Standoff. Both men stood in the middle of the room, and neither spoke for a good thirty seconds. The silence highlighted the sounds outside. A car pulling into the turnaround and stopping out front. The engine being turned off and the car door slamming. Footsteps echoing on the porch.
Anger flared briefly in Athey’s eyes as the man came through the door. Flared and died. Then he was back to staring at the floor, shoulders stooped. A broken man. Grant turned to see who’d come in. At first he thought it was the chair-leaner from the hotel, but it was another cowboy wearing the same outfit. Pointed boots and a cowboy hat. No spurs and no tin star. He ignored Hunter Athey and directed his words to Grant.
“I’m here to give you a ride. Mr. Macready wants to see you.”
eleven
The car trailed a cloud of dust as it bounced along the uneven track. Straight north up the side of the RV park, then a dogleg right past the town landfill where all the rubbish was buried. To look at the square patch of land, you’d never guess how much was hidden beneath the surface. A bit like the town itself.
Grant sat in the front passenger seat, wary of being driven out into the desert even after the right turn. The cowboy chewed a matchstick as he drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting out of the open window. Flat, featureless landscape drifted by outside. Grant kept half an eye on the driver while scouting ahead. He was wrong. They weren’t driving into the desert. The car was heading back into Absolution along the outskirts. Low roofs and scattered fences picked out the edge of town. An abandoned athletics track marked their return to civilization. The car turned right again, and Grant noted the street sign. Avenue D. They were coming back into town from the north.
The car slowed at the end of the athletics track and pulled off the road. Whichever school had used the sports ground was long since gone, demolished and replaced by a walled compound solid enough to repel Santa Anna’s army. There were two wooden barrels and a water trough next to the entrance, more for effect than necessity. They didn’t water horses here anymore. A heavy wooden gate swung open, and the car drove into the courtyard. There were outbuildings and bunkhouses and work sheds, but the main building was yet another replica of the mission that became a fortress. The hacienda looked more like a fortress than a church, and the man standing on the patio to greet him didn’t look like a priest.
Tripp Macready was a squat powerhouse of a man dressed all in black. Trousers, shirt, fancy jacket, and casual loafers. Not cowboy boots. That was for his employees. Grant didn’t need to be told who he was. The man’s authority emanated like the throbbing of a power station. He practically crackled with energy.
The car pulled up at the foot of the stairs, but the driver didn’t get out. He sat there chewing his matchstick with an air of dumb insolence. Grant got the message. Dust puffed around his trainers as he got out of the car. Maybe black K-Swiss wasn’t the best choice for desert climes. Not if you wanted to keep clean. He reckoned keeping clean would be a problem if you hung around Tripp Macready.
The car door slammed shut. The driver pulled across the yard to one of the outbuildings that housed a triple garage with accommodation across the top. Several men were busy in the shadowy interior. Two more came out of the garage and walked to the building next door, a bunkhouse structure that looked more like a barracks. The men were tall and straight and disciplined. Not slouching. Not making small talk. Not hanging around gawping at the stranger in their midst. A scrawny cat sauntered across the yard, then flopped on its side in the shade of the patio steps.
The man in black gestured for Grant to join him, scrutinizing everything about Grant as he climbed the steps. He paid particular attention to the lack of luggage. His voice was pure Texan, deep and hard.
“You travel light.”
“Travel light, travel far.”
“Judging by your accent, you sure have traveled.”
“Not today.”
“No. Today it’s just the jailhouse to the Gage to the motel. Where d’you keep your toothbrush in that outfit? Your back pocket?”
Grant shook his head.
“You must be thinking of that other fella. I like my creature comforts. Left my bag at the motel when your driver showed up.”
“Hunter Athey. He’ll look after it for you.”
The man considered Grant for a moment, then stuck out his hand.
“My name’s Macready.”
Grant watched Macready, gauging if this was going to be one of those knuckle-crushing handshakes intended to mark his territory. He decided to risk it and shook the proffered hand.
“Like Spencer Tracy in Bad Day at Black Rock.”
Macready smiled. “Except with two arms.”
To prove it he waved towards a wooden table near the barbecue pit with his other hand. Solid chairs with plain cushions circled the table. They walked across the patio together. Macready gestured to the nearest chair but Grant chose the one opposite with its back to the sun. Macready sat next to him. Both facing the courtyard. Neither with the sun in his eyes. Macready nodded his approval.
“I understand you’re not an easy man to push.”
“Depends who’s doing the pushing.”
Macready clicked his fingers and a jug of freshly squeezed lemonade with two glasses was brought to the table. Ice clinked in the jug.
“In what way?”
“The tree that doesn’t bend will break in strong winds.”
“So you’re flexible.”
“I haven’t broken yet.”
“Maybe you’ve not been pushed hard enough.”
Grant shrugged and changed the subject.
“I see you’re an equal opportunity employer.”
Macready maintained a level gaze while he poured two glasses of lemonade.
“How do you mean?”
“Local boys at the hotel. Ex-military here.”
