“So. Why are we here?”
Cruz leaned against the desk. “We are here because you did not follow doctor’s orders.”
Grant nodded at the door. “And why are they here?”
Cruz pushed off from the desk and went to open the door. He paused with one hand on the doorknob and turned back to Grant.
“Because Tony Sabata has been smuggling illegals across the border for years. Until Macready started using the same route and shut him down.”
Sabata wasn’t one for explaining. What little he confirmed he did between mouthfuls as they all sat around the dining table. The rest Grant learned from Doc Cruz and the old Mexican that Grant had seen before working behind the counter at Sixto’s—one of many illegals Sabata had helped find gainful employment in America. The fact that the old Mexican worked for Sabata’s rival was either ironic or intentional. The more Grant heard, the less he believed in irony.
The way it went was this.
Sabata was a coyote: a man who facilitated entry into the United States and escorted his immigrants across the border. He brought them through the mountain passes of Big Bend National Park and north past Adobe Flats. He took payment, but only enough to bribe officials on the border and cover transport costs. Families came across in small groups, not always together. Reunions were emotional affairs and prone to exuberant celebrations. Sabata was never short of food or goodwill donated by the people he had helped. If they prospered, Sabata ate well. If they struggled, he helped tide them over until things picked up.
In recent times, things had not picked up. It became harder to place illegals in work, and the few he did find jobs for struggled to make ends meet. Texans were not known for their love of Mexicans. Sabata had to range far and wide to support his imports. The pressure exaggerated his already short temper. Family reunions became few and far between. He took out his frustration on the only person available.
“So you did push her against the cooker.”
Sabata made another tortilla wrap but left it on his plate. The room fell silent. Grant had just breached an unspoken code: interfering with the privacy of marriage. He didn’t care. As a cop he’d been to plenty of domestic disputes. There was always a reason for relationships turning sour, but that was never justification for shoving your wife against a hot stove. Sabata stared at the Yorkshireman.
“She fell against the stove. I pulled her away.”
“That’s not what the bruises say.”
The old Mexican sucked in his breath. The other two men were suddenly intent on folding minced beef into soft tortillas. Sabata locked eyes with Grant, preparing to escalate the confrontation. To defend his honor. This could get ugly. Neither man was going to back down. Grant flexed his legs under the table, ready to push up if Sabata lunged forward. He’d dealt with angry husbands at domestics too. The coyote didn’t blink. The stare brought water to his eyes. Then he lowered his voice and nodded.
“The bruises were an overreaction.”
Grant waited for an explanation. Sabata looked sheepish. Maybe because he was talking in front of his men or maybe because this was something he was embarrassed about.
“I am not proud of my temper. She got burned. I dragged her from the heat. I shook her for being so careless. Too hard. She is the mother of my child. The shock made me forget that. I will never forget it again.”
The tension didn’t ease. Grant didn’t relax. This could still go either way.
Sabata leaned forward. “I hurt my wife. You stood up for her. That is the only reason I allow you to ask about this matter. I will not speak of it again.”
Grant nodded. “Fair enough.”
He scooped some spicy chicken into a soft wrap and folded it into a parcel.
“What happened with Macready?”
“About what?”
“About your smuggling.”
“I don’t smuggle. I help people find a better life.”
Grant chewed and swallowed. The chicken was delicious.
“Until recently. What changed?”
Sabata banged the table. Everybody’s plate jumped.
“What happened was Tripp Macready learned about my route and took it for himself. He paid more. I could not outbid him. The border guards grow fat on the smuggler’s money.”
Sabata lowered his voice.
“You have upset him more than you upset me. That is the other reason I break bread with you.”
Grant held a tortilla in one hand and raised his eyebrows.
Sabata smiled. “Figuratively speaking.”
He leaned his elbows on the table.
“What I want to know is what you saw in the factory. What is Macready bringing across that means he can pay so much?”
Grant finished his tortilla and wiped his mouth. “Let me show you.”
He reached into his pocket and took out the gold medallion.
The room fell silent again. Everybody stopped eating. Grant stood the coin on its side and flicked it into a spin. The gold blurred into spinning top. It glided towards the middle of the table until it began to wobble. Before it tumbled to a stop, Sabata slammed his hand down on the coin. He exploded with a string of swearwords in Spanish.
The other Mexicans sat back, startled.
Grant waited for a translation.
Sabata didn’t explain. He glared at the medallion with fire in his eyes. Doc Cruz rested a hand on Grant’s sleeve and leaned in close.
“Aztec gold. Was it all like this?”
Grant looked at the coin lying flat in the middle of the table. “A lot of it, yes. Some other pieces—ornaments, goblets.”
Cruz seemed reluctant to ask the next question. “What was he doing with it?”
“Melting it down into ingots.”
Sabata slammed the table again. “That bastard. He is not only raping my country, he is destroying its heritage.”
Grant didn’t comment.
Sabata was on a roll.
“You should have blown up his entire fucking operation. That would have taught him a lesson.”
Grant shrugged. “The factory’s only a waypoint. Smelting works on its way up the chain.”
Doc Cruz turned in his chair. “There is more?”
Grant glanced at Cruz but spoke to Sabata. “He might be bribing border guards to get his stuff across, but he’s paying a lot more farther north.”
He rubbed his fingers and thumbs together as if counting money. “Army trucks don’t come cheap. That many trucks don’t go missing without somebody high up giving the okay. That costs more than a few corrupt crossing guards.”
