“Okay, Mister Taxi. How far away are you?”
“We’re an hour, maybe an hour and a half out,” I said. “Been a lot of road hazards on the way.”
“Are you secure at the moment? My security said there’s been an explosion on Highway 90. Something about the road blowing up.”
“We’re good for now,” I said. “Where do I take the witness?”
“Are you armed?” he said.
“Affirmative.” I paused. “We’re also going to be on a BOLO for our run out of Dallas. Take too long to explain why right now.”
It seemed like a lifetime ago, but the escape from the Cheyenne Apartments and everything that had led up to that point had generated a lot of carnage, enough to have warranted at the very least a “be on the lookout” notification for all law enforcement statewide. I wanted to deliver the witness safely, but I didn’t want to get arrested in the process. This was of course on top of the arrest warrant that had been or was about to be issued in the matter of the two dead men at the warehouse.
“Don’t know anything about that,” he said. “This deal comes with a get-out-of-jail free card.”
A pause long enough that I thought the connection had been broken. Voices in the background. The clink of silverware.
Then the attorney: “I’ll be at the courthouse in an hour. My office is on the ground floor.”
“What’s the address?”
“It’s the only courthouse in town. Hope you’re not followed. I’ve got a team of Marshals and that’s it.”
“What happened to the squad of Marines?” I looked in the back at Eva.
“That was too many uniforms, too close to the border.” He sighed. “Didn’t play well with the politicos.”
I ended the call. Looked at Piper.
“There’s not enough security,” I said. “Just some Marshals.”
She shook her head and accelerated.
- CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE -
I flipped down the sun visor, watched the outskirts of Marfa appear in the distance. A small blip amid the sand and cactus, the mountains looming in the distance.
The town was tiny, population a little over 2,200 according to the city limit sign.
It had originally been a railroad stop, as well as the county seat for Presidio County. But, with the mountain backdrop and the breathtaking but sparse scenery of the Big Bend region, the town had reinvented itself as an arts colony and managed to hang on to some degree of habitation, even after the demise of the rail system as a viable method for moving people and goods.
The houses were colonial style, stucco with pitched tin roofs, and adobe like in New Mexico.
There were two main streets, one of which was the highway we came in on.
Both were wide and empty and only a few blocks long, dominated by polar opposites: art galleries and a couple of upscale-looking restaurants interspersed with the kind of places you’d expect to find in a town with a population in the low four figures—feed stores, a tiny newspaper office, an even tinier city hall.
Initial impression: Marfa looked like a very small cross between Austin and Santa Fe.
A few blocks north of where we’d turn off the highway lay the courthouse, a three-story Victorian building with pale pink walls and white trim.
The structure was across the street from the Paisano Hotel, the headquarters for the cast and crew of Giant when the film had been shot in the area more than sixty years before.
“He was at lunch,” I said. “Heard silverware.”
“Everything’s closed.” Piper slowed and stopped by a narrow storefront housing a restaurant that looked remarkably upscale for such a small town.
The sign on the window read OPEN THURSDAY THROUGH SATURDAY. It was now Wednesday, early afternoon.
Very little traffic on the street, a few people walking, a couple of pickups slowly driving along.
“The hotel is open.” I pointed to the cars parked in front. “Make the block.”
Piper turned down a side street.
The courtyard for the Paisano was visible behind a wrought-iron gate and an adobe wall. Dining tables were scattered around a fountain, several groups of people eating lunch.
Two gray Suburbans were parked side by side a few feet down from the gate. One had blue government plates. The other had Louisiana tags.
“Long way from home.” Piper kept driving.
“The US Marshals,” I said. “Their Special Operation Group is based north of Lake Charles.”
“Special what?” Eva spoke for the first time in a long while.
“Kind of like FedEx.” Piper slowed for a cross street. “When something absolutely positively can’t die, they call in the Special Operation Group.”
“It’s the Marshals’ version of a SWAT team.” I looked in the back. “After we make the delivery I’m gonna see if they’ll help me look for my dad.”
Eva nodded, a blank expression on her face.
“That means they’re not contractors,” I said. “And they’re probably not on the take either.”
“One bit of good news.” Piper accelerated around a corner and headed toward the courthouse. “Let’s do this.”
“Are you sure we haven’t been followed?” Eva leaned forward, then peered out the rear.
I ignored her. If we’d been followed, they would have hit by now. We’d have certainly seen them coming from a long way off. Whoever had been after us in the desert appeared to be out of the game for the moment.
A few moments later, we arrived at our destination. The sense of relief I was hoping for failed to materialize. I wondered if it ever would.
The building appeared as desolate as the rest of the town. Apparently, this courthouse didn’t see much activity during the typical workday.
Piper parked in the front, a half dozen spaces from a Presidio County squad car. Other than that, no vehicles were present.
I shifted in my seat and jammed a couple of fresh magazines in the back of my waistband. Then I fastened my badge to my belt so it was clearly visible.
“We just walk in?” Eva said. “Shouldn’t one of you go ahead of me?”
“I’ll go first.” I opened the door.
“I’m scared.” Eva got out.
