John and Julio talked of something completely alien to Maria: tales of Marine Corps basic training and its hard-core drill sergeants.
They were debating whether the sergeants had softened in the generation between the time Julio went through in the late 1960s and when John went through in 2006.
“Back when I went through, they were preparing us for Vietnam,” Julio maintained. “They were toughening us up, making us into men.
“By the time you went into the Corps, the DIs had gone soft. They were wiping your noses for you and tucking you into bed at night. Singing lullabies to you until you drifted off to sleep.”
John laughed it off.
It wasn’t true.
The Corps still maintained their tough standards, and their reputation as the toughest boot camp in all the armed forces.
John waxed nostalgic at his basic training memories. It was rough at the time, but it had indeed toughened him up and made a man of him. And it gave him some of the tools he later needed to survive battles in Iraq and Afghanistan.
He didn’t have a clue whether the Corps survived the blackouts. Most parts of the federal government had shut down completely.
And that was okay, for in his mind most parts of the federal government were worthless even before the blackouts.
But he couldn’t bear to think his beloved Marine Corps might not have survived.
He hoped they were still around, still helping out, still protecting his country.
Still the best and toughest of all the armed services.
It was Julio’s turn in line.
McMillan asked him if he’d brought his identification card.
“Well hell yes, you runny-nosed snot. You think I’d walk all the way over here just so you could turn me away and not give me my food? You must be a special kind of stupid, aren’t you?”
“Um…”
Loco Julio was back, and McMillan didn’t quite know how to respond to him.
It occurred to John that Julio used his crazy persona to place a wall between himself and most of those around him. He knew that most strangers would steer clear of him if they thought him to be unstable.
And that was fine with Julio.
For he was a rather solitary guy by nature anyway.
John had been lucky in that he saw a side of the man most others didn’t see.
He saw the softer side of Julio… the human side.
And he chuckled at the sight of McMillan’s face as the old man dealt him a browbeating.
-31-
It was John’s turn at the table.
He pretended not to know McMillan. Didn’t ask how he was doing, didn’t ask him about his wife and young son.
He pretended he’d never laid eyes upon the man before.
McMillan, working undercover in civilian clothing, followed the deputy chief’s lead.
“Good afternoon,” McMillan said.
It was exactly the same greeting he’d offered to everyone else in the line, both before and after John Castro.
“Good afternoon,” John responded in return.
“Do you have photo ID?”
“Yes.”
As he handed over his driver’s license John couldn’t help but poke fun at his young officer about the whole Julio encounter.
“Hey, what was the problem with that little guy ahead of me? Why was he yelling at you?”
McMillan looked behind him to make sure Julio was out of earshot.
Julio and Maria were now standing in a different line to get their food.
“I don’t know,” McMillan whispered. “I think the guy’s nuts. I’d stay far away from him if I were you.”
John smiled at how well Julio’s alter-ego was working to keep others at arm’s length.
McMillan scanned an alphabetical list of names and saw that John’s name wasn’t on it.
“Have you been here before, sir?”
“No, I haven’t. How does this thing work?”
“Every day they update the list of names. If you’re on the list, I just check you off to show you’ve been through the line.
“That way you can’t come through a second time.
“Since this is your first time through I’ll add you to the bottom of the list and check you off.”
“Where do I go from here?”
“Go over to that next line. A nun will hand you a container with your meal. Keep moving down the line, and another nun will hand you two bottles of drinking water.
“It’ll taste a little funny because it’s river water. But it’s been filtered and boiled and it’s safe to drink.
“There are portable confessionals near the south gazebo if you want to say confession today.
“If you’re married and you’re interested in adopting any children you can speak to one of the nuns on the grounds. Otherwise the grounds are off-limits to visitors. Any questions?”
“Um… no. Thank you.”
McMillan handed his ID back and John moved on. The young man behind him stepped up to the table to take his place, and John stood in the food line.
He ate in the shade of a gazebo with Julio and Maria.
“This place has changed so much since I was a little girl,” Maria told him.
“Did you know there was once a carousel on this very spot?”
“I didn’t know that,” John replied. “I do remember the paddle boats on the river, though.”
“Oh, I loved those paddleboats,” she responded. “There was a carnival and a miniature golf course where the convention center now stands. It was there for many years. Quite a fun place to be.”
While the two conversed, Julio just grumbled and gave harsh stares to strangers happening by and looking for a place to sit.
John didn’t take offense to Julio’s demeanor.
He knew his friend was in guard-dog mode, working hard to insulate himself and his wife from strangers who might appear friendly at first, then try to do them harm later.
He wondered why the couple had trusted him so early on.
He decided it was a toss-up. Either his dynamic personality or his devastatingly handsome good looks.
