Tyranny

by William W. Johnstone

  “Speaking of work,” Kyle said, “what brings you out here? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I just had some news about your grandfather’s case. Good news, I hope. I wanted to share it in person, but I didn’t stop to think that he might not be here.”

  Kyle frowned slightly and asked, “Good news on a Sunday morning?”

  “I heard back from an old friend of mine I reached out to. He works for a federal district court judge in El Paso. He thinks the judge might be willing to issue an injunction against the IRS to prevent them from seizing G.W.’s ranch until after his appeal has been heard.”

  Kyle looked skeptical about that.

  “What federal judge is gonna go against his buddies in the IRS? That’s liable to get him in trouble.”

  “One who was appointed by a Republican president.”

  Kyle let out a whistle of surprise and said, “Boy, he has been around for a long time, hasn’t he?”

  “And one who has terminal cancer,” Miranda said solemnly. “She is a widow who has no children, so there’s not really anybody the IRS can threaten to make her back off. All she’s interested in is the law, and what’s right and wrong.”

  “That’s not always the same thing,” Kyle observed.

  “No, but in this case it is. My friend thinks we might have an injunction by the middle of the day tomorrow.”

  Kyle rested a shoulder against one of the porch posts at the top of the steps and said, “Boyfriend of yours?”

  “No,” Miranda replied. Her tone was sharper than she intended it to be. “We were in the same study group in law school.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Kyle straightened from his casual pose and went on. “There might still be some hot coffee in the pot. You want to come in and wait for G.W.?”

  Miranda hesitated.

  “You could just tell him about the injunction,” she said. “You know as much now as I do.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But I’m sure he’d be glad to see you anyway.” A grin tugged at the corners of Kyle’s mouth. “I can put a shirt on, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “Who said I was worried?” Miranda asked, her voice sharp again. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind some coffee. I was awake a lot of the night, trying to figure out what to do next.”

  Kyle pulled the screen door open and said, “Come on in, then.”

  “I know where the kitchen is, if you want to go get that shirt,” Miranda said as she went into the house while he held the door.

  Kyle hung the rifle on the gun rack and said, “All right. Be right back.”

  Miranda went into the kitchen, felt the side of the coffeepot and found it still warm, and filled a cup she took from the cabinet. As she took a sip from it, Kyle appeared in the doorway, buttoning up a faded blue work shirt. His feet were still bare.

  “I can see why G. W. likes you,” he said. “You drink that stuff black, no sugar, like he does.”

  “Another legacy from law school. The jolt of caffeine was all I was really interested in, not a bunch of frills.”

  “You don’t care for mocha half-caff goat’s milk lattes?”

  Miranda sniffed in disdain.

  “Sit down,” Kyle said as he gestured at the table. “I’ll get my cup from the living room.”

  When he came back, he added some coffee to his cup and sat down in the chair across from her.

  “So you think you can get that injunction by the middle of the day tomorrow, eh?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’ll drive to El Paso early in the morning and see the judge in her chambers. My friend has already arranged the meeting.”

  Kyle quirked an eyebrow and said, “The guy must owe you some pretty big favors.”

  “Not really. He’s just a good guy.” Miranda paused, then added meaningfully, “His wife thinks so, too.”

  Kyle held up open hands and said, “Hey, I don’t mean to pry in anybody’s personal life. It’s none of my business, counselor.”

  “That’s right, it’s not. What is your business, Mr. Brannock?”

  “Oh, hell, don’t call me that. I’m not sure I’ll ever be old enough to answer to it. As long as G. W.’s around, he’ll be the only Mr. Brannock around here. Or Señor Brannock, as the hands call him.”

  Miranda indulged her curiosity and asked, “Why do you call him G.W.? Shouldn’t you call him Granddad or Gramps or something?”

  “Yeah, he’d like that. But I heard somebody call him G. W. when I was barely old enough to talk, and when I started saying it, the way kids will, it stuck.” Kyle shrugged. “Anything else just wouldn’t seem right now.”