“Yeah, us, too.” Piper exited the SUV and looked down the road.
I shut my door and scanned the area, waiting while the two women grouped at the front of the Porsche.
I started to move toward the front when Eva called out to me softly.
“Your father.” She paused. “I am sorry he has gotten mixed up in this.”
I didn’t reply. Pushed any emotions from my head. Then I nodded once, acknowledging her statement.
To the south of us lay the town’s main street, the minuscule commercial district where we’d just been. On the north and east sides of the courthouse were homes with wide front porches and newly planted flower beds. On the west side was a church. Everything was clean and freshly painted, lawns mowed, a West Texas slice of Norman Rockwell’s America.
Piper stood by the front of the SUV. She attached a badge to her belt and kept the stubby rifle pressed against her side, muzzle down, hanging off one shoulder. Eva was beside her. After a few moments, Piper nodded at me.
I trotted toward the entrance, a large set of double-paned glass doors. Stepped inside.
The ground floor of the Presidio County Courthouse smelled like a Baptist church. Stale coffee, musty books. The ceilings were high, twelve or fifteen feet, the way things were built in the time before central air. The floor was worn marble that had been polished to a high gleam; the plaster walls were the color of bone.
A woman in her fifties, beehive hairdo and cat’s-eye glasses, was walking by the stairs, a file in one hand. She stopped and stared, spending a fair amount of time on the blood in my hair and on my shirt before noticing the badge.
“Where’s the US attorney’s office?” I said.
She gulped, pointed to a door across from the stairwell. Then she scurrie
d around the corner, looking over her shoulder.
I stuck my head outside. Whistled. Piper and Eva trotted up the sidewalk. When they were about midway, I headed to the office the woman had indicated.
The US attorney’s workspace was a large, rectangular room that looked like an English gentlemen’s club as imagined by John Wayne. A zebra-skin rug on the floor and a couple of deer mounts on the wall. Bookcases made from dark-stained wood, filled with law volumes. An overstuffed leather sofa and pair of matching easy chairs served as a sitting area opposite an ornately carved partners desk littered with files and papers, a computer and phone on one side.
On the far wall was a narrow door, closed.
A quick whistle from outside, my partner’s signal.
I strode back to the entrance. Piper and Eva stood in the hallway. I motioned them inside and then shut the door.
“This is secure?” Piper looked around. “Any old numbnut could walk in here.”
Eva moved to the desk, arms crossed. She looked around the room nervously.
Noise from the other side of the room. A toilet flushing.
Piper and I split apart, weapons up.
The door opened and a man in his forties stepped into the room, drying his hands on a paper towel. He wore a dark suit and a red-striped tie.
He smiled, impossibly perfect, blindingly white teeth in a jaw that didn’t quite line up correctly, one side off kilter just a tad.
“Jon Cantrell.” He tossed the paper towel in a trash can by the desk. “Been a long time.”
Indeed. The last time I’d seen this man, his teeth had been scattered on the floor of the storeroom at the Pussycat Lounge. Two Dallas police officers had been pulling a bloody baton from my grip, getting ready to slap the bracelets on me, a fellow officer at the time, as a child with severely burned legs wailed in the background.
“Hollis.” I gulped. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting on you.” He turned as the door leading to the hallway opened.
- CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO -
I watched as the US Attorney swept into the office.
Two men in khaki utility pants and matching shirts, holsters strapped to their thighs, trailed in his wake. The men wore five-star badges and ball caps emblazoned with the words “US Marshal.”
The attorney wore a glen plaid suit with a bolo-style tie, black cowboy boots polished to a high gleam, and a gold pistol on his waist.
The weapon was visible because he made a great production of placing his hands on his hips, coattails pressed back.
The two marshals moved to either side of the door, both eyeing our badges as well as our disheveled condition.
Eva stared at the pistol and gasped.
“You’re early.” The US Attorney glanced at her for a moment, took in Piper and her badge, and then stopped on me. “Thought you told me an hour and a half.”
“We caught a couple of lights.” I shrugged.
“You’ve met our resident Fed?” The attorney pointed to Hollis.
I nodded.
“We’re old friends.” Hollis touched the part of his jaw that didn’t line up properly.
“And this must be the witness that’s gonna nail this case in the grand jury.” The attorney took a step toward Eva, who took a step away.
Eva pointed to the pistol. “Why do you have that gun?”
“This is a spoil of war.” He pulled the weapon from his holster. “Took it off our suspect.”
The pistol was a Colt Government model, the 1911A1. It had been plated in gold, elaborate engraving along the frame. The grips were fashioned from mother-of-pearl.
“Don’t worry, Miz Ramirez.” He holstered the gun. “I’m not gonna shoot anybody. Unless they need it of course.” He laughed at his own non-joke.
“The narcos carry guns like that,” Eva said.
“And now I do.” The attorney cocked his head. “You gotta problem with that?”
“It took me by surprise, that is all.”
A tense silence filled the room.
“Let’s have a quick debrief.” Hollis pointed toward the east. “There’s a dead deputy two counties away, and the conspiracy websites are jabbering about a Chinook helicopter taking people to the FEMA camps or some shit.”
