Realizing how much work he still had to do tomorrow mixing and pouring the concrete, leveling the surface, and setting the expansion joints sobered Kip from his funk. Putting away his tools, Kip noticed Bennett had pulled his truck from out of the back alley and swung around the block, stopping in front of the house.
“What’re you all dressed up for, old man?” Kip asked. “Got a hot date?”
“Going to meet a buddy for a drink. I won’t be out late,” said Bennett as he examined the half-finished project. “Now, when you said you were going to fix the walk, I didn’t think you were going to tear up my whole front yard.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll finish it tomorrow.”
“If you don’t mind, could you make it a little wider for me?” Bennett quipped as he drove off down the street.
Kip dropped his shovel and kicked it.
• • •
Upstairs, Avery continued to type away in his dimly lit room.
To: Office of the Attorney General
United States Department of Justice
Dear Sir:
I am writing you today to bring to your attention a matter of grave importance. Recent research I have conducted and submitted at my expense for the benefit of the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) is being ignored by said organization. The only other remotely possible explanation is a deliberate and willful FDA cover-up operation rivaled only in its insidious scope by the Aaron Burr conspiracy perpetrated early in the nineteenth century. My earth-shaking discovery occurred when I stumbled across a national online retailer, specializing in overstocked items, who was marketing large quantities of near-expiration Strawberry Kitty Cakes. I’m reluctant to name the online retailer specifically, as I’m currently considering taking legal action against their corporate directors regarding a separate transaction. However, being a devoted fan of Strawberry Kitty Cakes, I immediately placed an order for seven gross, one thousand and eight individually wrapped snack cakes being the most my larder could contain at the time. When the shipment arrived, I was amazed to discover the items in question were originally designated for sale and distribution in Asia. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Strawberry Kitty Cake snack food product line is manufactured and distributed by Great Panda Wind Holdings Limited, a Chinese conglomerate located in Shandong Province. They are one of the world’s largest conglomerates, with dozens of operational divisions, including mining, electronics, pharmaceuticals, food and beverage, cosmetics, and lampshades. I became aware of their subversive plot as I noticed the difference in ingredient labels between the shipment delivered and my current, domestically procured supply of Kitty Cakes. The food-coloring ingredient for Asian Strawberry Kitty Cakes is beetroot. For U.S. Strawberry Kitty Cakes, it’s Red Number Eighty-Two. I immediately became suspicious of the discrepancy, as food-coloring behavior modification and mind control is one of the yet-to-be-fulfilled methods of food borne-terrorism, at least until now. In lengthy discussions with food and drug scientific experts I discovered in online chat rooms and anti-government forums, there is a growing body of hard scientific evidence that Red Number Eighty-Two is in fact a thought-modification drug used as part of the “conditioning programs” administered to Korean War POWs. Please refer to the outstanding 1962 documentary film, The Manchurian Candidate, for additional details. I fear that unless immediate action is taken, an imminent thought and behavior modification initiative, sometimes referred to as brainwashing, may be launched by the Chinese government against the citizens of the United States. Hopefully we aren’t too late to act, as Strawberry Kitty Cakes have been available to and deliciously enjoyed by U.S. consumers for over three decades. My greatest fear, however, is that Chinese operatives have infiltrated the Food and Drug Administration specifically to silence the voice of scientists like myself. By the day, I become more convinced this is why my previous correspondence to the FDA has been unanswered. I await your reply.
Sincerely,
Avery Bartholomew Pendleton
• • •
In some towns in America, a lanky, elderly gentleman wearing a seersucker suit with a white pocket square, crisply pressed white oxford button-down dress shirt, yellow and white polka dot bow tie. and white bucks pulling up to a hotel valet stand in an enormous black Ford F-450 Super Duty extended-cab truck might seem a little out of place. Not in Austin, Texas. Bennett climbed down from his truck and handed the keys to the young valet who ran up to meet him.
“Good to see you again, doctor,” the young man said as he took the keys and handed Bennett a claim check.
“No joyriding, Travis,” Bennett replied as he patted the young valet on the back and handed him a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “I checked the odometer, and I know your folks.” Bennett passed though the large white columns that graced the front of the grand old hotel, passing under the large United States and State of Texas flags that waved in the breeze above him.
The Driskill hotel was built in the late 1880s by a cattle baron by the same name. Its location, a short walk from the Texas state capital, made its bar and restaurant, the Driskill Grill, one of the favored gathering places of politicians and businessmen in the city. Walking across the marbled floor of the lobby and under the four-story rotunda capped with a stained glass dome, Bennett headed towards the Grill. Bennett spotted his good friend Miguel sitting on a leather couch in front of a fireplace with a large mounted longhorn steer head above its hearth, sipping a small glass of tequila and reading a medical journal.
“Bennett,” Miguel said as he spotted his lanky friend crossing the room, and rose to shake his hand.
“Good to see you, amigo,” said Bennett as he firmly shook the offered hand and then eased himself into the leather chair directly across from his friend, who wore a black pinstriped suit and white dress shirt open at the collar.
