On the other side of the glass was an old black man with a stringy neck. He wore a polo shirt and was texting somebody on a cell phone. Without looking up from what he was doing, he said to the agents, “No vacancies. I don’t care what the sign outside says. The NO part is burned out.”
The old man’s voice was muffled by the glass. Ford raised his own voice and said, “We’re meeting a friend here.”
“No, you’re not,” the old man said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This ain’t that kind of place. We got a respectable trade. If you’re lookin’ for dope or hookers, go somewheres else.”
“Dope and hookers are the last things we’re looking for,” Ford said. “Really, we’re just looking for our friend.” He slid a fifty through the opening in the glass. A few years earlier, it would have been a twenty, but the cost of everything just kept going up.
The old man didn’t take the bill, but at least he set the phone aside. “What’s this friend of yours look like?”
He didn’t ask for a name. Names in a place like this would most likely be phonies anyway.
Ford held out his hand. “About this tall, blond hair, mustache. He’s not very old. Not much more than a kid.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you want with him? I don’t need no trouble here. Last time I had to call the cops, they told me they didn’t want to have to keep on comin’ out here.”
“No trouble at all,” Ford assured him. “We’re just supposed to meet him, take him around and show him some of the night life. He’s from out of town, you know.”
“The cousin of a friend of ours,” Parker added over Ford’s shoulder.
“Uh-huh,” the old man said. Clearly, he didn’t believe a word they had told him, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off that fifty now. His gnarled hand suddenly made it disappear with surprising dexterity. “Cabin Twelve,” he said. “But you best not be lyin’ to me about that trouble.”
“Don’t worry,” Ford said. “You won’t even know we’re down there.”
As they left the tiny office, Parker said, “What are the odds he was telling us the truth?”
“Pretty good, I think. He was practically drooling over that fifty.”
“And the odds that he’s already calling the guy in Cabin Twelve to warn him we’re coming?”
Ford saw the door of the cabin in question jerk open. “Even better.”
They started to run as the young man they had seen at the hotel across the bay that afternoon darted outside. He spotted them, stopped short, and stood there for a second with his head twitching back and forth as he looked for a way to escape.
While he was doing that, a car careened into the motel parking lot with a screech of tires and headed straight for the seemingly immobilized young man.
“Damn it!” Ford said. He knew that he and Parker had unintentionally led the killers right to their quarry.
Parker put on an extra burst of speed while Ford reached under the cowboy shirt and pulled out his gun. He started firing at the driver’s window of the speeding car, but the way the glass merely starred a little under the slugs’ impact told him it was bulletproof. The car never slowed down.
Parker left his feet in a dive that sent him crashing into the blond man. His momentum carried both of them out of the car’s path as it missed them by inches. A second later, with an explosion of glass and pink stucco, the car slammed into the front of the cabin.
Both front doors popped open. The two men in the car had to struggle a little to get out past the air bags that had deployed because of the collision. That slowed them down just enough to give Ford a chance to aim.
He figured they were both wearing bulletproof vests, so he drew a bead on the driver’s head and squeezed off two swift shots. The gun in the man’s hand went off, firing wildly as Ford’s bullets drilled through his brain and flung him back over the vehicle’s crumpled hood.
The wrecked car gave the passenger some cover. He was on the same side as Parker and the target. Ford couldn’t get a shot from where he was, and as he sprinted toward the back of the car, he didn’t know if he could get around there in time to save his partner. The killer wouldn’t get away, he vowed, but obviously the men who were after the blond kid were willing to give up their own lives to get rid of him.
Parker wasn’t defenseless, though. He rolled, braced himself on his hands, and swept both legs against the side of the would-be assassin’s left leg. That knocked the man’s feet out from under him. He sat down hard beside the car. His gun went off as he fell, but it was pointed into the air, not at Parker or the blond man.
Ford pounded around the back of the wrecked car. He fired again, a double tap that turned the second killer’s face into an ugly crimson smear.
Parker scrambled to his feet. He had hold of the blond man’s arm and dragged him upright, too.
“Let me go, let me go!” the man babbled. “I won’t tell, I swear! I swear!”
Ford and Parker ignored his plea. Ford grabbed the blond man’s other arm. He was small enough and the two agents were big enough so that when they took off running, his feet lifted from the ground and he dangled between them like a child.
“Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God!” he screamed.
People in the other motel cabins pushed curtains aside and looked out the windows to see what all the commotion was about, but they didn’t emerge from the cabins.
The elderly clerk tottered out of the office, though, holding a sawed-off shotgun. “I told you I didn’t want no trouble!” he yelled at Ford and Parker as they fled past him with their prisoner. He swung the sawed-off after them but pulled the triggers too soon. The weapon went off with a thunderous roar and pelted some parked cars with its double load of buckshot.
The recoil was powerful enough to throw the feeble old man backward, through the open door into the tiny office.