“What are you talking about?” Eva said.
“I wasn’t speaking to you.” Hollis continued to look into my eyes. “Then there’s the dance hall in East Jesus that burned down next door to a hotel full of cartel hitmen.”
“Sicarios?” I looked aghast. “On this side of the border?”
“Killed with a DEA-issued forty caliber submachine gun.” He continued. “And a dead sheriff, too.”
“What’s your function here?” I said. “I missed that newsletter.”
“I represent Paynelowe Industries. I am also a national security liaison.” He hesitated for a beat. “From the White House.”
Piper sighed loudly.
“So what did happen in the desert?” Hollis said.
“Keith McCluskey is what happened,” I said. “I believe he works for your company.”
“Fuck a duck.” The US Attorney kicked the side of his desk. “Him again?”
My suspicions were confirmed. McCluskey was off the reservation, functioning without any mandate from his superiors or the US government. They probably wanted him stopped almost as bad as they wanted Eva to testify.
“Ouch.” Hollis shook his head. “Keith McCluskey. That’s a situation right there.”
“What do you mean?” Piper asked.
“Paynelowe compartmentalized too much,” he said. “Gave section heads like McCluskey too much power. Too many dollars.”
“You don’t know where he is, do you?” I tried to contain my surprise. “No clue what he’s up to.”
“He’s gone native, as they say.” Hollis curled a lip. “Operating without any authorization.”
“Just a DEA badge and a whole lot of firepower.” I whistled softly.
“We have contingency plans for this type of event,” Hollis said. “We’ll find him.”
“He’s in a big-ass helicopter,” Piper said. “Last we heard, anyway.”
“That was him?” Hollis frowned.
“So much for your contingency plans.” I explained briefly. “And at some point, he’s coming here.”
Nobody spoke. One of the Marshals left for a moment and then returned.
Finally, the US Attorney said, “Why here?”
Piper and I looked at Eva.
She shrugged.
“It appears that Keith McCluskey is in love,” I said. “With the witness.”
“Which reminds me.” Piper rubbed her thumb and index finger together. “When do we get paid?”
- CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE -
“Print your name.” The US Attorney pointed to the paper. “Then your John Hancock and date.”
The document read that whoever signed on the dotted line attested to their true identity and that Eva Ramirez was a witness in the matter of the United States versus Lazaro Morales. The attorney handed a similar document to Piper.
We filled them out and signed.
The attorney scooped up the papers, scanned them both. “As of this moment, Eva Ramirez is in the custody of the US government.”
“Do we get a check or cash?” Piper asked.
“Not my department.” He nodded and snapped his fingers.
The two Marshals pulled their weapons and aimed at us.
I was beyond exhausted. I was drained, empty of anything, a null set. Still, I started to reach for my gun only to stop, realizing the futility. They had the drop on both of us.
“For the duration of this trial you two are material witnesses,” the attorney said. “Hostile, of course.”
The Marshals disarmed and restrained us in a matter of seconds.
I swore and struggled against the cuffs. Piper kicked at one of the men but missed.
“I’ll take them to the holding area.” Hollis stepped forw
ard. “Jon and I could use a little visit.”
My stomach clenched. Handcuffed, unarmed. The last thing I needed was a visit with the man whose teeth I had knocked out years before.
Hollis grabbed my elbow in one hand, Piper’s in the other. He thrust us toward the hallway.
Eva’s face was blank. She watched us go but didn’t speak. The door shut.
“That witness is a hot little number.” Hollis led us toward the stairs. He spoke to me. “You get a taste of that?”
The beehived clerk with the cat’s-eye glasses was walking by again. She gasped and stepped back.
“Dude, your face sure is messed up,” Piper said. “If my dog looked like you, I’d shave his butt and teach him to walk backwards.”
“A classy chick.” Hollis chuckled.
He pushed us downstairs to a basement that smelled of mildew and damp paper. A hallway led to a secure room with cinder block walls and a bank of TV monitors hanging from the ceiling.
There were two iron doors, one we came in, the other leading to the holding area.
Another pair of Marshals and a county deputy were in the room. The deputy sat behind a desk.
Hollis nodded, and the deputy unlocked the entrance to the cells. We stepped inside, and the metal barrier clanged shut. A short hallway led to an open area with two holding pens.
This section of the courthouse, maybe half of the basement, had obviously not been designed as a jail. A walkway ran in front of a long row of bars that were at an odd angle to the exterior walls. Another set of bars ran perpendicular to the first, dividing the area into two large but uneven sections, each roughly the size of a large suburban living room. Both sides had several beds and what must have been a bathroom behind a closed door in the corner.
The unit on the right was smaller and appeared to be occupied. The bed was rumpled. Clothes and pizza boxes lay on the floor.
The one on the left was clearly vacant. Hollis opened the door on that side, and shoved us in. Then he locked it.
“Turn around.” He held up handcuff keys.
We did, and he removed the bracelets.
This was not going as expected. No beat down. No romantic encounters with a cattle prod.
The Contractors Page 30