“We’ve got to get you a proper necktie one of these days, doctor,” Bennett said as he waved to get the attention of the cocktail waitress working the lounge.
“Good evening, doctor,” the waitress said as she placed a napkin down on the table between the two men. “Let me guess. Bourbon, no ice?”
“Thank you, darling,” Bennett replied.
Bennett and Miguel tried to get together at least once a month to catch up on old times. The men were of similar age and had known each other since their days working in the hospital. Bennett had ultimately become the head of the obstetrics and gynecology department, while Miguel had been the head of the urology department. Neither had professional desires to ultimately run the hospital like many of their cutthroat colleagues, and thus had become close friends and stayed that way in their retirement.
“How’s Esmeralda?” asked Bennett.
“She’s fine,” replied Miguel. “Busy with the grandkids these days.”
“All eight of them?”
“And a ninth on the way.”
“Is she still making the best dang frijoles in the state?” asked Bennett.
“She is. The secret is fresh lard and lots of it. I’ll have one of the boys bring some by your house.”
“Only if it isn’t any trouble. Don’t have much of an appetite these days, but I can always put away some of her cooking.”
“How’re you feeling, Bennett?”
“Not too bad,” Bennett said as the waitress returned with his cocktail and placed it in front of him.
“You following your doctor’s instructions?”
“Every one of them.”
“Who’s your doctor?”
“Me.”
“Come on, Bennett. You’ve got to take this seriously. Without you, who would I have to sit around and complain to?”
“Don’t worry—I’ll be around for a good while yet. I’m too ornery to die.”
“Truer words were never spoken, my friend. On the phone, you said Kip is back in town. How’s he doing?”
“He’s good. Grown up to look just like me, although I’m not sure how he feels about that. All things considered, the boy turned out just fin
e. Can’t say the same about Avery, but batting five hundred will get you in the Hall of Fame on the first ballot.”
“It’s nice of you take care of him, Bennett. What kind of conspiracy theory is he up to this week?”
“Well, he seems to think that we face an imminent invasion by Mexican chupacabras. Thinks they’ll be in Austin anytime now,” Bennett said as he took a sip of his bourbon. “He’s plumb off his rocker. If brains were dynamite, he couldn’t blow his own nose.”
“Ah, the chupacabras,” said Miguel. “My mother used to tell me the tales when I was little. Of course, you know my parents were migrant farmers. They took the stories very seriously.”
“Jesus, Miguel, you’re an educated man of science. Don’t tell me you believe in that hogwash.”
“All I know is that there are things in this world that science sometimes can’t explain. Even in this hotel right here. Have you heard of the suicide brides?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“There’s a guest room upstairs in this very hotel, where many, many years ago a young woman on her honeymoon killed herself in the bathroom. Exactly twenty years later, in the same room, the same bathroom, another bride on her honeymoon killed herself as well. After this, the hotel had the room closed up and refused to rent it out. It stayed that way for many years. Then, during a hotel renovation in the late nineties, the room was opened up and used again for guests. Since then, many strange apparitions have been spotted in and around the room.” Miguel paused and knocked back the rest of his tequila in one gulp and stared into his empty glass. “My point is that science can only go so far in explaining the mysterious and miraculous. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I did see an honest-to-goodness miracle once,” Bennett replied.
“Really? What was it?”
“It was when I was younger. I was out duck hunting by myself one day. Sat there for hours without seeing anything fly over. Then, just when I’m about to give up and call it a day, in comes this big, beautiful mallard sweeping across my stand. I raised my trusty old Greenfield side by side, took aim, had him right in my sights and gave him both barrels dead on. You know what happened then?”
“What?”
“A miracle happened. That stone-cold dead duck, deader than a doornail, just kept right on flying out of sight,” Bennett said as he took another sip of bourbon. “A shot-dead duck that could fly. Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he added with a wry smile and a wink.
“As I said, my friend. There are some things we just can’t explain. Don’t be too quick to judge Avery.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Chupacabra
Border Patrol Agents Martin and Diaz had waited below the ridge until their partners arrived by truck and removed the remains of the two men from the desert floor. After collecting the extra supplies and night vision equipment the agents had brought, they loaded up their horses and headed east along the ridgeline, following the vehicle tracks in the dirt left by the men from STRAC-BOM. It didn’t take long to find them. The sound of shotgun fire made locating the bumbling militia relatively easy. Following at a distance to conceal their presence, Agents Martin and Diaz tracked the men’s progress for the rest of the afternoon. Close to sundown, the militia had reached their destination for the evening. The agents secured their horses and took up a vantage point above the campsite and settled in to watch.
“What do you imagine they were shooting at?” asked Agent Diaz.
“Probably their own shadows,” replied Agent Martin. “Better keep our heads down.”
In the campsite below, the men of STRAC-BOM followed General X-Ray’s orders for pitching the camp as he rested in the shade of a rocky outcropping, still feeling the effects of the blow to his head he’d sustained earlier.
“Private Zulu!” the General barked. “I want you to ring our position with punji sticks.”
“I think we got some bungee cords, general,” the confused private replied. “But I don’t think we brought any bungee sticks.”