The agents reached the pickup. Parker jerked the driver’s door open and practically threw the blond man into the cab. He went in next, sliding behind the wheel. Ford’s long legs carried him around the F-150 as the prisoner tried to open the passenger door and escape. Ford was right there to stop him, shoving him back against Parker. Ford jumped in and slammed the door. The kid was pinned between them now.
Ford had been driving before. He’d left the keys in the ignition, so all Parker had to do was twist the switch, throw the pickup into gear when the engine started, and tromp the gas. A shower of gravel spurted from under the wheels as the pickup took off. It skidded out of the parking lot onto the street. The freeway was a couple of blocks away. Parker headed for it, knowing they had to put some distance between themselves and this latest scene of violence.
Then they would have to steal another vehicle. This one would be too hot, too fast.
The prisoner was blubbering by now as he huddled between the two big men. “Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,” he said in a voice choked by terror. “I won’t tell anybody what I know. I’ll never say anything about Casa del Diablo!”
Ford and Parker exchanged a glance over the prisoner’s head as the pickup rocketed along the surface streets, squealing around corners and jumping red lights. The same thought went through their heads. Casa del Diablo … CDD. It seemed like a safe bet that whatever was in that protected file on the laptop had something to do with a place called in Spanish, “House of the Devil.”
“You’ll tell somebody, all right, my little friend, “Ford said as he laid the barrel of his gun against the prisoner’s cheek and made the man quiver and cry even more. It was a shame to scare him that way, but it had to be done. “You’re going to tell us everything you know.”
CHAPTER 15
In the two months since Jorge Corona and Emilio Navarre had invaded the McNamara home, things had indeed settled down. Nobody in Home had forgotten about the tragedy, but summer was winding down, school was about to start again, and people had to carry on with their lives. The high school football team w
as already practicing, and so was the marching band. Some families got in last minute vacations.
For Chief Alex Bonner and the rest of her small police force, the remainder of the summer had been quiet. A few wrecks out on the state highway, some vandalism by bored teenagers, the occasional drunk and disorderly or domestic violence call.
No murders, and no burglars gunned down by homeowners. Alex knew now to appreciate that tranquility.
The interest of the news media had flared up once again in mid-summer, when the district attorney announced that he was dropping the attempted murder charges against Navarre. The man would be prosecuted for trespassing and for possessing a weapon illegally, as well as violating immigration laws, but that was all.
The announcement prompted outrage in Home, and a few people even took to the streets to protest. Alex could have told them it wouldn’t do any good. The camera crews would just take pictures of them and the reporters would make it sound like the protestors were more violent and intolerant than the KKK and the Nazis put together, when all the people were doing was expressing their legal right to make their opinions known.
But in this warped version of what America was becoming, tolerance for the opinions of others only cut one way.
At least the district attorney had withstood the continuing pressure from Clayton Cochrum, who still wanted Pete McNamara charged with murder and attempted murder. Cochrum wasn’t the only one beating that particular drum. The Mexican government had made a formal protest concerning the death of Jorge Corona and the wounding of Emilio Navarre and demanded that the United States Justice Department launch an investigation into whether or not the civil rights of the two men had been violated. Several prominent Hispanic groups within the U.S. echoed that call, as did numerous international civil rights organizations, and the government of more than one European country, although what business it was of theirs, nobody seemed to know.
The whole thing was crazy … and it was exactly what Alex had expected.
But at least the story wasn’t front page news everyday anymore. The administration in Washington was busy looking for something else to take over. The big targets—the banks, the auto industry, the insurance business, and most of the hospitals—had already been grabbed by the previous administration. The talk now was that because some school districts had more money than others, that was unconstitutional and local and state control of the public schools should be abolished so that the federal government could establish a nationwide school system with strict control over financing and curriculum … “to make everything equal,” you know. The politicians and the news media were already lining up to support the idea, because, after all, they said in their most sincere tones, it would be good for the children, and that was what it was all about, wasn’t it? Of course, anyone who dared to deviate from that line, be they parent, educator, or local administrator, was swiftly derided and accused of being racist, unpatriotic, homophobic (whatever that had to do with anything), and just plain big ol’ meanies.
To people who had even the least lick of common sense, it was the biggest bunch of bullcrap anybody had ever heard. But of course, no one ever listened to them….
But it kept the Navarre story off the front pages and the evening newscasts until the day in August when Dave Rutherford called Alex and said, “Cochrum has convinced the judge to move up the Navarre case.”
Alex had been utterly shocked that Navarre hadn’t taken off for the tall and uncut as soon as he was free on bond. Navarre was still around, though, probably staying somewhere in San Antonio. He was at every news conference that Clayton Cochrum held, sitting in a wheelchair at first, his arm and leg still heavily bandaged. As the weeks passed and he recuperated some, he was able to limp out at Cochrum’s side, looking pathetic like he was in great pain. Maybe he was, but it was no less than he deserved.
Not everybody saw it that way. Navarre was a celebrity. Reporters asked his opinion on everything from politics to who would win the latest reality competition on TV. Women sent him letters proposing marriage, and rumor had it that a famous literary agent was negotiating on Navarre’s behalf for a million-dollar book deal.