More likely a combination of both.
When he was halfway through his meal he noticed there was no longer a line at the tiny table where McMillan was checking IDs.
He excused himself and took the opportunity to walk over to the table.
“Stand up and look up and down the street,” John told him. “Point every once in a while. Pretend you’re giving me directions.”
The young officer stood from his chair and did what he was told, but he was curious.
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“Because I’ve been told I look like a cop. If any bad guys in the crowd see us talking they might think you are too. I’d rather them not make you until your job here is finished.”
“Oh. Good idea.”
“Have you made any progress?”
“Yes. We have a list of six men, all young with tattoos. Now I know I shouldn’t profile people, and that not all young people with tattoos are up to no good. I’m young and have tattoos too…”
“So why do you suspect these guys?”
“Because they’re prison tattoos. Or in a couple of cases gang tattoos.”
“I’m glad you know the difference. What else you got?”
“All six of them came onto our radar because they’re carrying IDs of old people. Some say they’re relatives. Others say they’re helping out church groups or retirement homes.”
“And they’re picking up extra meals for the old people?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What else?”
“We’ve compiled a list of the names of the elderly and infirm they claim to be picking up meals for. And their addresses as well. When our job here is done we’ll go visit each of the addresses to make sure they’re on the up and up.”
“Good. Work here a couple more days so your list is complete. Just in case any other suspects
show up. When you check out the addresses, go together with Officer Thomas. These guys, if they’re doing what I think they’re doing, are dangerous.”
“Yes, sir. If we find evidence against them, what do we charge them with? I checked, and there’s no statute against taking more than your share of food from a charity.”
“There is if you kill people to get their share. If you find evidence of that charge them with capital murder.”
-32-
It took a lot of work to get a vehicle running these days. One not only had to know how to do it, they had to find enough undamaged parts to swap out with the old ones.
There were, as a result, precious few vehicles on the road.
The Interstate 10, as it winds through the center of Texas, once hosted thousands of travelers on any given day, and almost twice that many on holiday weekends.
Most drove right past the exit for Junction and Menard, except for folks who lived in one of the small towns.
These days the I-10 was lucky to handle twenty vehicles a day.
And the number of them taking the ramp for Highway 83 toward Junction could be counted on one hand.
Jeff knew there was precious little chance of anyone happening upon him as he captured the little sheriff’s deputy. He set his plan in motion having full confidence he’d get away with the kidnapping, as he had many times in the past.
It was almost dark when he set up his stake-out, just past a McDonald’s where hungry travelers once filled up on long road trips.
It was deserted now, of course, and that was a bad thing.
For as he rode slowly past the restaurant on his horse he thought he could still smell the mouth-watering smell of hamburgers sizzling on the grill.
The horse was named Shane. He’d taken it from the old woman he’d killed on the outskirts of Kerrville. Not the young one. The old woman he’d painted.
It was the last piece of information she’d give him before he killed her.
“I saw your horse in the barn. I think I’ll eat him after you’re dead. Have you ever had horse steak?
“Most people turn their nose up at the thought, but it’s actually pretty good.”
By that time she’d cried all the tears from her eyes. She was severely dehydrated and could no longer cry.
Or speak either, for that matter.
By that time she’d given up and accepted she was living the last minutes of her life.
She got a spark of fire in her eyes, though, when he mentioned eating her horse.
She found just enough defiance left in her to squeak out, in a rough hoarse voice, “You leave Shane alone!”
They were the last words she’d ever speak, to him or to anyone else.
Shane. It wasn’t a name he’d have chosen.
He was more traditional in that sense.
He’d have chosen Trigger, or Silver, or Buddy.
But he had to admit, Shane was a good horse. He was strong and handled commands well. He could climb up damn near any steep hill the Kerrville area had to challenge him with, and he didn’t spook when riding through heavy brush like some horses did.
Most of all Shane didn’t seem to mind the military duffle bag Jeff tied to the back of the saddle.
Many people these days tied a bedroll or a sleeping bag behind the rider.
But this was different. This bag was bulky and heavy and oddly shaped.
It was made of canvas and colored olive drab green. The letters “US” adorned one side. It was the bag issued to Army recruits when they walked through the gates of basic training and signed over their lives to the federal government.
But not Jeff.
Jeff never served his country.
He never applied, because he never had any interest in doing anything selfless or heroic.
And that was fine, because they’d have rejected him anyway.
No, this wasn’t his bag. He’d picked it up at a garage sale three years before.
It was just the right size for carrying his killing tools: his chainsaw, his cutting torch, and his cans of ether. His knives and machete and rope and duct tape.
Everything he needed, really, to set up his little torture shop wherever he pleased.
