Devils and Dust

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Oscar Sanchez,” the General said. “You have been found guilty of violating the sacred and sovereign borders of the United States. The penalty for that is life at hard labor.”

  “I don’t recall there being a trial,” Oscar said mildly.

  One of the guards started for him, but the General waved him back. “You have also been found guilty of conspiring to resist the lawful authority of this citizen’s tribunal.” He paused. “The penalty for that is death by hanging.”

  “No,” a voice came from the crowd. Oscar recognized Ruben’s voice.

  “Silence!”

  “Listen,” Oscar said. “I have come for my sons. Let us go in peace,” He gestured to the crowd behind him. “And these other people, and there will be no further trouble.”

  “Denied,” the General said. “And as for your brats, they die with you.”

  The words hit Oscar like a blow. His knees felt weak, and his stomach roiled as if he was about to vomit. “They haven’t done anything wrong,” he said.

  “The Lord our God is a jealous God,” the General said, “visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.”

  “It isn’t God telling you to murder children,” Oscar’s voice rose as he said it. At that moment, there was a soft chime. The General reached into the folds of the robe and produced a cell phone from his shirt pocket. He looked at the screen for a moment, then Oscar saw his face go blank with shock.

  “Bad news?” he said.

  “Be quiet,” one of the guards said, but he sounded uneasy, as if he too had noticed the look.

  “Let me guess,” Oscar said. “Jack Keller has escaped.”

  The General put the phone on the table in front of him. “And you can add conspiring to murder a law enforcement officer to the list of your crimes. Sheriff Cosgrove has been killed.”

  There was a moment of shocked silence, then a murmur of conversation rippled through the room. “ORDER!” the General roared.

  “General,” Oscar said, “if Jack Keller is out, he’s coming here. For all you know, he may already be here. And if he’s coming here, he’s coming for you. Trust me, that is the last thing you want. Just let us go. That’s all you need to do.”

  Walker shook his head in amazement. “You people,” he said. “Too dumb to know when you’re beaten.” He gestured to Kinney. “Take them to the Justice Tree,” he said. “And the others. But bring chairs. We will carry out this execution the old-fashioned way. You,” he pointed at Bender. “Take two men. Reinforce the guard at the front gate.” He looked around. “Where is Corporal Loomis?”

  The other guards looked around as well. No one answered. “Give me a radio,” Walker said. One of the guards handed him one. He put it to his ear, then stopped.

  “Put them in position,” he told Kinney, “and wait for instructions.”

  KELLER LOOKED around the front of the building. After a moment, he pulled back.

  “Goddamn it,” he breathed.

  “What?” Castle said.

  “They’ve got Oscar,” Keller said. “And I assume the ones with him are his sons. They’re standing on chairs with their hands tied behind their backs and nooses around their necks. The ropes are hanging from a big tree.”

  “We need to move now,” Castle said.

  “Where the hell is Posey?” Keller said.

  “Mr. Keller,” Walker’s voice came through the radio they’d taken from Loomis. “Are you out there?”

  KELLER LOOKED at the radio for a moment, then raised it to his lips. “Yeah, Walker,” he said. “I’m here.”

  “Why don’t you come out and join us?”

  “I think it might have something to do with all of those guys with guns. Why don’t you tell them to put them away and maybe we can talk.”

  “Why should I do that?” Walker said. “You came here to kill me, did you not?”

  “No,” Keller said. “I came here to get my friend back. And his boys. But just so you know, I’m keeping that other option open.”

  “So, I’m to believe that if I give you this brown scum and his sniveling little whelps, you’ll just walk away?”

  “I only came here for one thing, Walker. I don’t give a fuck about you or anything else you do.”

  “Somehow I find that hard to believe,” Walker said. “Tell me, did you kill Sheriff Cosgrove? And his nigger deputy?”

  Keller turned to Castle. “He’s trying to keep me talking.”

  Castle nodded. “Yeah, I was about to bring that up.”

  “Which means that he’s got someone out looking.”

  “Maybe more than one,” Castle said.

  “He doesn’t know you’re here.”

  “Or he’s pretending like he doesn’t.”