It went without saying that movie deals were in the works, too. Every Hispanic star in Hollywood wanted to play this poor, noble, victimized man. So did some of the black and Caucasian ones.
Alex hoped all of that would change once Navarre was convicted, so when Rutherford broke the news to her on the phone, she said, “Good. The sooner he’s behind bars so all this ridiculous hoopla can die down, the better.”
“You don’t understand, Chief,” Rutherford said grimly. “It’s not the criminal case against Navarre that got moved up. It’s the civil lawsuit he filed.”
Alex’s hand tightened on the phone as she leaned forward in the chair behind her desk. “What?” she demanded. “They’re going to try the civil suit before the criminal case?”
“That’s right.”
“But… but things aren’t done that way.”
“They are now,” Rutherford said. “The judge in the criminal case has been dragging his feet all summer, and everybody knows it. He doesn’t want to try the case. He knows that no matter what he does, he’s going to be in trouble with somebody. If you ask me, he wants the civil court jury to weigh in first, so he’ll have some idea of how to proceed with the criminal case.”
“That’s crazy,” Alex responded, well aware of just how often she had made that statement this summer.
“Yes, but I’m just about to head over to the county seat for a meeting with the district attorney, the Justice Department attorney assigned to the case, and Pete McNamara’s personal attorney. Trial starts Monday.”
Alex knew Joe Gutierrez, the young man who was defending Pete McNamara. Joe’s dad, Manny Gutierrez, had practiced law in Home for thirty years and had been McNamara’s attorney for much of that time. He had taken his son into the firm with him after Joe graduated from the University of Texas law school a couple of years earlier. Then, six months later, Manny had dropped dead of a heart attack, leaving Joe to handle the practice.
Joe was a good kid, smart and ambitious, but Alex wasn’t sure he was any match for a shark like Clayton Cochrum.
“Is there anything I can do to help, Dave?” she asked.
“Not at this point. I’m sure you and your officers will be called to testify during the trial. All you can do then is tell the truth.”
“Do you think that’ll be enough?”
“I hope so. We have right on our side.” The hollow sound of Rutherford’s voice told Alex that he knew how naïve anybody would be to really believe that in this day and age. It used to be thought that whoever had the most money usually prevailed in legal proceedings. That had changed over the past few decades. Now it was whoever had the politicians and the media on their side who won most of the time.
“Innocent until proven guilty” had turned into “innocent until proven politically incorrect.” Once the media pundits and the Washington pontificators had rendered that verdict, it was the Salem witch trials all over again.
“Well, if you need anything, you let me know,” Alex told the city attorney.
“Will do,” Rutherford agreed. “Wish me luck, Chief.”
“Good luck,” Alex said.
But she had a bad feeling they were all going to need a lot more than luck to come through this unscathed.
CHAPTER 16
Monday, the day the case of Emilio Navarre’s civil lawsuit got underway, was also the first day of school. It was Jack Bonner’s senior year. One more year until he could shake the dust of this sleepy little town off his feet and start to live his life in some place more exciting and interesting. He had already applied to several universities. He knew his grades were good enough for him to get in, but he didn’t know if they would get him a scholarship.
He told himself that it didn’t matter. He would work to put himself through college if he had to. He would do whatever it took to get him out of Home.
His friend Steve already had things figured out. Steve was going to Texas A&M as a pre-med, following in his father’s footsteps and becoming a doctor. Jack always felt a little confused and aimless around him. Luckily, Rowdy was even more aimless than Jack and didn’t have any plans beyond the first football game of the season the next Friday night.
Jack’s mom was wearing a dress that morning instead of her usual police chief’s uniform. “I probably won’t be here when you get home this afternoon,” she told him. “I don’t know when I’ll be called to testify.”
“The Navarre case, right?”
“That’s right.”
Jack had kept up with it over the summer. You couldn’t really avoid it unless you never watched TV, listened to the radio, surfed the Internet, or read the newspaper. Jack did all of those things except read the newspaper; print took too long and was boring.
“What happens if he wins?”
“He can’t win,” Jack’s mom said. “He and his friend broke into the McNamara house. They committed a felony. Mr. McNamara acted in self-defense.”
She sounded like she was trying to be sincere, but in the back of her voice was a nagging uncertainty.
“Yeah, but what happens if he does win?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. As crazy as the world is these days … I just don’t know.”
It was rare for his mom to admit something like that, Jack thought. She was always in charge, with such a firm grasp of what was right and what was wrong and no hesitation whatsoever about telling somebody what they ought to do. What they had to do, in his case. To Jack’s way of thinking, she had taken the worst traits of being both a cop and a mom and elevated them to even higher levels. Her attitude had driven him crazy for a while, and he had delighted in pushing back against her, until he realized his life would go along a lot smoother if he just let her believe he was cooperating with her. That way, whenever she wasn’t around, he could do what he wanted … as long as he was careful about it.
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