  “I suppose I can understand that.” Then, feeling like she ought to, she said, “I’m sorry about what happened to your parents.”

  Kyle’s mouth tightened into a grim line, and his fingers closed harder on the coffee cup.

  “G. W. told you about that, did he?”

  “It was a real tragedy. I know he was devastated by it.”

  “You couldn’t really tell that by the way he acted.”

  Miranda thought she detected a trace of bitterness in Kyle’s voice. She said, “Everybody deals with grief in their own way. G.W.’s just not a very . . . demonstrative . . . man, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Miranda had been sipping on her coffee as they talked. It was cool enough that she was able to pick up the cup and drink the rest of it in a long swallow.

  “I think I’ll go,” she said as she set the empty cup on the table.

  “You don’t have to leave on my account.”

  “I’m not. I just need to work on what I’m going to say to the judge in the morning.” She got to her feet. “Please tell G. W. that if he has any questions, he should feel free to call me.”

  “I will.”

  Kyle walked her to the door and followed her out onto the porch. Miranda hadn’t started down the steps yet when Kyle said, “Wait a minute.”

  Something about his voice made alarm bells go off in her brain. She looked around at him and asked, “What is it?”

  He pointed toward the highway and said, “Somebody else is coming.”

  Miranda looked and saw the dust rising from the road. Kyle was right. She said, “It’s probably G.W. on his way home from church.”

  Kyle shook his head and said, “It’s too early for that. No Baptist preacher worth his salt preaches a sermon that short.”

  “Well, this is a popular place today, I guess.”

  “Why don’t you go back inside?” Kyle suggested.

  “You don’t think this is trouble, do you?”

  “I don’t know, but if it is, I don’t want you standing out here in the open.”

  Miranda was a little surprised that he would worry about her like that. From everything she had heard about Kyle Brannock, he was a pretty shiftless character. No-account, as some of the older West Texans would say. She wouldn’t have expected him to have an outbreak of chivalry.

  But maybe he knew something she didn’t. She decided it would be a good idea not to argue with him. She pulled open the screen door and went back into the house. Kyle followed her.

  He didn’t stay inside, though. He took down the same rifle he’d been holding earlier and went back out onto the porch. Miranda stayed where she could watch through the screen.

  The car that pulled up was similar to hers but at least ten years older, and it sounded like it wasn’t running very well. When the door opened, Miranda wasn’t expecting to see the person who stepped out.

  Stella Lopez.

  Chapter 15

  Kyle drew in a sharp, surprised breath. Stella was just about the last person he’d thought he would see get out of that car.

  Not that the sight of her bothered him. She looked spectacular today, wearing cut-off jeans and a sleeveless white shirt. She had tied the shirttails under her breasts, leaving her smooth, honey-colored midriff bare. Her long raven hair was loose today. It tumbled around her shoulders in dark waves.

&nbs
p; She smiled and said, “You don’t need that gun, Kyle. I’m not here to make trouble.”

  “You didn’t bring your friend Vern with you, did you?”

  Stella’s smile disappeared as she made a face and said, “That jerk. He’s not my friend. He’s just a customer at the store.”

  “That didn’t stop you from telling the cops I threw the first punch at him yesterday.”

  “Well, you did, didn’t you?” Stella shot back. “I wasn’t going to lie to the cops and get in trouble for that.”

  “He provoked me,” Kyle said. Then he shrugged and went on. “But I guess I can’t really hold it against you. I wouldn’t want you getting in trouble on my account, either.”

  “That didn’t stop you from leaving town a few years ago when I might have been in trouble on your account, did it?”

  Kyle’s back stiffened as he thought about the import of her question as she used his own words against him. He said, “You weren’t—”

  “No, I wasn’t,” she broke in. “But that was no thanks to you.”

  Kyle glanced over his shoulder at the screen door. Miranda was right inside, and she had to be hearing all of this. For some reason that bothered him, even though he told himself that it shouldn’t.

