“Sooo,” I draw the word out while she’s typing. “Care to tell me what you did to get saddled with this babysitting job? Seems holding my hand could easily be foisted off on one of the juniors? Or maybe a janitor.”
She glances up for a second, fingers pausing. Then her eyes flick back to the screen as she continues, finishing whatever it is she started. Once she’s done, she reaches to a picture frame sitting on her desk, and turns it to face me. Behind the glass is a close-up of two women, both laughing, heads pressed together, one turned quarter profile as if beginning to kiss the other.
I don’t recognize one, but the other is easy. It’s Agent Rodriguez.
“My wife.” She says nothing further, and I look from her to the picture and then back. Expression blank, she turns the photo around to face her as it was a moment ago.
We sit in silence until I clear my throat. “I see.”
“Do you?”
“Well… no.” I shake my head, because it’s true, but I understand the essence of it. “Not entirely. But I’ve been around long enough that I can connect the dots.” I purse my lips, and take in her sleek, fancy, glass-windowed office and realize it’s as much a cell as mine back in LA is. Just prettier. “I suppose it’s… difficult here.”
“More so than in LA?” She gives me a look. “I would imagine, but you tell me.”
I nod my head. “I’m sure it is.”
“Well, then, there you go.” She leans back in her chair and lets out a long sigh. “I didn’t do myself any favors bucking command with the Davidians. After that, getting married just put the screws to my career even further.”
I sit up a little straighter. Davidians? I’m pretty sure I know what that refers to.
“You were on the Waco operation?”
“Yep.” She pulls the syllable out in a way that is defeat, bitterness, and sadness combined.
“What happened?” It’s a question I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself. In the ranks, the siege at Waco is something that people talk about in the same tones that first responders speak of the Twin Towers, or ship captains of the Exxon Valdez.
She sighs, and the story she tells is a familiar one. Egos colliding with reality and dead bodies in the wake. Carmen trying to advise a superior against an ill-thought-out plan, and paying the price in the end when it all went south.
“Anyways… we both know how this story ends, right? The guys in charge made sure my file got some serious black marks thrown in it before they took the long walk into the wilderness. And you know as well as I do that once you get a rep, you don’t come clean of it easily. Especially a rep connected with something like Waco.” She leans back in her chair. “You add all that together with certain non-work-related choices, and…”
I nod, and she gives me a grim smile.
“The agency doesn’t have ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ but…” She spreads her hands out in front of her, one pointed directly at the picture that now faces away from me, and she doesn’t need to say another word.
“So,” she adds, breaking the silence that had settled over us.
“So.”
Rodriguez shifts in her chair, folding her hands to rest on the desk. “What’s your game plan here, Mr. Jones? Are you just here to ‘fill in some checkboxes and file a halfway decent report?’ Or is there something more to your visit you want to accomplish?”
There’s no point in lying. Agent Rodriguez is one of the good ones. I like her, and I don’t even need to know the rest of her story. She’s spelled out enough for me to draw my own conclusions.
“Nope. Your director pretty much nailed it. I just want to run up to Stockdale, talk to the sheriff there, maybe drive around a bit, make a nice clean report, and then get the hell out of your hair.” I give her a tight, apologetic smile. “You and I both know I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Senator Harris, and I’m just an errand boy sent running around until this whole thing blows over. Or the budget appropriations are approved for the next fiscal year. Whichever comes first.”
Rodriguez nods solemnly. “Young girl?”
She’s seen the file. She knows.
“Yep,” I reply with a clipped pop of my lips.
“Always is.” She stops and turns her head to stare out one of the mirrored glass windows that look out over the city center of Amarillo. “No way of knowing who it was. Meth heads. Drug runners. Shit. Maybe it was even some rando passing through. Who. Fucking. Knows.” She turns to look at me with bleak eyes. “But she’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Yep. Number sixty-eight thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine.”
Her eyes narrow, and then she nods. “What do you give it?”
“Five years. Ten max.”
