Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  Brewer took note of the fact that they were on a first-name basis.

  Dermott shook Krieg’s hand with more formality but with the same congeniality. “Tom, thanks for giving us some time.” He turned to Brewer and made the introductions. “This is Emmett Brewer, U.S. Border Patrol. He’s the OIC in the district. Has a few questions for you.”

  Introductions complete and duty fulfilled, Dermott stepped to the side and sat in a chair across from the desks.

  “Questions, huh?” Zabala smiled. “From the Border Patrol.” He threw his hands up in mock panic. “Don’t arrest me, sir. I’m legal. Been here all my life. See my back’s not even wet.”

  Dermott laughed. Krieg watched the exchange without emotion. He had seen the Zabala show before.

  Brewer smiled to match Zabala’s. “I’m very familiar with your history and family Mr. Zabala. Everyone around here is.” He turned to Krieg. “And your family’s as well, Mr. Krieg.”

  “Please,” Zabala interjected. “Call me Raul and this surly individual is my partner, Tom.”

  “Thanks, Raul.”

  “Sit, please.” Zabala indicated a chair beside the one Dermott had taken. “Now what can we do for you?” he asked once Brewer was seated.

  “I can tell you’re busy, so I suppose I should get right to the point.”

  “I suppose you should.” They were the first words that Krieg had spoken. Unlike Zabala, there was no attempt to conceal his annoyance under a cloak of good humor.

  “Alright.” Brewer nodded, smiling, and fixing his eyes on Krieg’s. “There has been some shooting.”

  “So?” Krieg replied, irritated. “Lots of guns around here. A lot of people shoot them.”

  “Someone has been shooting at people trying to cross the border … trying to keep them on the other side of the river.”

  “Hmph,” Krieg smirked. “Sounds like someone’s been doing you a favor.” His eyes narrowed. “You might even say they were doing your job for you.”

  “We don’t shoot illegals crossing.” Brewer shook his head. “We apprehend them. Send them back.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Krieg gave a mean little smile. “That’s a crock of shit. We know all about catch and release and the asylum loopholes.”

  Brewer’s face showed no reaction. He’d known men like Krieg, powerful, arrogant assholes. Unlike Zabala who sugar-coated his power with a heavy sprinkling of amiability, Krieg liked to throw it in your face, challenging you to respond. Brewer wasn’t sure which one was more dangerous, but for the moment, he was dealing with Krieg.

  “Yes, there are loopholes.” Brewer nodded. “We are waiting for Congress to fix them. Until then, we enforce the law as it stands. We catch, detain, and deport as the law allows.” Now his eyes narrowed to match Krieg’s. “We do not shoot them.”

  “We don’t shoot people either. Why are you here?”

  “Because somebody is shooting people. It’s not a secret that you have been very vocal about stopping illegal immigration. Both of you.”

  “So? We’re not the only ones who think the Border Patrol is doing a piss poor job at the one thing they are supposed to do. If I had my way, I’d fire the whole lot of you and start over” He smirked “I imagine that’s the real reason you’re here. To take a jab at your detractors.”

  Brewer pulled a photo from his breast pocket, and tossed it on the desk.

  “What the hell is this?” Krieg stared at the image without touching it.

  “That is a bullet, a .30-30. Ballistics show it was probably fired by a Winchester Model 94 or a similar model.” He had promised to get to the point, so he did. “We would like to find the rifle that fired it … and the owner of that rifle.”

  “I don’t own a Winchester 94.” Krieg looked at Zabala. “You?”

  “Nope.” Zabala shook his head. “Never liked the .30-30 … not enough knockdown power for big game.” He grinned. “And I only hunt big game.”

  Brewer was sure that was the case. Asshole and disingenuous that they might be, they were not stupid. Whatever their feelings about immigration, Brewer was reasonably sure there was no way either would risk their own hides by shooting at an unarmed, illegal border crosser.

  “I thought as much. Still …” Brewer smiled into Krieg’s glaring face. “Someone around here might have one … could be someone who works for you.”

