by Joseph Badal
McCall turned back toward the front of the van, reached into his jacket pocket, and slipped out a .22 caliber pistol. He wheeled on Bryant, pointed the pistol muzzle at the man’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. The little pistol’s report wasn’t completely silent, but it was relatively subdued compared to the noise the old Colt .45 automatic in the glove compartment would have made. Bryant flopped backward onto the pavement and convulsed.
“Oh shit, oh shit,” Lewis moaned when McCall turned the pistol on him. He showed his palms to McCall. “Don’t do it, Reese. I—”
McCall shot once into Lewis’s face. The bullet pierced the man’s left eye. Lewis covered the eye with a hand and screamed loudly and shrilly.
McCall shot him again; this time in the temple, which shut Lewis up for good.
McCall dragged the bodies into the back of the van, remounted the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and drove away from the alley. He parked the vehicle at the far end of a truck stop parking lot, dumped the contents of his backpack on the van floor, sorted through the loot they’d taken from the Brownell home, and loaded the cash, coins, and jewelry into the backpack. Then he picked up a turtle-neck shirt, underwear, a clean pair of jeans, and a red baseball cap from the floor. He put on the shirt and pulled up the collar to cover his tattoo. But the collar slipped down enough to expose the knife tattoo’s top two inches. He shook out the contents of Bryant and Lewis’s packs and found a blue bandanna. He tied it around his neck above his collar. Then he donned the ball cap, walked with the bag over to the truck stop’s restaurant, and took a seat at the counter.
“What can I get ya, honey?” a waitress asked.
“Burger, fries, a slice of blueberry pie, and coffee.”
The waitress wrote down his order on a small pad and walked away. She returned a moment later with a cup and a pot of coffee. “Your food will be up in a minute.”
“Thanks. You wouldn’t happen to know if one of the truckers here might be willing to give me a lift, would you?”
“Honey, these boys are always looking for company. Driving’s a boring business. But you’ll have to find an independent. The big companies don’t let their drivers pick up hitchhikers. Too much liability.”
McCall pulled a twenty dollar bill from his jeans. “That’s for you if you can get me a ride.”
The woman snatched the bill from his hand with rattlesnake quickness. “I’ll be right back, honey.”
DAY 8
CHAPTER 23
Reese McCall caught a ride with a long-haul trucker by the name of Terry Driscoll who told him he was on his way to Las Cruces. He told Driscoll his name was Gene.
“Where ya headed?” Driscoll asked in a rich Texas twang as he pulled the truck onto Interstate 40.
“Dallas. I got a sister there who’s been nagging me to come visit.”
“You should be able to catch a ride out of Cruces for Dallas. Lot of rigs cover that route.”
“Sounds good.”
“You got any other family?”
“Nope.” Nosy bastard, McCall thought. He hoped curt responses would discourage conversation, but he quickly learned that nothing discouraged Driscoll.
“I got three kids and seven grand kids. My youngest, Bernadette, just had a little girl. Beautiful baby. Roni’s her name. They got a little boy, too. Turned three last week. Can’t wait to see him.” He laughed. “Kid’s a holy terror. Like a force of nature. Can’t slow him down. Runs around like a loose bowling bowl. Bernadette and her husband live in Deming. He works for the Border Patrol. You can’t believe the shit he tells me about what they have to deal with down there, what with all the illegals sneaking across the border.”
After fifteen minutes of non-stop monologue from Driscoll, McCall had seriously considered slitting the truck driver’s throat and stealing his truck. He faked sleep before they were twenty miles east of Milan. Somewhere after that he dozed off for real. Sleep easily came to him because he was exhausted and it seemed like a better alternative than listening to Driscoll’s inane banter about his seven grandchildren.
He was in the middle of a very satisfying dream about sex with a tall, buxom woman when he was startled awake and thrown forward against his seat belt. Brakes hissed and squealed; and Driscoll, cursed, “Damn Albuquerque drivers.”