“Punji sticks, you moron,” the General replied. “Find some sticks about a foot in length, sharpen the ends, drive them into the ground, and conceal their location with brush. If someone approaches our position in the dark, they’ll step on them and their screams will alert us to their position. I won’t have anyone sneaking up on us tonight.”
“Yes, sir, general,” the private replied as he pulled out an ancient Swiss Army knife from his fatigue pocket and wandered into the brush in search of suitable sticks. Private Zulu searched the area around the slowly forming campsite, finding half a dozen promising sticks. From the other side of a pile of rocks, he heard a buzzing sound. Curious, he used one of the sticks he’d gathered and pushed aside the underbrush. Dozens of flies were buzzing and humming as they covered something vaguely dog-shaped in the bushes. The private used the stick to swat away the swarm of flies. Private Zulu’s blood froze as he peered at the hairless animal carcass in the grass. The dead coyote had suffered from a terrible case of mange, causing it to lose all its hair before dying in the desert. Rigor mortis had set in and caused the coyote’s lips to pull back and expose its teeth, making it more menacing in death than in life. The petrified private’s brain screamed at his legs to run, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. Eventually, after puking up his field rations, he was able to regain enough composure to stumble back to the campsite.
“General, we’ve got to get out of here,” the private pleaded. His hands shook so badly he dropped the sticks he was holding.
“Great day in the morning, get a hold of yourself, private!” the General yelled. “You’re shivering like a hound dog crapping a pinecone.”
“We’ve got to abort the mission!”
“Belay that babble, private! Now, what the hell is the matter with you?”
“I found one of those Mexican devil coyotes, sir.”
“Is it alive?”
“No, sir.”
“Then bury it and get my punji sticks in place. Fire Team Leader Charlie,” the General called to the other side of the camp, “get your man under control and help him dispose of whatever he found.”
Private Zulu led his Fire Team Leader to the site where he found the mangy dead coyote.
“Just a coyote,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said as he examined the dead beast’s carcass.
“Like hell it is,” Private Zulu responded. “It’s a vampire coyote—you can tell by the teeth and the smooth skin.”
“You mean a chupacabra?”
“Just like the one we saw last night. The ones those border patrol folks said come out this time of year. You think it was the same one?”
“Nah. Besides, I think they were just pulling your leg.”
“No way, these things are real. Just look at it. Pure evil, I tell you. I think we’re supposed to burn it so it can’t come back to life during a full moon?”
“No way. That’ll just stink up the campsite. I’m surprised you don’t want to keep it. I mean, an actual chupacabra,” the Fire Team Leader said sarcastically. “There must be some kind of reward for one of those.”
“You think?”
“Sure. My cousin Larry once got a guy to pay two hundred dollars for a plaster cast of a Sasquatch footprint. He put an ad up online and he had six phone calls the first day.”
“Your cousin found a Bigfoot print?”
“Hell, no. He faked it. Just needed the money for some deer tags.”
“How much do you think I could get for this?”
“Well, if it is what you say it is, probably a whole lot more than two hundred.”
“You don’t think it can come back to life, do you?”
“This thing?” Fire Team Leader Charlie said as he kicked the stiff animal with the toe of his boot. “Nope. He’s a goner.”
Private Zulu returned to camp and gathered a blue plastic ground cloth and a roll of duct tape before returning to his find. Finding out the dead creature was worth money helped alleviate
his fears as he gingerly rolled the carcass up in the plastic sheet and taped it tightly shut with an entire roll of tape. Hoisting what appeared to be a giant silver bale, he returned to the campsite and stashed his prize on the back of his ATV. With the carcass securely in place, he returned to hunting punji sticks with renewed vigor as he thought of his soon-to-be-claimed fortune.
• • •
It was late afternoon as El Barquero sped toward the city limits of El Paso. He had passed the location where he would spend the night hidden, waiting for the shipment of drugs to be delivered. First, he needed to gather gear and weapons for the evening.
El Barquero had spent almost the entire drive from the rundown house where he’d left Memo’s dead body thinking about the Padre. He knew the Padre was aware of his sideline job stealing from the cartels in the pitch-black cover of the desert night. Why didn’t the Padre have him killed at the farmhouse with those other two men? Could it have been three sets of legs swinging from the rafters of the barn? El Barquero wanted desperately to kill the Padre. Anger seethed in his mind as he squeezed the car’s steering wheel with his crushing grip. No, getting away was the smart thing to do. For some reason, the Padre wanted to toy with him. El Barquero would let the Padre have his fun for now. The Padre was smart and powerful, but he was arrogant. That would be El Barquero’s advantage. The time for revenge would come, but first, one last shipment. It was risky, and El Barquero didn’t like taking unnecessary risks, but he needed this last one. He knew he’d never see the second half of the payment for the National Guard arms delivery, sealed up tight in a large shipping container now making its way slowly across the Gulf of Mexico. This last robbery would have to make do while he disappeared for a short time. He needed resources to fund his getaway, maybe to Central America or maybe to Colombia, before he returned to kill the Padre.
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