  “How would we know what kind of rifles our people own?”

  “Because they are your people, as you call them,” Brewer threw back at him. “And I hear it’s a close-knit group.”

  “I can tell you,” Zabala interrupted, the smile wider than ever on his face. “We don’t have any idea who might own the rifle that fired that bullet. Probably a lot of those rifles in Salvia County … hundreds of them.”

  “Probably so,” Brewer agreed. “That’s why we thought we’d try to narrow things down some. Any of your people ever talk about hunting with a .30-30, or target shooting with one, or a Winchester handed down from grandpa? Anything like that might help us find the rifle?”

  “Nope. Not to my knowledge,” Zabala said, smiling. “How about you, Tom?”

  “No.”

  Zabala shrugged. “Sorry, we can’t help you, Agent Brewer.” He rose from his chair, ending the conversation. “If there is nothing else, we need to get some work done around here.”

  He clapped silent Sheriff Dermott on the shoulder who took the cue and stood. Brewer was slower to rise, never breaking his eyes away from Krieg’s face.

  “If you happen to think of something or remember someone who owns a .30-30 caliber rifle, give us a call,” Brewer said. He mustered up a friendly smile, mostly to annoy Krieg. “We’d appreciate it.”

  Krieg glared.

  Zabala stepped in between Brewer and Krieg’s desk. “Absolutely. You’ll be the first person we call.” He escorted them down the hall to the reception area.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” Zabala said as they went through the reception office door. “Give my best to your wife and family, Paul.”

  “Will do, Raul, and the same to yours.”

  A minute later, he rejoined Krieg in their office and shook his head.

  “Do you think you could have been a little more of an asshole?” Zabala asked with a sarcastic smirk.

  “What’s it matter?” Krieg was still fuming. “Like you said. He doesn’t know anything.”

  “Well, he didn’t before he got here, but after your little performance I’m not so sure.”

  Krieg took a deep calming breath. After a few seconds, he said. “We need to make a call.”

  “Yeah.” Zabala nodded. “Guess it has to go down like that.”

  “It does.” Krieg pulled out his cell phone and punched a number. When the call was answered, the message was simple. “We have something for you to do.”

  Dermott backed the county car away from the building and pulled through the lot to the road. The same pairs of eyes followed them until they were out of sight.

  “See, I told you,” he said when they were a mile down the road.

  “You told me.” Brewer nodded.

  Dermott turned toward him a curious look on his face. “You still don’t believe it though, do you? You still think they have something to do with shooting at people along the border.”

  “Don’t you think Krieg was a little too snarly for a man who knew nothing when I asked about the bullet?”

  “That?” Dermott laughed. “You have to understand Tom Krieg. He’s always pissed off about something, and he for sure doesn’t like being asked questions about his business. That doesn’t make him the ring leader of a bunch of vigilantes taking shots at illegals.”

  “So, you’re saying he was pissed off because that’s his nature.”

  “I’m saying exactly that.” Dermott nodded his head to show that was emphatically what he meant.

  Brewer shook his head. “I’m not convinced.” He shrugged and smiled. “Call it a hunch.”

  32
.

  A Little Less Like an Asshole

  “Well, looks like we got company!” Sherm shouted from the shade of the porch.

  Sole thrust an arm out the window and lifted it in greeting as he let the pickup roll to a slow stop in the yard, careful not to kick up the dust. He got out and walked to the porch.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning back, Bill Myers.”

  “Morning,” Reggie Prince said, eyeing the newcomer. “Sherm told me there was a new face in town.”

  “I’m Bill … Myers,” Sole said, mounting the steps.

  “Reggie … Reggie Prince.” Reggie grinned. “And before you ask, yeah, that’s my real name.”

  “Wouldn’t have thought otherwise,” Sole said smiling.

  Their eyes met. The mutual but friendly appraisal lasted several seconds before Sherm figured they’d had enough get acquainted time.

  “Pull up a seat, Bill.”