Macready took a swig of lemonade.
“I believe in putting back into the community. Create jobs. Keep businesses running. But I like the discipline that comes with hiring military types. At a guess, I’d say you know what I’m talkin’ about.”
Grant clinked the ice in his glass but didn’t drink.
“I’ve seen The Longest Day.”
“And The Alamo too, I’ll bet. But we’re not talking John Wayne movies here. I’m guessing you’re ex-army. Am I right?”
Grant took a swig of lemonade instead of answering. Macready took that as answer enough.
“So the question is, what’s a British ex-soldier doing in Absolution, Texas?”
“And I’m guessing you know the answer to that.”
Macready put his glass on the table.
“I know what you’ve been saying around town.”
“There you go then.”
“But I don’t see an Englishman coming all this way to see a Mex.”
“A Yorkshireman.”
“What’s the difference?”
Grant locked eyes with Macready. “Do you consider yourself a Texan or an American?”
“Point taken. Same applies, though.”
The sun beat down on the bleached stone around the table. It baked the floor and sucked any moisture out of the dirt in the compound. The ice in Grant’s drink had already melted to half its original size. Shards of sunlight reflected off the glass. The mercenaries kept busy. The cat curled up in the shade. Grant tinkled the ice in his glass, then took a deep, cooling drink. He kept his face blank when he spoke.
“That reminds me of a joke going the rounds when I was a kid.”
He put the empty glass on the table.
“An Englishman, a Frenchman, and an American are on a plane. Engines cut out and the pilot says there’s not enough parachutes for everyone. Wants three volunteers. So the Englishman goes to the open door, shouts ‘God save the Queen,’ and jumps out.
Then the Frenchman goes to the door and shouts ‘Viva la France’ and jumps out. The American—he gets up and shouts ‘Remember the Alamo’ and throws a Mexican out.”
Macready snorted a laugh. “That might be true around here, but it don’t explain why a Yorkshireman’s so far from home.”
“Visiting.”
Macready was still dancing around the subject. “But visiting who?”
Grant kept it brief. “Eduardo Cruz.”
He watched Macready, waiting for a more direct question. For some reason the Texan was sounding Grant out. Checking to see if he was who he thought Grant was. The cowboy at the hotel had passed the message that he was. Macready didn’t seem so sure. Something was worrying the head honcho. Grant wasn’t in the mood to ease that worry. His reasons for being here were private. Whatever troubles Macready had weren’t Grant’s problem.
Macready drummed his fingers on the table. The cat raised its head, then pushed up onto its feet. The drumming grew faster and the cat followed the sound. Some kind of Pavlov’s dog thing going on. Macready watched the cat come towards him but spoke to Grant.
“We’ve got a rodent problem in Absolution.”
The cat jumped into Macready’s lap. He began to stroke it.
“A good mouser is worth its weight in gold.”
Two mercenaries crossed the courtyard and came up the steps. They bypassed the table and went into the hacienda. Big, solid men who didn’t look like they’d back down to anyone. Macready stopped stroking the cat.
“I think you would make a good mouser. What do you say?”
Grant checked over his shoulder to make sure the two heavies hadn’t come back out, then focused on the cat.
“I’m more of a save a mouse, eat a pussy kind of fella.”
“The job pays well.”
Grant nodded towards the bunkhouse. “Thanks. But I think you’ve got it covered.”
The bonhomie dropped out of Macready’s voice. His hand tightened in the cat’s neck fur. His other hand came slowly under its throat, tickling the Adam’s apple. The cat began to purr. Loud and throaty.
“Some of my mousers aren’t up to the task. Too many rats are getting past. I don’t like that.”
His hand gripped the cat’s throat and he suddenly grabbed its head with the other. He jerked it sideways in a vicious twist. The neck snapped with a loud crack. The head faced backwards, then lolled to one side. He started stroking the dead cat as if soothing it.
“I could have it cooked and brought to your motel if you really want to eat pussy. But saving rats is a dangerous business in Absolution.”
Grant pushed back his chair and stood up. “Good job I’m only passing through, then.”
Macready didn’t stand. He waved at the garage with a fur-encrusted hand. “I’ll get one of my boys to drive you back.”
Grant shook his head. “That’s okay. I think I’ll walk. Thanks for the drink.”
He went down the steps and crossed the courtyard. His trainers were coated in dust. The sun was hot on his back but the lemonade was already leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Despite the heat, he felt like a coffee, or maybe just a friendly face. The big wooden gate swung open and he left the compound. The dusty expanse of Avenue D had never felt so empty.
twelve
Grant walked back down the street towards the bank. It felt good to be on familiar ground after the claustrophobic atmosphere of Macready’s compound. He wondered where the local kids went to school since Macready had turned the old one into his own personal Alamo. He wondered where the locals did anything since the Texan seemed to own the entire town. Almost the entire town.
