The Devil To Pay (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 4)

by George Wier

  “Alright, now,” he said.

  “What took you so long?” I asked.

  “Perry,” he said. “Perry Reilly. I’ll fill you in at the hospital, which is where we’re going right now.”

  *****

  The suddenness and savagery of a Texas storm is ever a wonder. By the time we pulled out onto the highway back towards town following Patrick in his cruiser, a fierce wind had blown up with gusts upwards to forty miles per hour. Thick drops of rain began pounding the world around us with millions of cold spears. I turned on the headlights and set the wiper blades to full blast, but the car ahead of us became indistinct, a muddled reddish glow in a changed world. Jessica cuddled close to me, her head against my chest and my arm around her.

  “He’ll be okay, dad,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I replied, the only possible reply.

  Thus far the evidence against my friend was circumstantial, and much of it either could not be classified as evidence, or was now gone from the earth: a certain cigar wrapper from a crime scene that no longer existed, a photostatic copy of questionable items purchased from an antique store in the name of my friend, and finally, an admission of guilt now shredded and possibly buried in the local landfill.

  And then there was the fisherwoman. The illusive lady in gray, mousy hair and all.

  Images in my mind careened off of one another. Sarah Banks with her arm interlaced with Perry’s. A still picture of a lady following Walt while escorting a prisoner. A headline and picture of a house fire in Houston, so many years ago it was almost—as Patrick had said— ancient history.

  It all came back to Walt and to Dewey Bingham, his long-dead friend.

  Inside the world of the abrupt storm time stretched. The trip lasted no more than thirty minutes, but it felt far, far longer. And it wasn’t until we arrived that I noted that Jessica had gone to sleep against me.

  *****

  The bullet had narrowly missed Walt’s heart. This I heard from two doctors as they stood with their heads close together, peering at the bright bluish-white bank of x-ray images. It had, however, lodged near his spine, and they would have to go in and extract it from the back.

  Walt had lost a great deal of blood and he was at the moment receiving his fourth unit.

  The surgery would take place within the hour.

  It was going to be a long night.

  *****

  Jessica charmed the hospital staff and the Sheriff’s deputies, local police, and hospital security. During Walt’s surgery, while we all alternately sat and paced and chatted, a Special Ranger showed up. It was Howard Block, the new Ranger Museum curator who helped us find where the files were kept. He removed his raincoat and hat in the lobby, revealing a balding, heavily freckled pate, and came over to us. Jessica leapt up and gave him a hug while I stood and waited for his handshake.

  “Now there,” he told Jessica. “I’m glad to see you too. How’s Mr. Cannon?”

  “Surgery,” I said. “They’re taking a bullet from his spine.”

  “I heard about your rescue,” Howard said. “I’ve known Walt Cannon for thirty years. I’m very glad he has such friends.”

  “Ranger Block,” I said, “my daughter and I owe you an apology. There was a file box we looked into at the museum. We hid it where it couldn’t be found easily before we left this morning. Now, I think it may be terribly important.”

  “You did the right thing,” he said. “After you left I had a visit from a lady wanting to go through the same box.”

  “Candace Bingham?” I asked.

  “Sarah Banks,” he said. “Or, if you like, Candace Bingham. We couldn’t find it for her and she left in a huff. After she left I went back and reviewed the security tapes and found where you two had put it. I’ve spent most of the day going through that box and talking with this man here—” he gestured to Patrick Kinsey, who had come up beside me.

  “And, well, here we all are.”

  *****

  “Yeah,” Patrick said. “Here we are.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Somebody had better start talking. I’ve got too many questions to remain sane for long.”

  “Same here,” Patrick said.

  “Yep,” Howard Block agreed.

  “You tell him,” Patrick said. “You’re the expert in history.”

  “Dewey Lance Bingham,” Howard Block said, and launched into the strangest tale I have ever heard.

  *****

  “In 1990, Anne Richards, Texas’ Governor, appointed a Certified Public Accountant, Dewey Lance Bingham, as her liaison to the President of Mexico. His job was to make certain that all the proper red carpets were rolled out for El Presidente’s visit to the Texas Capitol in the fall of that year, to plan events and coordinate security.

  “Dewey’s minor in college at the University of Houston had been in Linguistics, with an emphasis on the Latin Languages and Spanish, as it is spoken in Mexico, in particular.

  “During a trip to Mexico, Dewey met a woman while visiting at the President’s lake-house retreat on Lake Chapala, near Guadalajara. She was a white woman who had been adopted into a Mexican family. Her name—”

  “Esperanza,” I interrupted.

  Block nodded.

  “She stole Dewey’s heart. Dewey’s first wife had died in ‘88, esophageal cancer. Dewey, with El Presidente Fox’s permission and all of the passports rubber-stamped for him, brought her back to Texas.”

  “Satanic worship,” I said. “Please tell me about Satanic Worship.”

  Howard Block gave me an extremely odd lock.

  “I haven’t told him, Bill,” Patrick said.

  “Apparently,” I said. “Sorry, Mr. Block. Please continue.”

  “Esperanza, Candace, Sarah, the woman with a string of names and Dewey Bingham’s wife, was supposed to have perished in the blaze that took Dewey and the rest of his family. Except for one thing.”