  Sole turned a spare crate around and sat so that he faced both men.

  “Want a beer?” Sherm nodded at the old Frigidaire. “It’s all cheap, but it’s cold, and it’s free.”

  Sole craned his neck out from under the porch overhang to check the sun’s position in the sky. “Must be about ten o’clock. I’d say that’s late enough.”

  Sherm and Reggie laughed. Sole pulled the old fridge door open and grabbed one of the generic no-name beers that Sherm bought by the case in McAllen.

  He popped the tab and lifted the can. “Cheers.”

  “Back at you,” Sherm said, and all three turned their cans up and sucked down half before lowering them and wiping their mouths.

  “Good beer,” Sole said.

  “Bullshit.” Sherm laughed. “It’s cheap horse piss, but it’s beer and to tell the truth, I’ve never been all that picky about beer.”

  “Works for me.” Sole turned the can up and downed the last of it.

  “Grab another,” Sherm said.

  “Believe I will.” Sole snagged another from the fridge. “I’ll pay you for the beer.”

  “The hell you will. That’d be a goddamned insult.”

  “He means it,” Reggie threw in. “You’re a guest. Guests don’t pay.”

  “Okay.” Sole nodded. “No offense meant, and I appreciate the beer. I suppose I better slow down then.”

  “You do, and you’ll get left behind,” Sherm grinned and said as an aside to Reggie. “Go easy on him, son. He’s still learning our godforsaken ways.”

  “I see that.” Reggie nodded. “So, Bill Myers …” He said the name slowly, pronouncing each of the three syllables distinctly as if he was trying it out in his mouth to see if the name matched the face in front of him. “How did you end up drinking beer on Sherm’s front porch?”

  Sole was beginning to wonder why everyone in Creosote was so quick to perceive that his Bill Myers identity was a fraud. Probably because he was not the only one around using an assumed name. Liars can always spot another liar.

  “Long story,” Sole said in answer to Reggie’s question, and then turned the tables, smiling. “How about you?”

  Reggie chuckled, sending the message they both knew the other was full of shit. “Same here … long story.”

  “So what made you stop by for a visit, Bill?” Sherm watched the exchange, oblivious to the subtle assessments passing between the two. “Get bored with Isabella’s company?”

  “Not sure that would be possible,” he said with respect.

  “That’s for damned sure.”

  “In fact, she suggested that I stop by and visit with you before …”

  “Before you go off working for that Tom Krieg, right?” Sherm interjected and smiled, knowing he had hit on the reason. “Yep, she probably warned you about him then said check with me about the situation before you do anything rash.”

  “Something like that.” Sole nodded, letting the old man talk now that his tongue was loosened.

  “Alright.” Sherm leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the beer cradled in his leathery hands. “It’s not complicated.” He looked into Sole’s eyes. “He’s a mean son of a bitch, and this partner Raul Zabala is one and the same, he just hides it better. So, if you’re going to work for them, you better understand they are going to expect you to be as mean as they are, do things the way they would do them … hurt people the way they hurt them.”

  “Hurt people? I was told they import vegetables and fruit from Mexico. I’ll just be along as security to protect the cargo.”

  “True enough, at least that’s what they told you, and I don’t know for certain it isn’t true.” Sherm’s eyes narrowed. “But what I do know is true is they will use you up and then throw you away. They did it to my son.”

  “Your son? I wasn’t aware you had…” Sole looked around the house and yard.

  “Oh, he’s not here.” Sherm shook his head. “Won’t never be here again.”

  “Sorry, Sherm. He got hurt working for Krieg and Zabala?”

  “He did.” Sherm nodded. “Oh, not physical in some way you could see the hurt.” He shook his head. “No, it was a hurt inside him. He never talked about it, but there was something that happened, something about doing the job for them that hurt him inside, made him feel bad … guilty even. That’s why he left and headed off to the Army.”

  Sherm’s eyes filled with water. “That’s why I won’t never see him again.”

