He saw the adobe wall coming towards him but could do nothing about it. The edge of the ramp slashed into the brickwork and tore from its hinges. Grant could barely hold on. He was knocked off his feet but strong fingers held tight. The sound of tearing metal filled the night. The fuselage crumpled and twisted. The forward rotor blades sheared off and spun into the darkness. The entire front section of the cargo helicopter tilted onto its side and smashed through the next building down the street. Shards of metal became shrapnel.
Grant ducked and held on.
The ramp hit the ground at the slide and skidded on the dusty surface. It bounced twice but stayed flat like a pebble skimming across a pond. Something sharp cut a groove along Grant’s cheek. He kept his head down and clung on for dear life. He was vaguely aware of other figures staying low on either side of him. Peripheral vision told him the ramp was keeping on course down the middle of the street. Sand and grit was slowing it down.
A loud crumpling bang sounded to the right. The helicopter wreckage coming to rest in a destroyed building. There was no explosion. There was only the noise of tearing metal and falling masonry. Sparks filled the sky but didn’t ignite the fuel pods. A small miracle amid the greater disaster.
The ramp lost momentum and with it, direction. It veered off to the left and began to spin. The left-hand side of the street was already derelict, the buildings either bombed out or simply old and crumbling. The cargo ramp ricocheted off a low wall, then slid into an open yard. The cacophony of noise subsided but still rang in Grant’s ears. His first priority was self-assessment—a physical check for injuries. There was pain and the warm flush of blood down one cheek but nothing else. His muscles ached, but that was a good sign. It meant he still had the limbs the muscles were attached to.
He wiped dirt out of his eyes and looked around. At first he couldn’t see anything. The cloud of dust hung like a fog around him. A couple of minutes later, the dust settled. That was the first time he saw how many he’d lost and how many had survived to fight the rest of the day.
the present
Macready senior’s too big a prick to even be a prick.
—Hunter Athey
eight
The swirl of dust was back in Grant’s rear-view mirror but not as far away as before. The sun was low, and a string of clouds had crawled across the horizon. The hard blue sky was tinged with red that seeped through the clouds, turning them into bloody rags. It was going to be a beautiful sunset.
Apart from the dust cloud in the rear-view mirror.
Grant kept half an eye on that while contemplating his afternoon at Adobe Flats. There was truth and lies amid the derelict buildings, some told by those he’d spoken to and others enshrined in legend. Grant used the word legend loosely. The map he’d studied before setting off to Adobe Flats was compiled from decades of information. Once things were written down, they became fact. Print those facts for long enough, and they became history. It was a short leap from history to legend. The legend said the road ended at Adobe Flats. The map was wrong.
That was the lie.
Eduardo Cruz didn’t live there anymore.
That was the truth.
Grant used soft hands on the steering wheel to navigate the dry riverbed, keeping in low gear as he guided the car up the opposite bank. The track didn’t become a road again until it was back on level ground, but the route was made clear by deep-rutted tire marks that scarred the hardpan. Years of traffic tattooed on dry earth. Travelling from nowhere to next-to-nowhere. Adobe Flats to Absolution and vice versa. That was understandable. The hacienda and its outbuildings looked like they’d been there a long time. People had to drive to town. Only natural they’d follow the line of least resistance. The same route Grant was taking.
The other tire tracks were harder to explain.
The road ended at Adobe Flats. The map said so. Heavy tracks beyond the turnaround said otherwise. Deep tread patterns, wide wheelbase. Trucks. Heading on past the hacienda towards the foothills of Big Bend National Park. Or coming from there. Not as deeply rutted as the regular trail. Not as many years in the making but long enough to be semipermanent.
Blood-red light glinted in the rear-view mirror. Grant focused on the shape forming in the dust cloud. Hard and fast and closing the gap. Whoever it was had decided not to wait any longer. Following was becoming pursuing. Decision time. Try and outrun them or let them catch up and find out what they wanted. Grant was unarmed. Texas was a land of guns. If this became a face-off, he’d have to tread carefully. Itchy trigger fingers could make the wrong move after a long, drawn-out chase. He’d seen it before. Better to calm things down. That was a good idea in any confrontation. He eased his foot off the gas.
The red glint came again. Closer this time. Followed immediately by a flash of blue light. Then red again. Then blue. The shape in the dust cloud solidified. Red and blue lights flashed their warning. Stop in the name of the law. Grant slipped his Boston PD badge wallet out of his jeans and hid it under the seat. This visit was off the books. He didn’t want to involve his boss in Boston. He stopped the car and turned off the engine.
“Get out of the car with your hands in the air.”
Not very original. Not very professional either. From all the way back where the cop car had skidded to a halt amid a swirl of dust. The dust settled. The rooftop light bar continued to flash. The cop stood beside the open door of his unit, too far away to see if Grant had a weapon and not close enough to ensure that Grant didn’t restart the engine and speed off. The cop needed to move closer and wider to get a view of the keys in the ignition and order Grant to place his hands on top of the steering wheel until control was established.
Silence engulfed the plain after the roar of the engines.