  “She was Walt Cannon’s lover,” I said.

  “Mr. Travis,” Ranger Block said, “I’m not sure why I came down here.”

  “He does that,” Patrick said. “Shut up, Bill, and let him finish.”

  I chuckled. “Sorry,” I found myself saying once again.

  “There is no physical evidence of it, but Dewey and Walt were best friends. And everywhere Walt went—”

  “The lamb was sure to go,” Patrick said.

  “I saw the photo,” I said.

  “There were others in there,” Block said. He fished a photo out of his shirt pocket. “This was in the Fenton file, stuck to the back of some non-essential papers.” He handed it to me.

  Part of the photo had been ruined by moisture or temperature or chemicals, who knew what. But the main scene was there, intact. Walt and Candace Bingham, huddled close, posing for the camera on New Years Eve. A green, glittery Happy New Years tiara was worn by Candace. Walt had a ridiculous plastic top hat. And then I saw it. On the confetti-strewn table before them, partially hidden by a daiquiri complete with a tiny umbrella, was a figurine. A hooded figure.

  I recalled the ledger entry, a copy of which was out in my car at the moment. If my memory was right on, the purchase date had been December 26th, 1992.

  “New Years Eve,” I said. “1992.”

  “How does he do that?” Ranger Block asked Patrick.

  “Beats me. Look, Bill, can you just shut up and let Ranger Block finish.”

  “Not another word from me,” I said.

  “Right,” Jessica said and laughed.

  “Sit down,” I told her. She sat.

  “And if that date is correct,” Ranger Block continued, “it was three weeks prior to the fire.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” I said.

  “Okay,” Patrick said, “now spill it, Bill.”

  And so I did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “I’m not sure,” I said, “where Phil Burnet comes into all of this.”

  “I am,” Howard Block said, “or at least, I’m beginning to
.”

  He had our full attention.

  “I’ve known Walt, like I said, for over thirty years. He helped me get my Special Ranger status. He was incorruptible. All of this is sketchy as hell, but it appears to me as if Walt Cannon was set up. Possibly from the beginning.”

  “Set up for what?” Patrick asked, before I could.

  “First, for Phil Burnet’s death,” Block continued. “For whatever else, I don’t know. But, I’ll tell you something, I’m not going to rest a single damned minute until I find out exactly what was going on, and how far into this Phil Burnet was.”

  “Burnet,” I said, “was probably set up himself. Remember, he’s extremely dead.”

  “Right,” Patrick said.

  “Pat,” I said. “What were the organs found in that clearing by the stream all about?”

  “You fellas left me behind a long time ago,” Howard Block said. “Just what the hell are you two talking about?”

  “Remains,” Patrick said. “Organs in multiple. All animal. Dog and cat and pig hearts and other organs.”

  “Yuck!” Jessica said. I looked at her, but she was grinning.

  “Better than a Pearl Jam concert, huh?” I asked.

  She nodded, a gleeful look in her eye.

  “Don’t look at this kid’s room,” I said. “Her walls are far worse than what you’re describing.”

  Howard Block gave Jessica an odd look, but then his features relaxed and he smiled.

  “You’re joking, of course,” he said.

  Jessica nodded to him, and he seemed relieved. Of course, I hadn’t been kidding.

  “I wish you had detained her,” I said to Ranger Block. “I know. At the time you didn’t know who she was.”

  “Yeah. Hindsight, and all that.”

  “Still,” I said. “Walt’s not out of the woods, and Candace Bingham is deep in it. Anybody got any idea of where to begin looking for her?”

  “Oh hell,” Patrick said.

  “What?” Jessica asked.

  “I should have known. Dammit.”

  “What?” Ranger Block and said together.”

  “The one clue I have to everything! And a damned nuisance to boot.”

  “Oh no,” I whispered.

  “Yes,” Patrick said, and hung his head for a moment.

  Jessica said it, and I found myself wishing she hadn’t.

  “Mr. Reilly, right?”

  *****

  “Bill, I’m staying here with Mr. Cannon,” Patrick said. “Just in case he...you know.”

  “Doesn’t make it,” I said. “He might have a chance to say something.”

  “Right. Mr. Block, can you go with Bill and Jessica?”

  “I’d be happy to,” Ranger Block said.

  “Yay!” Jessica said.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Sarah Banks’ house in Point Venture. That’s where Perry said he was going when I last talked to him. He was going to wait until she came back home. He seemed to know she was going to return.”

  “Bob,” I said. “Bob, the gate guard, would let you know if she came back.”

  “Yeah,” Patrick said. “I’ve already talked to him about that very thing, and the other guards are supposed to call me as well, but they can’t guard the woods and the gate at the same time. Those guys run in shifts. Also, they don’t have any arrest powers. If she were coming back, she’d take that road through the woods, either by vehicle or by foot. That would be the only way for her, unless she snuck through in someone’s trunk. If it was me, that’s how I’d come back. The woods.”

  “Well hell,” I said. “Will you ride with us, Mr. Block?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  And that settled it.

  As we were turning to leave, a doctor came out of to talk to Patrick.