Everything he needed to make his victims suffer. To do his bidding sexually.
To beg him for their lives.
He never did.
Let them live, that is.
And it wasn’t just because he was afraid they’d go to the police, though that was part of it.
Mostly it was because he liked killing way too much.
Oh, he’d toy with them.
He’d make bargains with them: “If you do this and that to me I’ll let you loose.”
Or, “I know you have gold and silver hidden somewhere. If you tell me where it is and don’t make me search for it, I’ll release you unharmed.”
But he never made such promises with any intent to fulfill them.
He didn’t feel bad about that, and why should he?
The way he saw it, he was a mass murderer.
It shouldn’t be a stretch for anyone that he might be a liar as well.
He didn’t know anything about the female deputy, other than she was young, pretty and knew what he looked like.
He’d take her alive so he could toy with her. He’d have his way with her in a dozen different ways before he started the torture.
And once the torture started it would end in her death.
It always did.
He wasn’t a man who’d stop and change course. Who’d torture his victims a little bit and then start to feel sorry for them.
And certainly not a killer who might all of a sudden feel compassion and turn his victims loose.
Oh, hell no. He’d heard about those kinds of killers. They were bush league. Suckers and saps.
Sara didn’t know it yet. But as far as Jeff Barnett was concerned she had only a few more days to live.
-33-
Jeff waited until it was fully dark to step off his horse and tie it to a mile marker sign.
He walked onto the roadway and placed the roofing nails across three quarters of the northbound lane, three inches apart.
Her right front tire would take two nails.
The rear tire, if she was going in a straight line, might get lucky and take none.
If her tires weren’t lined up perfectly, though, the rear tire would take at least one.
He chose roofing nails because the large heads would serve as a steady base. They’d stand up straight, their points waving at the sky above, and the wide heads would keep them from toppling over.
Also, they were galvanized steel and exactly the same color as the roadway.
They were the perfect choice for flattening the tires of the women he stalked, and he’d used them several times in the past.
They’d always worked perfectly.
Two nails in the front tire would do the trick quite nicely. Actually, one would flatten the tire within a mile or so. And that was good enough.
The second was merely an insurance policy.
Of course, with two holes the air would drain twice as fast.
He mounted up and rode Shane three quarters of a mile north along the shoulder of the road.
Then he dismounted again and tied the big horse to a mesquite branch a hundred yards off the highway.
He wanted it to be far enough away so that the deputy’s headlights didn’t catch his eyes if he were looking in the right direction and give her a hint something was not right.
He took the duffle bag off the horse and rifled through it, all the while listening for the sound of a pickup driving by.
He didn’t need everything from the bag.
Just a can of ether, a rag, and a roll of duct tape.
He’d have plenty of time to use the rest of his toys later.
He shoved the ether in one pocket, the rag in another, and put the duct tape in his trouser leg pocket.
Then he took a length of rope abou
t twelve feet long, tossed it at the horse’s feet, and put the duffel bag aside.
A couple of minutes later he was in position, hiding in the heavy brush just off the shoulder of the road, with an unhindered view of the highway to the south of him for a mile or so.
Back in Kerrville Sara and Charlie were finishing up their second day of canvassing.
It had been a very long and very trying day.
It turned out that Mark wasn’t the only false lead they’d been given.
Another man swore their suspect’s name was Ed Hance. That the two once worked together.
And that Mr. Hance lived on the other side of Kerrville, several miles away.
They couldn’t not run down the lead.
They couldn’t just ignore it.
For one thing, it was the most promising lead they’d had so far. The witness was adamant Ed Hance was their man. Even said he’d bet money on it.
Not that money meant anything anymore.
But still…
Yes, it was a long way away. And yes, it would take substantial time away from their canvassing efforts.
But the whole purpose of canvassing the neighborhood was to find leads. And this was a lead. So running it down was part of their assignment.
Besides, if they waited to run down the lead, and if somebody else died because of it, Sara and Charlie would be complicit.
Maybe not legally, but morally for sure.
So they went to the other side of Kerrville, only to find out Ed Hance had been killed two months before.
“He was gunned down while he walked down the street with a case of water,” the next door neighbor told them. “The bastards took nothing but his life, and the water. I guess that’s the value of a human life these days… twenty-four bottles of drinking water.”
Charlie was just a bit skeptical. This could be one of their suspect’s accomplices, after all.
Or perhaps a family member.
“Who are you to him, if you don’t mind me asking?”
The man reached into his pocket and produced his wallet.
That surprised Charlie, since very few people saw a need to carry a wallet anymore.
It turned out this wasn’t just any citizen.
This was Charles Howe, a respected member of the city council and an ordained minister.
A Troubling Turn of Events Page 11