McCall looked through the windshield and saw the rear end of a compact car not more than two feet from the truck’s front bumper. A flatbed carrying a large mobile home had stopped in front of the little car.
“Phew, that was close,” Driscoll said.
When traffic moved again, McCall noticed they now approached what New Mexicans called the Big I, the intersection of Interstate 40 and Interstate 25.
“Terry, let me know if you want me to spell you at the wheel,” McCall said.
“Will do, Gene.” Driscoll laughed. “You were snoring like a bull moose in rut a minute ago. I was thinking you were turning out to be poor company.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Aw, don’t apologize. You look like you’ve had a bad day.”
“Thanks, Terry. You can’t imagine.” McCall looked at his watch. “It’s a little after midnight. Tell you what. You let me sleep until we get to Socorro and I’ll drive the rest of the way to Las Cruces. I used to drive a big rig years ago.”
“Sounds like a plan, partner.”
As McCall shifted to get more comfortable, Driscoll asked, “How long you been on the road?”
“Little over five years.”
“Holy shit. Just bouncing around the country? If you don’t mind my asking, how the hell do you support yourself?”
“I get odd jobs here and there. Pick up a few bucks and then move on to the next place.”
“Tough way to live.”
“It’s not so bad. I’ve had some really amazing experiences.”
“Don’t you get lonely?”
“Heck no. I meet all sorts of people. Probably get laid more than most, too.”
“Now, I’ve got to hear some about that,” Driscoll said.
“Maybe when we stop for something to eat.”
Driscoll laughed. “I always stop in Socorro on this run. Good place to gas up and grab a bite.”
CHAPTER 24
Barbara and Susan’s red eye flight put them in Las Vegas at 2 a.m. They picked up a rental car and drove to a diner off the Las Vegas Strip. Despite the hour, the place was crowded.
Susan carefully reconnoitered the diner. “How many people in here you think won money tonight?”
Barbara glanced around, then said, “Not a one.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Not a smile in the joint.”
Susan nodded. “Probably right.”
“To follow up on our conversation on the plane, do you have any more thoughts about that home invasion in Flagstaff?”
“Wouldn’t it be great if our dark angel could find the guys who murdered that family?”
“You sound as though you admire what the guy’s done.”
Susan spread her arms and compressed her lips. “Sometimes I hate my job. Psychopaths like these should be wiped off the earth. The criminal justice system is not always the most efficient or effective mechanism for doing that.”
“You know there’s a chance the murderers went east from Flagstaff. They could be in the Land of Enchantment right now.”
“I don’t think so.”
Barbara squinted at Susan. “Why not?”
Susan smiled. “Because that’s our territory. There’s no way they’d risk coming up against Bernalillo County’s best detectives.”
“Better be careful, partner. You might start to believe your own fairy tales. Besides, we’re not in New Mexico at the moment.” She smiled back at Susan. “Let’s call Sophia. See if she has any new information.”
Susan looked at her watch. “It’s two in the morning. You can’t call her now.”
Barbara shot Susan a toothy grin. “Wanna bet?”
Bar
bara dialed Sophia Otero-Hansen’s cell number and put her phone on speaker.
“Agent Otero-Hansen.”
“Why are you whispering?” Barbara asked.
“Because I recognized your number and I’m not supposed to talk to you. My boss has hovered over me like he wants to catch me doing something wrong.”
“You’re in the office?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just hoping I woke you up at home.”
Otero-Hansen laughed. “What do you need?”
“You didn’t happen to check your great big FBI computer in the sky to see if there have been any more killings?”
“Nope. No time. Nearly every agent here in our office, and in every Bureau office in Arizona, California, Nevada, New Mexico, and Texas has been assigned to the Three Ghouls case.”
“The what?”
“The three men who killed the family in Flagstaff.”
“Susan and I were just talking about that.”