  Under other circumstances he would have welcomed Stella’s visit, even though he was still a little peeved with her for what she had told the police about the fight. Today, though, he found himself wishing she would just get back in her old clunker and head back to town.

  “Why’d you come out here, Stella?” he asked. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  She came toward him, her mouth set in a pretty little pout now, her movements naturally sensuous.

  “I thought maybe we could catch up on old times,” she said. “I figured your grandfather would be at church—”

  “He is.”

  Stella leaned her head toward Miranda’s car and went on, saying, “But I see you already have company.”

  The screen door’s hinges squealed as Miranda pushed it open. Kyle grimaced, unsure whether he was reacting to the sound or to the fact that Miranda hadn’t just stayed inside out of sight until Stella was gone.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Lopez,” Miranda said as she stepped out onto the porch. “I was just leaving.”

  Stella stopped short. The look she gave Miranda was almost but not quite a glare.

  “I’ve seen you around town,” she said. “You’re that lawyer from back East somewhere.”

  “I’m Mr. Brannock’s attorney, yes. And it’s a legal matter that brought me out here today.” Miranda looked coolly over at Kyle. “If you’ll give your grandfather that information, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure,” Kyle said. He added, “Thank you.”

  “Just doing my job,” Miranda said. She took the porch steps down to the ground and headed for her car, circling to give Stella plenty of room as she did so. The two women watched each other warily as Miranda went past.

  She got in her car, backed around, and drove off. Some of the dust drifted toward Stella. She waved a hand in front of her face to brush it away as she watched the car dwindle in the distance.

  From the porch, Kyle said, “Come on in. I think there’s a pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator.” He had seen it earlier when he got the strawberry jam.

  “No, I should go. You’re busy.”

  “I’m not the least bit busy,” Kyle assured her. He was a little disappointed that Miranda had left so abruptly the way she did, but she was gone now and there was no reason for Stella to leave, too.

  “You were talking to the lawyer lady.”

  “She was just telling me about some legal work she’s doing for my grandfather.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s it,” Kyle said.

  “She was kind of dressed up for a Sunday morning.”

  “Really? I didn’t notice.”

  That wasn’t strictly true. Kyle had noticed the way the jeans hugged Miranda’s legs and hips. He had approved of the silk blouse and the lightweight jacket, too. But he had way too much sense to mention those things to Stella.

  “Why’d you come out with a gun?” Stella asked, pointing at the rifle that Kyle still held with the barrel pointing toward the ground.

  “I didn’t know who was coming.” Kyle decided it wouldn’t hurt to tell her the truth. “G.W. said some guys have been sneaking around the ranch. I thought it might have been them.”

  Stella frowned and shook her head. She said, “Why would anybody sneak around the ranch? You think they’re, like, rustlers or something?”

  Obviously, Stella didn’t know about the trouble G.W. had been having with the IRS. That was no surprise. G. W. kept things to himself. He wouldn’t have gone all over town complaining. Chances were, the only one in Sierra Lobo who knew about the situation was Miranda, and G.W. would have told her about it only because he needed her help.

  It must have rubbed his grandfather the wrong way to ask anyone for help, thought Kyle, especially a young woman. That was a good indication of just how serious the problem was.

  G.W. wouldn’t want him saying anything to Stella about it, so he replied, “I don’t know what it’s about. I just wanted to be ready in case it was anybody looking for trouble.”

  “Maybe I’m looking for trouble and you just don’t know it.”

  She wore a flirtatious smile as she said it. Kyle had to grin back at her, glad that she had gotten over being miffed at him. He said, “I think I can handle that kind of trouble without a gun.”

  “You think so, do you?”

  “Yeah, I—”

  Her smile disappeared again as she snapped, “Maybe you better get some legal advice to be sure.”

  With that she turned and marched back to her car. Stella Lopez looked good leaving, no doubt about that—but Kyle didn’t want her to go.