  “Wait a minute, Bill,” he said.

  We turned back.

  “Just tell us all, Doc,” Patrick said.

  “Mr. Cannon. . . He’s doing fine. He should wake up either in minutes or hours.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” Patrick said. He turned back to us. “You know all there is to know here for now. Go.”

  And with a great sense of relief, the three of us, Howard Block, Jessica, and her clueless father headed out and into the pouring rain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Driving in the rain, slewing slower through hairpin curves and racing to beat the Devil on the flat out, we sped toward Point Venture as the wind and the driving rain lashed at us, tempting us toward ditch and river-like runoff. I paid the hooded figure in my imagination no mind. I had the strongest talisman of all with me. I had my daughter. I had sweet innocence with me.

  “Faster, Bill,” Howard Block said. “I don’t know why, it just feels like speed is the real need.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  We came around the curve to the turn off and the guard shack was there bathed in strobing swaths of red and blue light.

  “Deputy Kinsey must have called ahead,” Ranger Block said.

  I braked and slewed to a stop. The gate was up and a deputy I recognized motioned us through.

  I rolled my window down, taking the time to ask: “Everything alright here?”

  “No,” the deputy said. “Got a wounded man. Ambulance is on its way. Someone came through here in a hell of a hurry. Shot the guard on duty. Pat Kinsey says hurry on in. Oh! Here.”

  The rain-soaked deputy handed me a bulky .38. “Just in case,” he said. “Remember where you got it.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Got a description of who shot Bob?”

  “Yeah. Sarah Banks and another fellow. Tall, thin. Wore a black cloak and hood. Bushy eyebrows. This is some weird shit,” he said.

  Bushy eyebrows.

  “Yeah. Tell me about it,” I said, rolled my window up and gunned the engine.

  “Oh hell,” Ranger Block said. He unlimbered his own pistol and checked the load. “Haven’t shot the damn thing in over a year.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Dad,” Jessica said, her eyes wide, “Mom said ‘no guns’.”

  “Darling,” I said. “I know. Mom’s not here. If she were, she’d make sure it was loaded herself.”

  I started to hand it to her, but Ranger Block took it, as I knew he would.

  “Ho no,” he said. “I’ll take that.”

  He checked it and handed it back to me.

  The neighborhood flashed by and we threw torrents of runoff onto curbs and lawns in our wake.

  “Jess,” I said. “Remind me never to come back to this neighborhood.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “For sure.”

  *****

  There were three vehicles at Sarah Bank’s house. Two in the driveway and one parked on the street very near her neighbor’s driveway. The one on the street was Perry Reilly’s.

  “You stay here,” I told Jessica. “Keep the doors locked and keep your head down.”

  I waited for her to object. She didn’t utter a peep. Instead she folded herself up and ducked down on the floorboard.

  “That’s my girl,” I said.

  Guns at the ready, Ranger Block and I walked up Sarah Bank’s front walkway under a sheet of pouring rain and amid a strobing stutter of lightning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A hooded figure appeared near the corner of the house in the flash of a single lightning stroke, and in the next echo of light, wasn’t there at all.

  “You alright?” Ranger Block asked me.

  “Fine,” I lied.

  I stepped over a soaked and flattened newspaper, then another.

  Lights were on in the living room, and then, as we stepped up to either side of the front door, they went out.

  Hooded man, I thought. Or woman.

  When Sarah Banks had first come up to the dock wearing her rain slicker on one dreary misting and raining day, she had been hooded. Strange, the things the mind goes to.

  “Someone knows we’re here,” Block whispered
above the high-pitched wail of the rain patter. “Either that, or our timing is perfect.”

  “Or not so perfect,” I said.

  It was either ring the doorbell or try the knob. The screen door opened and yawned wide under Howard’s hand.

  He looked at me, shrugged, and then tried the doorknob. It turned in his hand.

  “Hmph,” he muttered.

  He pushed it open and then stood abruptly aside.

  I flattened against the wall to the side of the door and waited for a blast of gun fire.

  Nothing.

  “Hmph,” he muttered again. He stepped slowly inside and I followed.

  *****

  I fumbled for and found the light switch and flipped it on. The front hall was empty, but for an ornate side table bearing a business card, face up. I glanced at it. Perry’s.

  We moved in slow motion, anticipating a charge at any moment.

  A large entryway opened up onto a dim living room, Spartan. Ms. Bank’s didn’t do much entertaining. Either that, or she was moving out. Both were likely true, I suspected.

  We listened as we moved. Nothing, except the now muted roar of the rain from outside and above.

  There was another of those bursts of lightning and the cracking peal of thunder came a mere instant following. It had struck close by. The lights dimmed, surged and then went out completely, plunging us back into darkness.

  “Great,” I whispered to myself.

  “Yeah,” my companion agreed.

  *****

  I felt it then, moments after the darkness folded in on us. Motion in the house.

  “Someone’s here,” I said. “It may be Perry. I don’t want to shoot him. Well, not badly, anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to call out,” I said softly.

  “Go ahead,” he agreed. It beat the old cat-and-mouse game we were up to.

  “Perry!” I called loudly.

  There was a dull thump.