  Keller raised the radio. “Yeah,” he said to Walker, “I hated to have to do it. But, you know, it is what it is.” He lowered the radio. “He wants me to go out there.”

  “He’ll kill you.”

  “He’ll try,” Keller said, “but he’ll want to make me watch my friend die first.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. You may not have noticed, but the guy’s kind of an asshole.”

  “I did notice that,” Castle said.

  “He’s an egomaniac,” Keller said. “He loves to hear himself talk. He’s got to put on a show.”

  “And this helps us how?”

  “I get him going. Keep him talking. Meanwhile I get in close.”

  “And then he kills your friend, and then his sons, and then you.”

  “You won’t give him the chance.”

  Castle shook his head. “Goddamn it,” he muttered. “I thought we weren’t going to bust in and start killing people.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Keller said. “I said we’d try. But they’re going to kill Oscar and his sons if we just sit on our asses. Come on, Castle. You’re a cop. You gonna let that happen?”

  Castle bristled. “Oh, do NOT play the cop card on me, Keller.”

  The radio crackled. “You need to show yourself, Mr. Keller,” Walker said. “Before I become impatient.”

  “Okay,” Keller said. “I’m coming out.”

  “Unarmed.”

  “Of course.” He leaned the M4 against the wall of the barracks and slid the bag of grenades off his shoulder. “Don’t leave me with my ass hanging out there, Castle,” he said. “I’m counting on you.” Without another word, he turned and walked out into the open from behind the building.

  THE OFFICERS manning the impromptu roadblock were confused, and confusion made them nervous. No one had heard from the Sheriff in hours, and now a man pretty much everyone in town regarded as a crazy hermit was out here, behind the wheel of a heavily armored police vehicle. They’d radioed the Highway Patrol for help, but no one knew when they’d get here, or what they could bring that would pierce the thick armored hide of the behemoth that sat squarely and stubbornly idling in the middle of State Road 1860.

  “What the hell’s he up to?” A young deputy asked his older partner. The young deputy’s name was Irby, and at twenty-two, he was the youngest member of the department.

  “Damned if I know, son,” Gillespie, the older deputy, said. “But this is the road that leads to that farm where that crazy white power church set up. Maybe Posey’s got some kinda grudge.”

  Gillespie was sixty-two, the oldest deputy remaining on road duty. His few remaining hairs had gone to solid gray, and his bum knee was giving him fits every day. He just wanted to spend out his last few days before retirement in peace and quiet, and he did not need this shit from that nutcase Posey Cartwright.

  He heard a commotion from inside one of the blocking cars, someone’s voice raised. “Say again!” the voice said. “Say again!” The voice sounded panicked. He recognized the voice as belonging to Sammy Lowell, a deputy who’d been with the department about five years, maybe six. Gillespie couldn’t remember exactly how much. He frowned. He’d trained Lowell himself, and the you
ng man should have better radio discipline than that. He walked over and leaned in the car window. “What’s goin’ on, Sammy?”

  Lowell, a hawk-faced thirty-year-old with a military buzz cut looked up at him, stricken. “The Sheriff’s dead, Paul,” he said. “Someone shot him.”

  “The hell you say,” Gillespie said.

  “It’s true,” Lowell said. “Someone found his body in the Hearken substation. Shot in the head.”

  Gillespie straightened up, grabbing the door to steady himself. He suddenly felt dizzy.

  Irby came running over. “What’s wrong, Sarge?”

  Gillespie’s head cleared a little. He looked over at where the MRAP sat idling. “Some asshole just shot Sheriff Cosgrove,” he said, drawing his sidearm, “and I think I know which one.”

  THE IMPACT of the 9MM rounds smacking into the truck’s armor clanged like stones hitting a tin roof. “Aiiight, then,” Posey muttered, “that’s the way you wanna play…” He gunned the engine and let off the clutch. The big truck lurched ahead, making contact with the Sheriff’s car in front. There was a heavy metallic crunch as sheet metal gave way before the onslaught and a squeal of rubber on pavement as the MRAP shoved the blocking car out of the way. Its path cleared, the truck lumbered away, accelerating slowly. Posey checked the side mirrors. He could see deputies running for their cars in his wake. “Come on, then,” he muttered. “Y’all just come right on ahead.” The gate to the farm was a mile ahead.