“There’s been a task force assigned to these home invasions for years, with no success identifying the perps. Those three have ruined several careers here at the Bureau. We’ve got DNA and fingerprint evidence out the kazoo and still haven’t been able to ID the killers. The video from the Flagstaff break-in generated all kinds of excitement around here. The faces from the video were run through our facial recognition system, but we got nothing. Absolutely nothing. But at least we have pictures for the first time.”
“Well, we’re still on our vigilante killer,” Susan said. “Must be the year for mass murderers. Any common element apparent at the crime scenes of the Three Ghouls?”
“You mean, like with your vigilante?”
“Yeah. Do they use the same weapon, or murder people in identical ways, or leave calling cards?”
“All of their invasions are gruesome in the extreme. They don’t just murder their victims; they make them suffer.” She muttered something unintelligible.
“Say again,” Susan said.
“They’re sick bastards. They murder their victims, regardless of their age or sex. It’s obvious they’re in it for the money; they have a pretty good eye for valuables. But they seem to enjoy committing mayhem, too.”
“Any calling cards, like with our killer?”
“Nope, nothing like that.” She paused. “The only commonalty of all the crimes . . . . Nevermind.”
“What?” Barbara asked.
“It’s nothing. Anything else?”
“How many jobs have these guys done?” Susan asked.
Otero-Hansen said, “We have forensic evidence from thirteen home invasions that tie these same guys to each of them. There are other crimes we think they did, but can’t tie them to those because of a lack of forensic evidence.”
“Okay, Sophia,” Barbara said. “We’ll call if we come up with anything.”
After Barbara terminated the call, Susan rasped, “You have to be friggin’ kidding me.”
“What?”
“Sophia was about to say something, but she clammed up.”
“So much for sharing.”
CHAPTER 25
Terry Driscoll pulled into a truck stop on the south side of Socorro, New Mexico at 9:10 a.m. He parked his rig and touched Reese McCall’s shoulder.
“Hey, man, you want to grab something to eat?”
McCall felt out of sorts as he came out of the fog of sleep. “What d’ya say?”
Driscoll chuckled. “Man, I wish I could sleep as soundly as you do.”
McCall rubbed his face. “Where are we?”
“Socorro.”
“Shit. Already?”
“Yep. Your turn to drive. But let’s get something to eat in the truck stop first.”
“Sounds good.”
McCall lifted his backpack by one of the straps and opened the passenger side door.
“You know, you can leave that here. I’ll lock up.”
“Nah. I think I’ll change into some clean clothes.”
Driscoll shrugged.
McCall slung his backpack onto his shoulders. As they walked to the truck stop restaurant, he felt his cell phone vibrate in his jeans pocket. He jerked it out and looked at the screen. “I have to take this,” he told Driscoll. “I’ll be right with you.”
Driscoll waved and continued to the restaurant.
“Yeah?” McCall said.
“Hey, bro, did you get the merchandise?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. When can I expect delivery?”
“I’ll FedEx the stuff tomorrow.”
“What about today?”
“I had a bit of a problem. Need to straighten some things out.”
The man on the phone hesitated, then said, “You talking about New Mexico?”
“What?”
“I assume that’s the problem you referred to. It’s on the news. The police found two bodies in a van in Milan, New Mexico, wherever the hell that is.”
McCall’s stomach erupted as though an acid tap had been turned on. “Why would you tie that to me?”
“The media’s all over it. The cops matched the two dead men to the Flagstaff job.”
“How?”
“The security video at the Brownell house. They recognized their faces from the video. And fingerprints.”
McCall groaned. He’d hoped he would have a bigger window of time to get out of New Mexico before the cops discovered and ID’ed the bodies. “I need to lie low for a while.”
Another pause and then the man said, “I’ve got a proposition for you, bro. You fulfill this new assignment and you’ll be able to retire someplace with lots of sand, sun, and nubile women.”