“Out here? The dirt and grass of West Texas can hide a lot of secrets, Agent Jones. Don’t let the appearance of wide-open spaces and nothingness fool you. Secrets can stay hidden here for a long, long time, and when they are revealed, you’ll wonder how you could have ever missed it.” She stretches, arms out, back curving away from her chair. “Call it twelve with some side money on eight, and you’ll get some action.”
“I’m not a betting man.”
She grins. “Then you’re in the right business.”
Sixteen
Mason
The trip from Amarillo to Stockdale is two hours. Carmen — Rodriguez has me calling her that before we’ve left the city limits — lists off the towns, and it’s like a slice of rural Americana. “Bushland to Vega and then we’ll turn north to Tacosa, past Boys Ranch, up through Channing, Hartley, Dalhart, and then Stockdale.”
The A/C whooshes softly, and we talk while she drives. The more she speaks, the more I realize what a wasted asset she is, which is so fucking typical of the agency, and the government in general.
“Where are you from, originally?” I ask, because the slight twang on some of her words has caught my ear.
She grins. “My voice doesn’t give me away?”
“Well… you do have a certain lilt. But, hell, I’m from California. That could mean anything.”
“Ha!” Her laughter is bright, genuine. “Well, now you’ve stumbled onto another reason why Whitmann sent me with you.” She flashes me a grin. “I’m a native Texan. Born and raised.”
“Really?” I cock my head, smiling inwardly because I was right.
“Yep. I was born in Dumas. Lived in Cactus for a time, and then up in Stratford when my daddy got hired on by the windfarm people.” She glances out the window at the flat, tan country slipping by the gray ribbon we’re on. “Where we’re going is my country. Mi gente. My people.” She shoots me another look. “Pareces un gringo, pero eres de California. ¿Hablas la lengua materna?”
I grin back at her. “Not a fucking clue. Umm… uno cerveza, por favor. Alto!”
She laughs again, and it is a joy to hear.
“Yeah, you’re a gringo.” Carmen gives me a shit-eating grin, and I can’t help but return the same.
“So, you know this country?”
“I do.”
“Anything worthwhile you want to fill me in about it?”
Her face goes serious, and for a moment she’s lost in thought. “There are three things you need to keep in mind about people in West Texas. Folks here are very private, and they believe in two things: God and football. And on any given day, not necessarily in that order.”
“Isn’t that a bit of a cliché?” I ask, my mouth quirked into a half-smile.
She looks over at me soberly. “Not where we’re going, Mason.” Her eyes turn back to the freeway, her expression never changing. “You’ll see.”
We continue, passing pick-up trucks and semis with tarp-topped trailers. I look over at Carmen, and she’s lost in thought. “So, you grew up here.”
“Yep.”
“Must have been hard. You don’t seem the football or God type.”
She shoots me a quick glance, her mouth a slash of dismay. “While I’ll agree with you about the God part, you
disappoint me, Mason.”
“Why’s that?”
“Pretty sexist thing to say.” She’s got her eyes back on the road, lips thin. “Thinking I might not enjoy football.”
I nod. She’s right. I give a slight shrug. “Fair enough. Mea culpa.”
“I never played, mind you, because girls don’t play football in Texas. Least when I was growing up. But I loved the game. Loved watching it with my dad. Being in the stands on a Friday night, huddled up with him, screaming for whatever local team was ours at the time. Saturday college games, Texas Tech, A&M, UT. Sunday Dallas NFL games, or any other team if they weren’t playing.” She glances over at me. “Football is pageantry, Mason. People think every girl wants to be in a Miss America pageant, or a ballerina… for me, football is both those things. It is spectacle and cheering crowds watching highly skilled, well-trained men perform an intricate dance on a hundred yards of grass stage for four quarters.”
“Okay.” I chuckle, grinning at the imagery. “If you say so.”
“I do. I love football. I love everything about it. I loved it then, and I love it now. And you’d be surprised how well that has served me out here.”