He took the same route as before to the only place Macready didn’t own. Along North Third to the town dump and beyond. The old-timer was still shooting rats and still avoiding hitting the propane store. Grant waited for a lull in hostilities, then waved at the ancient sniper before cutting through the dump. He doubted Macready had been talking about the same kind of rodent problem, but one thing was certain. Tripp Macready was a bigger prick than his son. And a more dangerous one.
By the time Grant crossed in front of Sixto’s to Gilda’s Grill and Diner, he was ready for a coffee. What he wasn’t expecting was the reception he’d receive once he got inside.
“I can’t give you any coffee.”
“I don’t want it given. I’m buying.”
“Can’t sell you any either.”
Grant was standing at the counter. Sarah Hellstrom busied herself polishing the chrome boiler like a true barista. There were only two customers—the same elderly couple as before. He couldn’t tell if they were drinking coffee or not.
“How come?”
Sarah busied herself with the boiler. The strong and confident woman he’d met yesterday was nowhere to be seen, replaced by this pale imitation who was avoiding meeting his eyes.
“Machine’s broken.”
“Tea then?”
“We don’t serve tea.”
“Something cold?”
“Don’t have nothing cold either.”
Grant lowered his voice and spoke in slow, friendly tones. “Well, something’s turned cold in here. I hope you don’t hold it against me.”
Sarah shuddered as she cleaned the spout, then stopped what she was doing. She braced her shoulders and appeared to make a decision. She turned sad eyes towards him.
“I can’t help you.”
The old couple sensed the atmosphere and finished their drinks. They pushed back from the table, left money on the tray, and shuffled out the door. Sarah’s eyes followed them all the way out. Grant waited until she turned them back on him.
“Sarah. I’m sorry if I got you in trouble.”
All the resistance drained out of her.
“You didn’t. I got into it all by myself.”
“The car?”
“Scott.”
Grant took a moment to digest that. He paid close attention to Sarah’s face. The cheek she had briefly touched yesterday. It was clean and bruise free. There was no sign of makeup covering any injury. The eye wasn’t swollen or bloodshot. That put his mind at ease. Partly.
“I know he wasn’t keen on me going to Adobe Flats. Must have told his old man. That’s why he had me arrested.”
Sarah looked surprised and shook her head. “They don’t care about you going to Adobe Flats. Scott just doesn’t like me talking to strange men.”
“Am I that strange?”
A faint smile crept over her face. “You’re off-the-map strange.”
Grant smiled back. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“You’re some kind of soldier. I know that much.”
“Used to be.”
“Ever kill anyone?”
“I was a typist.”
“Now that is strange.”
Grant changed the subject. “So Scott’s the jealous type, is he?”
Sarah put the polishing cloth down on the counter. She kept a straight face but couldn’t hide the wince as she straightened her right arm. Her shirtsleeves had been rolled up to the elbow the first time he’d met her. They were only folded down to the forearm now.
“I told you. We’re history. He doesn’t see it that way, though. Gets kind of possessive.”
Grant leaned over the counter and gently reached for her arm. She tried to draw it back but he made soothing noises and she let him slide the sleeve up her arm. Her skin was smooth and tanned with fine blond hairs covering the forearm. The bruise was on her bicep. Dark and vicious. Merging from five smaller bruises. Four fingers and a thumb. Grabbed and shaken but not hit in the face. An old technique to make sure you keep the bruising out of sight. Grant’s jaw clenched.
“That’s why he had his dad call the police?”
Again the look of surprise. “He didn’t need to call hi
s father. He knows the deputy.”
Grant carefully rolled her sleeve back down, his hand lingering on the skin of her forearm. The hairs were so soft they barely registered. Sarah laid a hand on top of his.
“It was his father who got you released.”
Ten minutes later they were sitting in the farthest booth from the window, the coffee machine miraculously working again. Grant had a latte. Two sugars. No lid. Sarah had her coffee strong and black.
“Macready gave Scott a helluva roasting for getting in the way.”
“In the way of what?”
“I don’t know. But I get the feeling they want you treated with kid gloves.”
“That’s not the way he treated you.”
Sarah smoothed the sleeve down on her arm. “I’m no threat.”
“And they think I am?”
She stopped stroking her sleeve. “You’re a stranger. They don’t know what to think.”
Grant’s voice became a low growl.
“I’ll tell you one thing he’d better be thinking if he touches you again. He’d better be thinking, ‘I really like hospital food.’”
The old Sarah resurfaced. Clenched jaw and fiery eyes. “I can take care of myself.”
Grant pointed at her arm. “Looks like it.”
Sarah waved his concerns away.
“That’s nothing. I took care of myself before you got here. I’ll take care of myself after you’ve gone. You getting involved will only make things worse. You’re passing through. I’ve got to live here.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Huh?”
“America’s a big place. I know. I got lost three times trying to find the toilet.”
“My roots are here.”
“Then uproot. Ground’s not so fertile that it’s worth sticking around.”
She took a sip of her coffee. “That’s all right for you to say, globe-trotting all over the place.”
Grant took a drink of his. “A rolling stone gathers no moss.”
“We don’t have moss in Texas. Too dry.”
Adobe Flats Page 7