A gentle breeze whistled through Grant’s open windows.
“I said, get out of the goddamn car.”
A distinctive click broke the silence. The hammer being cocked. Grant nodded at the rear-view mirror, opened the door, and swung his legs out. The ugly black pistol followed his movement. The cop got that part right. Grant leaned forward and stood up. He didn’t close the door. Unnecessary movement was bad for itchy trigger fingers. A cocked weapon only needed a moment’s lapse for mistakes to be made. He didn’t want to be at the wrong end of that mistake.
“Hands up.”
Grant turned to face the man striding towards him and raised his hands.
“Shouldn’t that be reach for the sky?”
The cop looked nonplussed.
Grant shrugged as best he could with his arms in the air. “Bad joke. I surrender.”
The cop kept his gun trained on Grant as he closed the distance, then stopped six feet from his prisoner. He was big and young and most definitely not local. In plainclothes, not uniform. Neatly pressed khaki pants and a beige shirt. No hat. The dying sun glinted off the silver star pinned to his shirt. The accent wasn’t Texan and the face wasn’t parched leather. That last bit could be youth, maybe twenty-five. Not what Grant expected of the Absolution sheriff.
“You think this is a joke?”
Grant shook his head. “No. I think there’s been a mistake.”
“You bet. And you’re the one that made it.”
Grant waited to be told what mistake he’d made. Procedure was breaking down all over the place. The young cop didn’t hold himself like a law enforcement officer. He hadn’t approached the situation like a cop either. More like a fan of the Westerns Grant used to watch on Saturday afternoon TV. The broad shoulders and upright gait told Grant something, though. Ex-military if ever he’d seen one. Grant was ex-army. He could spot one a mile away. Not unusual in the police field, but this one needed to learn the rules. Maybe good old country boys did things different.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Grant turned to face the car and lowered his arms. Footsteps clos
ed the distance behind him, and he felt the cold steel of the handcuffs being snapped on one wrist. The other bracelet dangled there while the cop tried to work one-handed. Another bad move. Grant could use the swinging cuff as a weapon. He didn’t. He let his other wrist get cuffed, then relaxed his shoulders. The itchy trigger finger was still a concern. He waited until he heard the cop holster his weapon before he turned around.
This is where Grant should have protested his innocence, but experience told him that would be a waste of time. It had never worked on him when he’d arrested people in Yorkshire, so why should it work in Texas? He’d be told the score. All in good time. Right now Grant didn’t want to piss off the young cop. He’d already shown a total disregard for procedure. No search. No reading of his rights. He didn’t want to add police brutality to the list.
“Ain’t you gonna ask what this is about?”
Grant had never asked a prisoner that either. This boy was working completely off the manual. It was only the police cruiser and the tin star that marked him as a cop at all.
“It’s about a mistake. I figure you’ll tell me when you read me my rights.”
The cop flexed his shoulders, and Grant thought he’d said too much.
“You had the right to stay on the train. You shoulda took it.”
Police brutality didn’t look imminent. Maybe Grant could engage in a little conversation. He kept his voice nonconfrontational.
“I know things work different here in the states. I’ve seen the salads—size of a small field. But last I heard, it wasn’t illegal to get off a train.”
“Maybe not. But you picked the wrong place to get off at.”
“Considering how friendly everyone’s been, I’m inclined to agree with you.”
The cop seemed confident he’d got the measure of his prisoner. This wasn’t some criminal mastermind he was dealing with here. He proceeded like he was talking to an idiot.
“That’s your rights out of the way.”
He jerked a thumb towards Sarah Hellstrom’s car.
“What you don’t got the right to do is take this here car without the owner’s permission. That’s what we call theft in these parts.”
Grant stayed calm. “Grand theft auto?”
“That’s right.”
“I always thought that was just a video game. Didn’t know you actually called it that when someone stole a car.”
The cop squinted against the sunset. “Is that a confession?”
Grant shook his head. “Wouldn’t matter if it was, since you didn’t Miranda me.”
“Oh, I did. You musta forgot. And you just confessed.”
“No. I made an observation about if someone stole this car. But I didn’t. Because I got Sarah’s permission to borrow it.”
The cop’s face went blank. Grant gave him a few seconds to respond. When he didn’t speak, Grant thought he’d better explain further.
“Assuming the definition of theft is the same here as in England. You know—taking property belonging to another with the intent to permanently deprive that person of it, without permission or other lawful authority. I’m sure you’ve got something similar. Well, I’m returning the car now. So there goes the intent to permanently deprive. And Sarah lent me her car, so that’s the permission or other lawful authority.”
The cop still didn’t speak.
Grant raised his eyebrows.
“No theft. No crime. See where I’m going with this?”
A faint smile feathered the young cop’s lips. In the dying light of day it gave him the look of a devil. Twisted red features and a glint in his eyes. When he spoke he sounded more confident than he’d done the last few minutes.
“Where you’re goin’ is the town jail.”
Grant let out a sigh. “I just explained. I have Sarah’s permission.”
The smile almost turned into a grin. “That don’t mean shit. She don’t own the car.”
