoot anything valuable off with that.”

  “I know what I'm doing. By the way, I'm leaving the pack here. There's no use carrying it in there, anyway. I don't think I'll be needing any brown rice.”

  “You must be hungry,” I said.

  “Starved. Which is why I want to hurry and get this done.”

  “For once, I can't fault your logic,” I said. “The only thing is, how
do we get in?”

  “Well, I'd say we walk around it until we find a door.”

  “Good plan, that. What if we don't find one?”

  “A building without a door can't be very accessible,” he said. “Or useful, for that matter. But, if we don't find a door, I'll figure out how to make one.”

  I looked at the structure. It was all steel struts and polarized glass. But there was dim light from within, almost everywhere.

  “I'll bet,” I said.

  If anyone could make a door, it would be Hank Sterling.

  *****

  We found the door. The only door. It was opposite the small parking area—the only parking area. In the parking lot there were only half a dozen cars. And there were two Harley Davidson motorcycles.

  “Jackpot,” I said, and pointed.

  Hank nodded.

  “I wonder what kind of security they have in this place,” I said.

  “Let's find out.”

  Hank walked to the front door—a set of steel doors with plate glass windows—and I followed. There was even one of those large, low buttons for easy wheelchair access. Hank pulled on the door and it opened.

  He turned and grinned at me.

  “After you,” he said.

  *****

  There was a security guard sitting at a counter. He was large and muscled, late forties or perhaps early fifties, and bored beyond belief.

  “Can I help you fellows?” he asked as we approached the counter.

  “We have an appointment,” I said.

  “Who with?”

  “Dr. Bertram Hague,” I said.

  “Oh really.”

  I looked at Hank, then back at the guard.

  “Yes,” I said. “Really.”

  The guard reached to the countertop and slid a clipboard to me.

  “Well,” he said. “Why don't you fellows just sign in.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY