Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  “It might … to you.” He turned the glass up and munched some ice. “I wouldn’t mind either.”

  “Why?” She was more than a little interested in his assessment of Bill Myers.

  “I like him.” Sandy shrugged to show it was nothing more complicated than that, then he smiled. “If having him around makes you happy, I like him more.”

  She leaned against the counter and thought it over while he sucked on the ice. “He’s different,” she said.

  “Yes, he is.” Sandy looked at his mother. “You want to talk about it … about him?”

  “That’s why I asked.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “So, to be honest, I haven’t figured him out much. He’s harder than most to study.”

  That was what Sandy called it when evaluating a subject, whether it was a person, a bird in the yard, or the clouds on the horizon. It was his study. Isabella waited for him to continue.

  “So, there’s not much.” He looked up and stared at the ceiling tiles, considering what to say about Bill Myers. “First of all, that isn’t his real name, but I guess you figured that out already.”

  “I guessed as much.” Isabella nodded. “Man shows up here out of nowhere, but he’s not your typical drifter. He’s smart, had some education at least, chances are he’s running from something, so he wouldn’t use his real name.”

  “Running to something, not from,” Sandy corrected her. “If he was running from something or someone, I wouldn’t be so happy about him being with you. Running from means, he’s in trouble, and trouble could follow along behind and suck you into it, whatever it is.”

  He shook his head. “No, he’s running to something, like he has an appointment, or is trying to find someone or discover something. He’s restless, always looking into the distance, but there’s no fear there like a person on the run. He’s thinking, planning something. I don’t understand his reasons for not using his real name, but whatever they are, it’s serious, and that makes me worry about you a little, but as long as he runs toward whatever it is and doesn’t bring it this way, I suppose things will be alright. Besides, I like seeing you happy.”

  He paused and considered his next words. “He has feelings for you, but something is keeping him from letting you in too deep to whatever he is feeling. I’m guessing something happened to someone he cares about … a woman maybe.”

  He watched his mother’s face. She smiled.

  “I already figured that out.”

  “Those feelings for the other person are strong. It’s in the way he looks at you, and then a shadow crosses his face like he is reminding himself about the other person.” He smiled. “But then he looks at you again, and I see the feelings there. It must be like something pulling him in different directions inside.”

  He hesitated, not sure if he should say the rest.

  “Go on,” Isabella encouraged. “I can take it.”

  “I don’t think he will stay long. Creosote is just a stopover for him. This appointment or meeting or whatever it is he is running to is stronger than anything else … stronger than the feelings for you.” He looked into her eyes, his voice gentle. “Mom, he will leave one day … maybe soon.”

  She tried not to show any reaction. She failed. Her son saw through the stone face she threw up as a defense.

  “Of course, he will move on,” She said, cynically. “Why the hell would anyone but me stay in a place like Creosote, with whores for neighbors and drunks for companions?”

  She picked up the dishrag and began wiping the counter in circles the way she always did when preoccupied with her thoughts. Sandy had confirmed much of what she already knew about Bill Myers. In her heart, she hoped that he would have discerned something different about the man.

  “Guess I’ll just have to make the most of things until he runs off to that appointment you say he has and does whatever he is planning.”

  She put on a brave smile for her son. It was a fake, and he knew it. It didn’t require any special powers of observation to see the sadness in her face and the tear that she brushed away when she thought he wasn’t looking. She changed the subject.

  “So what do you have going today?”

  “Headed out to Krieg’s place with those four ranch ATVs he had me work on.” Sandy popped a chunk of ice in his mouth and headed for the door. “Matter of fact, I better get moving. I’d like to get paid before next month.” He shook his head and grinned. “For a man with as much money as he’s got, he sure can dodge a bill if you let him see it coming. Gotta sort of sneak up on him.”

  “Good luck.” Isabella laughed. “Watch out for that Doyle Krieg. He’s liable to be lurking around somewhere dodging any real work.”

  “Don’t worry about Doyle. I can handle him,” Sandy grinned and touched the bruise on his face from their last encounter. “Besides, I’m a peace lover.”

  She watched from the counter as he pulled his old pickup from around the side of the building, towing a trailer loaded with the four ATVs.

  He was a good boy, she thought. No, not a boy—a man. Bill Myers had seen it in him, shaken hands with him the way a man does, spoken to him the way one man speaks to another.

  As she watched him leave, she wondered when manhood would drag him away from her and send him out into the world. Part of her dreaded the thought, but another wished it would happen soon. Take him far away from this place where the future held only a pain that he did not suspect.

  It had to be. Sandy had to leave her as surely as Bill Myers would one day decide to move on. Only she would remain in Creosote until the Texas wind dried her out like the dust and blew her away.

  The brave smile was back on her face, but she did not feel very brave. The loneliness hovering over the horizon made her heart shrink in despair.

  34.

  Job Interview

  “There’s a Bill Myers here to see you, Mr. Krieg.” Ella announced the visitor without giving the coded warning. There didn’t seem to be anything threatening about a drifter looking for work, and she’d seen worse specimens. “Says you told him to come by for a job.”

  “Send him back.”

  “Mr. Krieg said to go on back.” She eyed the scruffy newcomer, doubtfully. “Through the door and down the hall on the right.”

  “Thanks.” Sole went through the door from the reception area to the hallway.

  Ella shrugged. Mr. Krieg must have his reasons for telling a drifter to stop by. Maybe he needs someone to wash trucks.

  Krieg sat upright, elbows on the desk as Sole came to the office door. Zabala assumed his usual posture, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes half-closed, but it was Zabala who spoke first.

  “Come in.” He regarded Sole from under his partially closed eyelids and nodded to a chair between and equidistant from both desks. “Have a seat.”

  Sole sat without speaking, his posture erect but not formal. He met Krieg’s unblinking stare with one of his own.

  “I expected you yesterday.” Krieg’s words were clipped, his displeasure at the delay in the new man’s arrival evident.

  “Had some things to take care of.” Sole ignored the Krieg’s tone.

  “You said you wanted this job.” Krieg stared at him, trying to intimidate him in the way he did most men.

  Sole remained unintimidated. He nodded. “I do.”

  “I expect my men to show up when they're told.”

  “I said I’d take the job. I never said when. I’m here now.” Sole gave a sigh and moved his legs under the chair, preparing to stand. “You still want me to work for you or not? I can leave just as easy as I came.”

  The respect and fearful deference of virtually everyone in Salvia County had made Krieg unaccustomed to being challenged. This man’s entire demeanor challenged him. There was no deference in him and damned little respect.

  Raul Zabala watched the interaction with interest and repressed a smile at his partner’s discomfiture. In his mind, they had a choice. Tell this drifter to get t
he fuck out and keep going, or make use of the same traits that Krieg had identified in him when they met. The time had come to lead the discussion in a different direction.

  “What’s your name again?” Zabala asked although he remembered. It was his way of telling the newcomer not to feel so special that they should remember his name or anything else about him.

  “Bill Myers,” Sole said and turned calmly toward Zabala.

  He understood the change in tactics and repressed a smile. He might have used the same method in that other life when questioning people, probing their weaknesses, and searching for answers had been part of his daily life. The difference was that Zabala did it clumsily.

  “Bill Myers, do you still want to work for us?”

  “Like I said, I’m here now.” He nodded. “I want the job.”

  “Good.” Zabala sat up straight in his chair. “Let’s have a job interview then.”

  “Fair enough.” Sole nodded.

  “First off, is Bill Myers your real name?” Zabala’s eyes narrowed, watching for any reaction on Sole’s face.

  “It is my name,” Sole said evenly and without reaction

  It was a comfortable lie because for now, it was true. He had taken the name when he paid the counterfeiter in New Orleans for the ID and had used it continuously since. As far as he was concerned, Bill Myers was the only name he had now or planned to have in the future.

  Zabala could ask some follow-up questions that might make it more difficult to conceal the truth. How long have you been Bill Myers? Where did you get the identification that you carry now? Who was your mother? Where did you go to school? What was your last address?

  He asked none of these questions because he really didn’t want the answers, didn’t need the answers, and Sole knew it. His next question got to the specifics of the work they expected him to do.

  “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “I have.”

  His reply came without hesitation. Zabala and Krieg exchanged a look. Now Krieg spoke.

  “Who?”

  Sole smiled. “You know I won’t tell you that.”

  “In the military?” Krieg asked.

  Sole nodded and told the truth. “I served in the military.”

  “What branch?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “If we search for discharge papers, a DD-214, for Bill Myers, will we find one?”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  It was one of the reasons he had picked a common name. William Myers, Bill Myers, Willie Myers, all could be found in the records of every state’s DMV and in every branch of the military.

  “You’re not being very cooperative here.” Krieg’s level of annoyance edged up again. “You say you’ve killed and you want us to give you a job.”

  “You wouldn’t ask that question unless it was a job qualification.” Sole allowed his smile to spread a little wider. “You want someone who will stand up to whatever it is that threatens your business. That might mean killing to protect your interests. That’s the kind of security you want.”

  “And you’ll do that? Stand up to any threats against our business?” Zabala asked, watching his face.

  “If it comes to that, yes. I wouldn’t be here if I had a weak stomach about it.” He felt no obligation to elaborate that he would only kill in self-defense.

  Zabala leaned back in the chair again and smiled. “I think that concludes the job interview.” He looked at Krieg. “What do you say?”

  Seconds ticked by as Krieg and Sole locked eyes again. It was juvenile, Krieg trying to intimidate him with a stare, while Sole concealed his amusement.

  Sherm’s warning about the hurt his son had experienced rang in his ears. Krieg was a bully and an asshole, pure and simple. Zabala was more accommodating, but that only made him a more dangerous asshole in the long run.

  It didn’t matter. This job, no matter what it involved, would get him below the border on a regular basis, and without a lot of questions being asked. He had business in Mexico, and if he hadn’t blown the job interview, turning it down was not an option. He’d been intentionally brash, figuring that was the type of personality they wanted to see. He was beginning to think he had misplayed his hand when Krieg finally spoke.

  “Okay. You start tomorrow. Seven in the morning. Be here on time. No more strutting in whenever you feel like it.”

  “See you then.” Sole rose and left the office without another word.

  Zabala watched their new employee walk through the reception office on the video monitor. He nodded at Ella as he left the building, and Zabala couldn’t help wondering if they had just been played by a pro. No one could be as sure of himself and unintimidated as Bill Myers appeared to be. He looked at Krieg.

  “I think we should go slow with this one. Let’s see how he does on some dry runs, strictly legitimate stuff, before we bring him into the full operation.”

  “Arrogant asshole,” Krieg muttered and nodded. “You’re right. If he’s as tough as he appears, he could be of service. If not …” He shrugged. “We make him go away.”

  35.

  News

  An engine roared behind him. Pepe Lopez stepped up from the dirt onto the narrow walk along the side of the alley. He turned as the Dodge Ram pickup bearing the marking of the Policía Estatal skidded to a halt, and two men jumped out. The driver stood by the open door. The other approached. Lopez stood his ground.

  “I have news.” Sargento Miguel Garcia tugged at his pants and adjusted his belt under his protruding belly as he approached Lopez. “There is a problem.”

  “What would that be?” Lopez eyed the fat state police sergeant. “I already paid you this week.”

  “If you had answered your phone, you would know the problem.” Garcia gave a smug grin wide enough to expose a gold tooth, a molar that had cracked and been replaced thanks to the payoffs he received from Pepe Lopez and his gringo employers. “No doubt you were with your whore.”

  “Where I was is not your affair.”

  “Maybe it should be. Then I could know where to find you when there is important information to share.” He smiled. “The sort of information you would want to hear before your norteamericanos find out.”

  “Cortar la mierda. Basta del misterio.” Cut the shit. Enough of the mystery. Lopez was losing patience. “Give me your news, Garcia. I have business elsewhere.”

  “No.” Garcia shook his head. “I think your business is with me today.” He turned his head and gave a dramatic look up and down the alley. “Your last shipment has been hijacked.”

  “What do you mean, hijacked?” Sour acid rose up from Pepe’s belly into his throat. “That cannot be. The driver and security man would call and tell me if there was a problem. There would be some word …” His mouth closed and panic replaced the impatience.

  “There is no word from them because they are dead.” Garcia reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Lopez who accepted with trembling fingers.

  “Dead?” Lopez looked up as he leaned over to accept the light from Garcia.

  “Yes, dead … on the road near Monclova.” Garcia lit and inhaled his cigarette until the end burned cherry red even in the bright daylight.

  “I must …” What, Lopez wondered. What must he do to stay alive when Krieg and Zabala received the news of the hijacking?

  “Don’t worry, at least not yet. I stationed men there, blocking the road, keeping others away. I did not report this up the chain of command, and the farmer who found the truck is in our custody where he will stay until you decide what we should do with him.” Garcia inhaled and blew a great plume of smoke that encircled them. “But you must come with me to see and decide how we handle this. I can’t keep this under wraps forever. Sooner or later it will get out, and we don’t want Enrique Valera, that asshole comandante from Reynosa, hearing about it and nosing around.”

  “Take me there.”

  “Very good.” The grin
spread across Garcia’s fleshy face again. “That’s what I have been saying. We must go.”

  The drive took an hour. Garcia had taken the initiative to station men a mile in each direction from the scene of the attack, closing the road to all traffic. They passed by the roadblock, and the sergeant gave a limp-wristed salute as his men outside stiffened to attention.

  Pinned in the narrow expanded cab space behind Garcia and his driver, Lopez thought they would never arrive. When they did, he wanted to puke out his breakfast.

  The smell of death was in the air. Marty Slocum and Chesty Miller lay in a crumpled heap, tangled together in the cab of the overturned truck. Slocum’s face was down between his knees. Chesty’s eyes stared blankly through the bullet holes in the windshield.

  Carrion seekers had already made their way into the truck. The soft flesh around the mouths and noses had been torn away. One of Chesty’s eyes protruded from the socket where some small creature had considered his eyelid to be an especially tasty delicacy.

  The bile rose in Pepe Lopez’s throat again. He turned away, his brain trying to process it all.

  Garcia was calm. No matter the outcome, he and his men would be paid—had been paid. For them, this was an entertaining interlude, a bit of drama in their otherwise drab existence.

  Think! Pepe looked again at the truck and the bodies of the men he had seen just the day before, alive and well.

  The bodies. There was nothing to do about them. They were dead.

  The truck. Trucks get hijacked sometimes, especially trucks from the other side of the border.

  The cargo. He scanned the side of the road, taking in the scattered and broken crates of avocados. A plan began to take shape.

  “Alright.” He turned to Garcia. “There has been a hijacking. That is what you will tell your superiors.”

  “Of course.” Garcia nodded and shook his head to indicate this was not news. “I must report the hijacking.” He sighed as he tried to explain the real problem to Lopez. “My superiors are not fools. They will want to know why it was selected and attacked. They will want to know the motive.” He looked around at the scattered crates and shrugged. “As you can see, the cargo of avocados remains. The real cargo is gone. A motive will be difficult to explain.”