“Fair enough,” I agree, and we drive on, passing through several more towns that have 25mph speed limits through downtowns that are four blocks long, bracketed at each end by rows of neat little houses with tidy trimmed lawns. It’s all so Norman Rockwell I begin to think it’s a set-up. When we pass through Dalhart, I see the sign on the edge of town — ‘Stockdale - 15.’
I point at the sign. “Almost there.”
“Yep.” The Suburban starts to pick up speed. “Sherriff’s first?”
“I think so.”
We slip into Stockdale just past one. It, like the other towns we’ve passed through before, looks as if it were punched from the same cookie-cutter pattern. There is a single blinking red light strung over the crossroads dead center of town, and Carmen makes a right and heads down the side street until she pulls up in front of a low-slung cinderblock building. The two white sheriff’s vehicles outside of the building give away its purpose before the plain metal letters attached to the front. DALLAM CO. SHERIFF’S OFFICE. Carmen pulls the Suburban into one of the adjacent parking spaces, and we climb out, stretching after the drive.
“Let’s get this over with,” I grumble as my back pops, and we head up the short steps. Inside there is a lobby with some worn, utilitarian chairs lined along the inside of the front wall, facing a counter with a young woman seated behind it. Her mouth works as she eats her lunch, studying something on a computer screen facing her. When we enter she looks up, glancing back and forth between the two of us.
“Afternoon. How can I help you folks?” Her voice is pleasant, blandly professional, polite.
“Afternoon.” I step to the counter, smiling. “I’m Agent Jones, Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Agent Rodriguez.” I motion to Carmen, who stands beside me. “We’re here to see Sheriff Braddock.”
“Ah, right. Sheriff mentioned you might be coming. Hold on a sec.” She reaches down, picks up a handset, and a second later she smiles a bit. “Sheriff, you’ve got two FBI agents out here in the waiting area for you.” There is a momentary pause, and then her head bobs. “Yes, sir. I’ll send them back.”
“Go on ahead through that door over there.” She sets the phone back into its cradle, smiling. “Sheriff’ll be inside. Can’t miss him.”
I shoot a glance at Carmen, and then we head through the doorway into a room with several desks and an office sectioned off at one end. There are two men inside, the younger of the two standing at one of the desks. The other is a man a few years older than me, standing in front of the office door, hands hanging loosely at his sides. I move toward him as Carmen follows, and when I get close enough I extend my hand.
“Sheriff Braddock? Agent Jones, FBI.”
He reaches for my hand, a genial smile creasing a face that’s seen more than its share of hundred-degree days. “Pleasure to meet you, Agent. Welcome to Dallam County.”
I catch his eyes flicking toward Carmen, and when we release hands, I motion toward her. “This is my associate out of our Amarillo station. Agent Rodriguez.”
She steps to my side, pushing her hand forward.
“Afternoon, ma’am.” Braddock's voice is a laconic drawl as he sizes her up.
“Afternoon, Sheriff Braddock,” she replies, shaking his hand firmly.
“Now where are my manners.” Braddock motions to the younger officer. “Agent Jones, Agent Rodriguez, this is Deputy Nolan. Clint, this here’s the FBI agent handling that case you’ve been poring over so diligently.”
The young man steps away from the desk he’s been standing in front of, approaching me solemnly.
“Nice to meet you, sir.” He thrusts his hand out at me, and I shake it.
“Deputy.”
“Ma’am,” he pushes the hand toward Carmen, and she greets him with a gentle smile.
“Afternoon, Deputy.”
Braddock turns to us with an affable grin. “Can I get either of you anything to drink? Coffee? Water?”
“Water would be nice.” Carmen smiles as I shake my head, declining. Braddock motions to the deputy, who turns and heads across the room. As he’s getting the drink, Braddock moves to one of the desks, and leans against it, arms crossing his chest.
“So, Agent Jones, pretty sure you're here to quiz me on my handling of that missing girl case you sent the file on. The one I already went over with the other folks from LA. The one that I wrote my fifteen-page report on.” His voice takes on a distinct edge as he continues, emphasizing the word ‘fifteen’ to make sure I fully understand the effort he’s already put in.