  KELLER COUNTED two guards standing behind the group of people that stood to one side of the tree, their backs to the building. As he drew closer, he saw that one of them was the blond with the slicked back hair who’d been in the group who took Oscar. He didn’t see the other one, the one with the ragged beard. Walker stood behind Oscar and his sons, his hands behind his back. He was dressed in his military style fatigues, a long knife hanging from the sheath at his belt the only visible weapon. They were facing Keller in a line at a right angle to the crowd. Oscar and the boys had their hands tied behind them and ropes around their necks. Oscar was in the center, with a thin young man who looked about seventeen or eighteen to one side, and another, smaller boy to his left. Walker stepped out from behind them as Keller approached. He was holding a long barreled black revolver down beside one leg. As Keller got closer, Walker raised it and pulled the hammer back with his thumb. “Hands up, Mr. Keller.”

  Keller stopped and raised his hands. “I’m unarmed.”

  Walker didn’t answer. He walked closer, gun pointed at Keller, until he was only a few feet away. “Turn around,” he said. Keller turned, slowly, until his back was to Walker. “Stop,” Walker said. “Hands behind your head.” Keller complied. Walker frisked him with one hand, quickly and inexpertly. “Turn back around,” he ordered. “Face me.” As Keller turned, Walker struck him across the face with the barrel of the gun. The blow was hard enough to stagger Keller, and he stumbled slightly to one side, pain exploding in his head. Walker hit him again, this blow laying a line of white fire across his cheek as the barrel split the skin. He almost fell, but managed to catch himself at the last minute. He felt the warmth of the blood running down his face.

  “Traitor,” Walker hissed. “A traitor to your race. A traitor to our country. After you’ve seen these three die, you’ll receive a traitor’s reward. Do you recall how traitors were dealt with in olden times?” His eyes were bright, like the eyes of a man with fever. He went on in the tone of one reciting a well-loved passage. “Hanged, but not unto death.” He drew the long knife from the sheath on his belt. “Taken down alive, your members to be cut off and cast in the fire, your bowels burnt before you, your head smitten off, and your body quartered and divided.”

  “You know your problem, Walker?” Keller said, the words coming out slurred and raspy because of the pain. “You talk too goddamn much.”

  Walker looked as if he was about to hit Keller again, but he got himself under control. He sheathed the knife and stepped aside. “Move,” he said. Keller walked in front, swaying slightly as he went. In a moment, he stood before Oscar. His friend looked down at him from atop his chair. Keller could see the sweat on his brow.

  “Hey, buddy,” Keller said. “How goes it?”

  “I’ve been better, Jack,” Oscar said.

  “Yeah. Me, too.” He looked at the other two. “These must be your boys.” He turned to Walker. “Okay, Walker,” he said. “This is your last chance. Let them go and nobody else has to get hurt.”

  Walker stared at him for a moment. Then he chuckled. “It’s a pity,” he said. “You could have been an asset to the cause. What was it, Keller? Where did you go wrong? Was it your upbringing?”

  “See?” Keller said to Oscar. “He talks too much.”

  Walker stepped forward, toward the chairs. As he did, there was the sound of a loud crash in the distance, then the chatter of automatic weapons fire. He stopped. “What was that?”

  “Unless I miss my guess,” Keller said, “our ride’s here.” As he said it, he heard the bright familiar clank of a grenade leaving the barrel. A moment later, the ground fifty feet away erupted in an explosion of dirt and clay. People in the crowd screamed and started to scatter.