“You’d have to pay a lot for me to do another job, what with all the heat on right now. Besides, I’ve already got a backpack and a bank account full of dough.”
“Would a million dollars change your mind? And, with your partners out of the picture, you won’t have to share it.”
McCall smiled to himself. His former partners never had a clue about his share of the money they made: ninety percent for him; ten percent for them. “Yeah. That would work.”
“I’ll have your fee for the Brownell job wired to your Caymans account as soon as the coins get here.”
“Where’s the new job?”
“Farmington, New Mexico.”
“You shittin’ me. The only things in Farmington are oil, gas, saloons, and Indians.”
“Oil and gas money can buy a lot of gold and silver.”
“I assume you have a specific laundry list.”
“Just like always.”
“Email it to me.”
McCall terminated the call and quickly calculated the balance that would be in his bank account after the Farmington job: a little over two million dollars. And that didn’t include the two hundred grand in his backpack. Not bad, he thought, for a guy without a high school diploma. “Wonder what my asshole-old man would think of me now,” he whispered. He turned back toward the gasoline pumps and spotted a thirty-something woman gassing up a dark-gray Infiniti QX-80 SUV. She appeared to be alone.
From a corner of the truck stop building, Reese McCall watched the blonde fuss with her makeup in the SUV’s rearview mirror. He could see through the passenger side windows that she’d closed the driver’s door while the gas pump operated automatically. Too cold to wait outside, he guessed. She had her visor down and seemed to be fussing with her makeup. Dumb shit, he thought. When will women learn? Instead of paying attention to who and what was around her, they often primped or read email. He waited until the automatic shut-off on the pump handle clicked and the woman opened her door and dropped off her seat to the pavement. Then he moved quickly and circled the rear of her vehicle. She’d just replaced the gas cap when he made his move.
McCall looked at the woman’s eyes while he slapped the gas tank access door closed. A confused expression came to her face. It lasted a second or two, but was then replaced with wide-eyed terror. He
r hands froze in mid-air and her mouth opened in a silent scream. She turned as though to run away, but ran into her open car door. McCall took two quick steps, shoved the barrel of his pistol into her side, and said, “You scream, you die.”
The woman sagged. McCall gripped her left arm and growled, “Get into your car right now; climb over to the passenger side. You do what I say, you live.”
The woman whimpered, “Please, don’t hurt me; I won’t scream.”
“Good girl,” McCall said as he watched her climb aboard. He opened the door to the backseat and tossed in his pack. Then he quickly shut that door and followed the woman inside the SUV’s front row.
Terry Driscoll stepped from the truck stop building and saw his hitchhiker climb behind the wheel of a late model SUV. There was a damn fine-looking woman in the passenger seat. He was pissed off for a second, but then chuckled and muttered, “I guess the bastard got a better offer.”
CHAPTER 26
Race drove well over the speed limit all the way to Albuquerque. He’d estimated he would arrive in the city by 10:30 a.m. He was early by ten minutes. It took twenty minutes to drive from Tijeras Canyon to the I-25 Jefferson Exit on the north side of the city, to a small retail center across from the newspaper’s headquarters. He parked next to a bank. Then he walked fifty yards across the parking lot to a Starbucks and camped inside with a grande coffee and a morning bun. He thought about the risks of picking up the press pass that Graves was supposed to leave for him. Graves was a rich, powerful man, who might hire muscle to eliminate him. The man had already paid to have O’Neil murdered. He might even alert the police. He could do so without implicating himself. Race had no proof that he’d murdered Elmo O’Neil for Graves. Who’s to say Graves wouldn’t pay to have him killed because of the potential risk he posed for the man? He still considered his options when, at 11:05, a teenage boy pulled up on a bicycle outside the coffee shop. Race watched the kid dump his bike on the patio, enter the shop, and go directly to the counter. When he was served a drink with what appeared to be two inches of whipped cream on top, the kid sat down at an inside table.