Still, his tone doesn’t stray more than two degrees from country polite as he finishes.
“Unless I’m mistaken.” He pauses, head cocked. “Agent.” He stares at me pointedly as the deputy returns from the refrigerator and hands Carmen a chilled plastic bottle.
I smile, and spread my hands in supplication. “No, sir. You are one hundred percent correct.”
As the seconds tick past, I watch as the corner of Braddock’s mouth rises a millimeter at one corner. He takes a deep breath, and then lets it out quietly. “Well, Agent, I'm sure your time is as valuable as mine, so why don’t you do us both a courtesy and ask for what you need.”
“Sheriff Braddock, I’ve no desire to make you review anything in your report.” I give him my best ‘we’re-all-in-this-together’ voice. “I’ve read it, and it’s as thorough a report as one could ask for. I’ve been assigned to come out here by my supervisor to review certain aspects of this case, and that’s simply what I’m doing.”
He gives me a contemplative stare. “Huh. So the government sees fit to spend hard-earned taxpayer dollars sending two Federal agents out to Stockdale, Texas to look for one little lost girl from Hollywood, and when I had a missing persons case a couple years back I couldn’t even get so much as a return call from your folks in Dallas, much less the locals in College Station.” He shakes his head slowly, voice thick with faux confusion.
I don’t buy it for a second, but the comment he’s made makes me glance at Carmen, and I see by the look in her eye she’s picked up on it too.
“Now, y’all will have to forgive me, because I’m just a simple county sheriff here. But it seems to me that two FBI agents sent to ‘review certain aspects’ concerning one missing persons case for a young woman who don’t look all that important from where I’m standing might make me just a tad bit… curious.” He stares at me with a gaze that’s part challenge, and all pointed.
I say nothing, just give him a slight smile. If he wants answers, he’ll have to work for them.
“Who is she?” Braddock’s voice is flat, and now it might be just a degree or two south of polite.
“Her father is the CEO of a company that handles chemical weapons for the Army. Bad chemical weapons. Of the very nasty WMD kind.”
He nod
s slowly. “Ah. I see.” Running a hand across his face, he sighs. “So daddy has some political pull, and lo and behold now I got two FBI agents digging into me like chiggers.”
“Sheriff, let me clear something up.” I’ve had enough playing, and something he’s said has piqued my interest. “I have about as much interest in being here as you have in having me here. This is all a bunch of political bullshit, and in the end, it’s not going to amount to anything more than a bunch of words added to a report given to a grieving father to assure him that we really, truly did everything we could. For all the crap that’s worth.”
His eyes narrow as I talk, and I can see I’m getting through to him.
“All I want to do is the bare minimum I have to so I can add some more words to that report, tick off some checkboxes to keep my supervisor happy and off my ass, and then I swear I will dig my chigger head out of you and be on my way.”
A moment of strained silence hangs in the room, and then he gives me a nod of recognition. “Well, I’d say that does clear things up a bit, Agent.”
“Good.”
“So...” He braces his hands back against the desk, lips pursed. “Just what can I do for you? You looking for a tour of Rita Blanca? Sample our finest cuisine? Watch the paint dry?”
I chuckle. “I’ll get back to you on those.” I glance around, find the desk behind me empty, and move back to sit on the edge of it. “A minute ago you said you’d had a missing persons case some time back. I don’t remember any mention of that in your report.”
“Wasn’t no need. It was near two years ago now, and it had nothing to do with your missing girl.”
“Humor me.”
He shoves out a lungful of air. “Weren’t really any need to call it a missing persons case, to be honest. But that’s the way her parents filed it, and rules is rules.” His tone hovers between annoyed and resigned. “Had a young woman who had notions of becoming a vet after she graduated from high school. Her parents had other ideas. She spent time working ’round town, mostly with Doc Atha over at the large animal clinic. Then, one day, she up and disappeared.”
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