The wind went out of Grant’s argument. The clouds on the horizon dripped blood, and the evening sky began to darken. The cop took Grant’s arm and led him towards the cruiser.
“And that means you stole it. Welcome to my world.”
nine
Grant sat on the lumpy mattress with his back against the wall and stared at the night sky through a barred window high on the opposite wall. The jailhouse was about what you’d expect for a town with no prospects. Small and functional and bare as a streaker on match day. The front office was just that: an office. There was an old wooden desk in one corner and a couple of filing cabinets in the other. A wall-mounted firearms rack with two rifles and a handgun clipped into the frame. A solid-looking chain was threaded through the trigger guards and padlocked at one end.
There was no charge desk or booking-in counter. Grant had emptied his pockets on the sheriff’s desk before being searched and documented. Documented meant giving his name and date of birth and being thrown in a cell. The cellblock wasn’t a block. It was two adjoining cells off a short corridor at the rear of the building. Just like every Western he’d ever seen, from Bandolero! to Rio Bravo. He half expected Walter Brennan to come limping in with a tin cup and a plate of beans. It was a step up from Bad Day at Black Rock though. At least there was no alcoholic sheriff sleeping it off in the cell.
Nobody told him whose car he’d stolen, and Grant didn’t ask. It was obviously a trumped-up charge to get him off the streets. The question was, how long were they going to play this game and why? What didn’t they want him to see? If it was the burnt-out buildings at Adobe Flats, why bother? Fires happened all the time. People moved on. Without any evidence to the contrary, there was nothing to suggest foul play. Until they arrested him for no reason.
There was plenty to ponder but nothing to be gained by it. Insufficient data. So Grant leaned against the wall and looked at the stars. He’d been in worse places in other buildings with bars on the windows and a good view of the night sky. Whoever was behind this would tell him when the time was right or send him packing with no explanation at all. He was guessing it would be the latter. Until that happened, he might as well get a good night’s sleep.
Bacon and coffee. Two of the best smells in the world. Rattling keys in the corridor stirred him, but it was the smell that woke him up. The old man who came through the door from the office could have rivalled Walter Brennan. Without the limp. He did have a tin cup and a plate of beans, though. Beans and bacon. Two slices of toast. Steam swirled around the top of the coffee cup.
“Stand back from the bars.”
A redundant command since Grant was lying on the bed. An order delivered with a hint of apology. The man kept his head down and didn’t meet Grant’s eyes. It was only the silver star pinned on his chest that gave him any authority at all. sheriff was stamped into the metal. Apart from that, everything about this fella said lackey. A man bought and paid for by whoever ran the town.
Grant swung his legs off the bed and sat up. The sheriff opened a drop-down flap in the bars, put the plate and the cup on it, then stood back. The bacon was cut into small pieces. There was a metal spoon sticking out of the beans. No knife and no fork. No cutting tools that could be used as offensive weapons. No crockery that could be broken for sharp edges. The sheriff nodded at the plate but still wouldn’t meet Grant’s eyes.
“If you don’t hurry up, it’s gonna get cold.”
Grant stood up and took the cup and plate. “And that worries you, does it?”
The sheriff’s eyes flicked up to Grant’s face, then down to the floor again.
“Just bein’ helpful. Suit yourself.”
“It’d be helpful to know what I’m doing in here.”
“Eating breakfast. For starters.”
Grant’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since the train. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to eat. There’d be plenty of time for Q&A after breakfas
t. The bacon was moist and tasty, not like the cremated hotel bacon he’d been fed in Los Angeles. The beans were beans. A cup of English breakfast tea would have gone down a treat but coffee would have to do. It was strong and black and tasted like shit. This wasn’t a latte with two sugars and a squirt of cream.
It only took ten minutes to clean his plate. By the time he looked up again, the sheriff had gone. No clinking of keys or rattling of bars as the flap was closed. Silent as the plague. It looked like Q&A would have to wait until he came back for the empties.
Judging from the angle of the sun and the passing of time, it was only an hour before the office door opened again. Grant balanced the cup on the plate and stood back from the bars. The sheriff looked like his confidence had returned because he walked straight down the corridor, unlocked the bars, and swung the door open. The smell of whisky came off him in waves. Dutch courage or whatever passed for that in Texas.
“Come on out and get your gear.”
He didn’t say that Grant was being released, but that’s what it sounded like. The sheriff stood back to let Grant go down the corridor first, then followed him into the office. There was a clear plastic bag on the desk. Grant put the plate down next to it and waited for the sheriff to explain. He didn’t. Instead, he sat down, opened the bag, and emptied the contents on the desktop. Grant swept the loose change and his hotel key into one pocket. He folded the banknotes into a worn leather wallet and put it in his back pocket. He clipped the watch on his wrist and signed the release form when it was pushed across the desk.
“That’s it?”
“Unless there’s anything missing.”
“There is. An explanation.”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair and looked up at Grant. His eyes were rheumy and wet but focused. He was back in charge, the apologetic figure from earlier a thing of the past. Until he needed another drink to bolster his courage.
Adobe Flats Page 5