  “Wait a minute!” he called after her. He started down the steps. “You don’t have to leave—”

  Too late. The slam of her car door cut off his words. With a rattle, the engine started. Stella didn’t bother backing up. She just swung around in a wide circle and punched the gas as she started toward the highway, the car’s tires spitting gravel and kicking up dust.

  Kyle stood there on the porch watching her go and thought about how he’d two good-looking women come to see him this morning, and yet here he was, alone.

  Yeah, that was about par for the course.

  Chapter 16

  Barton Devlin wasn’t sure why he’d had to arrive in Sierra Lobo on Saturday. Monday was the earliest he could make his move against G.W. Brannock, so it seemed like he could have flown from Washington to Dallas and driven out here on Sunday just as easily.

  But Devlin wasn’t the sort of man to question orders, so he’d shown up on Saturday, as he’d been told to.

  With nothing to do on Sunday, he had gone out for breakfast at one of the local cafés, gone back to the motel, and spent the morning double- and triple-checking everything in the documents he had brought with him. He didn’t like to leave anything to chance.

  That and his sheer love for what he did had enabled him to rise rapidly in his job.

  While he was eating breakfast, he had been aware of the guarded, hostile glances directed at him by the café’s other patrons. Word had gotten around town that he was an IRS agent, he thought. That meant the motel owner, Lou Scarborough, had spread the news.

  The attention didn’t bother Devlin. He figured he could probably charge Scarborough with hindering an official investigation. At the very least, one simple notation in the computer would ensure that Scarborough was audited every year for the foreseeable future, the same way many Republican business owners were.

  Devlin thought about that several hours later as he was going over his paperwork, and it still brought a chuckle to his lips.

  He wasn’t nearly as amused when someone knocked on the door of his motel room that afternoon.

  No one should be disturbing
him. Maybe Scarborough was coming around to suck up and try to get back in Devlin’s good graces. It wouldn’t do him any good, but Devlin supposed it wouldn’t hurt anything to let him make the attempt.

  Devlin enjoyed a good grovel as much as the next federal employee.

  But when Devlin opened the door, it wasn’t Lou Scarborough who stood there. It was a man Devlin had never seen before, in a rumpled suit that was obviously expensive despite its wrinkles. The man’s collar and tie were loosened, and sunglasses covered his eyes. A wooden toothpick stuck out of one corner of his mouth.

  Devlin hated him on sight.

  Without taking the toothpick out of his mouth, the man said, “Barton Devlin?”

  Instead of answering the question, Devlin said, “Who are you?”

  The man reached inside his coat. Devlin frowned and abruptly wondered if he should be scared. In all the years he’d been an IRS agent, despite all the lives he’d ruined, no one had ever pulled a gun on him or even taken a swing at him. The fear that the citizenry felt for the IRS—and it was only right and proper that they should feel that way, Devlin believed—was just too deep and ingrained for them to conceive of striking back.

  The casual arrogance with which this stranger carried himself, though, said that he wasn’t afraid of anyone.

  And that made a chill go down Devlin’s back.

  But it wasn’t a gun the man brought out. Instead it was a leather folder designed to hold a badge and an identification card. Devlin recognized it right away, because he carried the same type of folder.

  The stranger flipped it open, held it out, and said, “Slade Grayson, BLM.”

  Devlin’s first impulse was to say that he didn’t believe it. He had known many men and women who worked for the Bureau of Land Management, and none of them had looked like the man standing at his door. They tended to be mild, peaceful sorts, the children and grandchildren of former hippies, unable to quite comprehend that they had become the unquestioning government drones their parents and grandparents had despised.

  With his dark hair, sunglasses, and suit, the man who called himself Slade Grayson looked more like a Mafia hit man. Devlin wasn’t sure such creatures existed anymore. He supposed organized crime was still around to some extent, but it had paled almost to insignificance in these days when the federal government thankfully controlled almost every aspect of every citizen’s life from the cradle to the grave.