  Sole listened without speaking. He had experienced enough of his own pain to understand that there was nothing he could say to make it easier.

  “But,” Sherm said, looking up, smiling at Reggie. “I gained another son from it all. Reggie and Robby were best friends. Reggie was there when …”

  Sherm stopped talking. Sole felt like an asshole for intruding on his memories and opening old wounds. Reggie put a hand on the old man’s shoulders.

  “I’m not sure what Isabella expected me to say to you.” Sherm looked into Sole’s eyes. “A man like you … you know your own mind, and you have your reasons for working for those men. Be careful and understand the hurt they bring to whatever they touch. That’s all I have to say.”

  They sat without speaking for a long while. As noon approached, Sherm reached for another beer and passed cans around to the others. He waited while they popped the tabs then lifted his up in a toast.

  “To Robby.”

  “To Robby, my best friend,” Reggie echoed.

  They turned to Sole. Sherm nodded, inviting him to join them.

  “To Robby,” Sole repeated respectfully, feeling a little less like an asshole.

  33.

  A Brave Smile

  “You seem happy.”

  Sandy came in from his work shed at the side of the café and found Isabella whistling softly as she went about readying the afternoon meal for her customers. A socket wrench in his hand, he went behind the counter, took a glass from the pyramid stack by the beer tap, and plunged it into the ice bin. He eyed her reaction as he crunched the ice without adding water.

  “Do I?” Isabella looked up and smiled, wiping at the mist of perspiration on her forehead with the back of her hand. She shrugged. “I’m happy enough, I guess.”

  “More than that, I’d say. It’s good to see.”

  “You talk like I’m miserable most days.”

  “Well …” He grinned. “I wouldn’t say miserable. Subdued might be a better word.”

  “Subdued? Aren’t you the student of human behavior all of a sudden?”

  ***

  Actually, it wasn’t sudden. Sandy had been a keen observer of life as long as she could remember. Older and wiser for his years than most others imagined, he saw things no one else saw.

  Mazey and a few of the more superstitious local cowboys swore he must have visions because he could tell them so much about themselves by merely watching. Sandy found the idea hilarious and scoffed at the thought of anything so supernatural.

  To Sandy, it was simple. He paid attention—to everything.

  It
became a game to occupy him. He observed and then said things to make them gawk. The mystery in their eyes made him laugh

  Isabella was accustomed to his serious nature and somber eyes examining everything and everyone, including her. She understood why Mazey and the others looked at him as someone with particular aptitudes, maybe psychic ones. His ability to unravel the thoughts and secrets and motives of others could be disconcerting, especially if they were trying to hide something.

  Even as a toddler, he would sit quietly and watch her as she worked, making her feel that somewhere in his three-year-old brain, he was assessing her. Sometimes she would turn and catch him watching and feel suddenly uncertain of herself. What did he see? What was he thinking? What did he understand about her that she didn’t know herself?

  That was when he was a baby, though. She was too familiar with his look of concentration to worry much about it anymore. Others might squirm under the microscope of his examination, some even took offense, but it was only Sandy being Sandy.

  It was a diversion for him, something to occupy his mind. Creosote offered little in the way of distraction for a growing boy. Mazey’s whores would have been happy to have him visit, would have even given it to him for free to have the bragging rights to say they were his first. Isabella politely kept him away from them, making it clear to them that he was off-limits.

  A few times, when some drunk cowboy or K and Z driver had taken offense at his prying ways, she had cautioned him to be more circumspect when engaging his habit of studying people. A couple of times at school, he had learned the lesson the hard way and tussled in the parking lot when classes were done for the day.

  These days, most people had no idea they were being scrutinized, evaluated, and filed away somewhere in his mind as data to be recalled if needed in the future. Isabella could see it though.

  ***

  “Is he going to stay?” A sly smile crept across Sandy’s face.

  “Who?” she said, innocently, and then laughed because they both knew who he meant. She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Now she looked into her son’s eyes evaluating and assessing. “Does it matter?”