  “BACK IN LINE!” the bearded guard screamed. He raised his weapon to fire at them. There was a sharp crack and he tumbled backward, the assault rifle falling from his suddenly slack hands. Keller turned to Walker. He was standing there with a look of uncomprehending shock on his face. He recovered quickly and raised the long-barreled pistol to fire at the crowd as Keller charged. Keller slammed into him as the gun discharged. The blow knocked him backward and the shot went wild as Walker stumbled. He kept hold of the gun, however, and as Keller wrapped his arms around him to drive him backward and bear him to the ground, he clouted Keller on the side of the head with the barrel. Keller’s vision went red, tinged with black at the edges, and he felt himself slipping away, his grip on Walker failing. He slid to the ground, gasping. As he did, he reached out with a desperate grasp and grabbed for purchase. His hand closed on the hilt of the long blade hanging on Walker’s belt, pulling it loose as he sank to his knees. He tried to slash at Walker with the blade, but the limb wouldn’t respond. It felt like it belonged to someone else. He let the arm fall to his side.

  Walker stepped back, a look of triumph on his face. “What is it they say?” he said. “Never bring a knife to a gunfight?” He raised the pistol to fire. As he did, the roar of an engine filled Keller’s ears. He saw the bright blue MRAP strike Walker with a sickening crunch. Walker’s body flew through the air, the gun flying from his hands. He landed in a heap a few feet away as the MRAP slid to a halt in a cloud of dust. Keller staggered to his feet, the knife still clutched in his hand. He stumbled over to where Oscar and his sons still stood atop the flimsy chairs. Through the haze of pain and concussion, he could hear the howling of police sirens. There was more gunfire. Some control was returning to his arms and hands, but it still seemed to take forever to saw through the ropes binding Oscar’s hands behind him. When the rope parted, Oscar reached up and worked the noose away from his neck and over his head. He stepped down from the chair and gently took the knife from Keller’s hand. “I’ll take it from here, old friend.”

  “Thanks,” Keller mumbled. He could still hear the sirens and the sounds of people shouting as he turned and walked back to where Walker lay on the ground. There was a brief volley of shots, he couldn’t tell from who. Finally, he stood over the General. He was unconscious. Blood soaked the combat fatigues and one leg was twisted at an agonizing angle, but incredibly, the man was still breathing.

  “You know what else they say, Walker?” Keller said. “Don’t play in the fucking street.” He heard someone walk up to stand beside him. He raised his eyes to see Castle there, holding the M4 in one hand. The other arm hung loosely by his side, the sleeve soaked with blood.

  “You’re wounded,” Keller said.

  “You should see the other guy,” Castle responded.

&nbs
p; “You got him?”

  Castle shook his head. “I never got the chance. While he was drawing down on me, two of those guys from the crowd tackled him.”

  “He dead?”

  “No, not yet. I had to threaten to drop another grenade on them to keep them from cutting his balls off. They’d gotten his pants off and everything. I think the folks here are a little bit mad at him.”

  “What about the other ones?”

  “Sounds like they got into a firefight with some of my coworkers. Speaking of which…” He nodded in the direction the MRAP had come from. A pair of Sheriff’s deputies were advancing on them, slightly crouched, pistols held out in front of them. One was older, with a fringe of gray hair around a sun-reddened scalp. The other looked barely old enough to shave. “ON THE GROUND!” the older one was yelling. “NOW!”

  “Paul!” Castle called back. “Paul Gillespie! It’s me! Ray Castle!”

  The older one hesitated, then straightened up. “Ray?”

  The younger one stayed in position. “He’s Posey’s cousin, Sarge,” he said. “He may be in on this.”

  Gillespie raised the gun and crouched back down. “That true, Ray?”

  “That I’m Posey’s cousin? You know I am. Am I in on this? Guess that depends on what ‘this’ is. I could ask you guys the same question.”

  Gillespie stopped. “Who’s that fella with you?”

  “His name’s Keller. The Sheriff tried to kill him. And me.” He gestured around him. “He was mixed up with all this shit out here.”

  “You need to put the gun down,” Gillespie said.

  “Depends on whether or not you were in this with him, Paul,” Castle said. He looked at the younger deputy. “Or you, Bobby.”

  “I don’t want to have to shoot you, Ray,” Gillespie said.

  “I’d kinda hate that myself. Especially since if it looks like you guys were involved in holding people, working them against their will, and forcing some of them into prostitution, well…” he looked back, to where a group of the prisoners had reassembled. This time some of them were armed with rifles and machine guns taken from the fallen guards. They stared across the expanse of cleared ground at the deputies. “They might feel the need to shoot you.”