Sabata allowed a touch of admiration to enter his voice. “You have cost him time and money. He will not like you for that.”
“I don’t think he liked me from the start.”
“He will like you even less now. He will be looking harder to find you.”
Grant laid both hands flat on the table. The hairs on his forearms bristled. A cold shiver ran down the back of his neck. He looked at Sabata. “You found me.”
“I found out where you’d gone.”
“How?”
“Like I said, there aren’t many people who own a damaged hearse.”
Grant turned to Cruz. “Or who are friends with the man everyone in Absolution knows I came here to find. Damn.”
Grant wished he’d been more tight-lipped about why he was visiting Adobe Flats instead of telling every man and his dog who he was looking for. The doctor who had hung his shingle with Hunter Athey. Even before he asked the question, he knew it was too late.
“Do you have a phone here?”
thirty-two
The Absolution Motel and RV Park was in darkness by the time they arrived, a two-car convoy in the mouth of South Lee Street, just across the railroad tracks. Doc Cruz’s little puddle jumper and Tony Saba
ta’s pickup. They had driven the last half mile without lights, so Grant’s eyes were already adjusted to the dark by the time he got out and surveyed the turnaround out front. Down on one knee, low amid the scrub and cactus beside the two-lane blacktop.
Cruz stayed in the car. Sabata crouched next to Grant. The two men who had exchanged blows and gunfire looked at each other. Both men knew this wasn’t good. There had been no phone at Fort Pena Colorado Park, and the cell phone coverage south of Absolution was for shit. Grant always reckoned that was a convenient plot device in the movies. He found it extremely inconvenient now. Texas should invest in more cell phone towers.
He turned his attention back to the reception office. The last time he’d done this, he had been close to exhaustion and bleeding everywhere. Tonight he was in better shape, but he thought the outcome was going to be worse. There was no sign of Macready’s men hiding in wait. There were no vehicles in the turnaround. There were no fresh tracks in the moonlit dust. None of the tourist cabins were occupied. Even the one that Athey had rented to Grant was empty. The only part of the motel and RV park getting any trade these days was the mortuary. Grant hoped that wasn’t going to be true this time.
He checked both ways along the highway, then sprinted across the road doubled at the waist to stay below the height of the windows. He doubted that would make any difference, but he felt less conspicuous that way. Sabata trailed him, and they went through the archway together. Grant dropped to one knee next to a cactus that looked like Mickey Mouse getting acupuncture. Big round leaves or whatever they called them. The carved wooden sign hung above them, still with no bullet holes in it. It swayed gently for no reason Grant could fathom. There was no breeze. The night was still and quiet.
Grant scanned the front of the building for security cameras high up under the eaves. There weren’t any. There were no security lights either. Who was going to burgle a desert motel in the middle of nowhere? Satisfied that nobody could be watching on camera, Grant darted forward and flattened against the wall. He dropped to one knee again and peered through the window, his head low and down in one corner so it wouldn’t stand out.
There was nobody inside. Grant could tell that because the office had been destroyed, and nobody was tidying it up. There was no movement at all. The table had been tipped over. Catalogs and brochures for Big Bend National Park were scattered across the floor. The chairs were upended. The telephone had been ripped out of the wall. Grant checked the shadows on the floor. If anything had happened to Hunter Athey, that’s where his body would be. The only shadows were smashed furniture and ripped cushions.
A red light blinked inside.
Grant tensed. His eyes flicked from the red light to the office space to the door that Athey had come out of drying his hands. There still was no movement inside. The red light blinked again. Grant tried to remember if there was an alarm panel somewhere in the office. No, there wasn’t; same reason as the security cameras. Who was going to burgle a desert motel? He didn’t feel safe going in just yet. He turned to Sabata and made a walking man symbol with one hand, indicating for Sabata to go one way and Grant the other, round the back of the motel reception, then meet back here.
Sabata nodded and set off at a crouch.
Grant set off anticlockwise.
The stars were bright in the night sky. The moon wasn’t up yet. There were no streetlights to pollute the darkness. Pale blue starlight was the only illumination. It turned the journey around the motel into a shadowy ghost train ride on foot. Every crevice in the motel exterior was a black hole threatening to hide an assassin. Every bush and cactus was a possible henchman. Grant avoided the gravel path and the flower border. His footsteps were silent and continuous. He worked his way around the building quick but careful. He crossed paths with Sabata round the back and exchanged a brief nod before continuing all the way to the front again. A double check in case one of them had missed something.
By the time he’d reached Mickey Mouse again, Grant was satisfied there was nobody lying in wait. That only left the red light blinking in the darkness. If it wasn’t an alarm sensor, then what was it? He reached for the door handle, then stopped. His mind ran through what he knew about Macready. He was the wealthiest man in Absolution. He had no compunction about killing people. And he employed ex-army and mercenaries.
Grant lowered his hand from the door handle.
Mercenaries were explosive experts. Had Macready set a trap in case Grant came looking for Hunter Athey? Was there a trip wire or an infrared device waiting to blow up the building if Grant stepped inside? He pushed his face to the window and squinted at the red light. It blinked again in the far corner next to a drift of cardboard matchbooks and paper sachets spilled across the floor. Foreign coffee pouches and teabags with the little drawstrings for dangling in your cup.
Grant nodded his understanding.
He reached for the handle and opened the door.
Ten minutes later, the office was secured, all the corners searched. There was no sign of Hunter Athey apart from the battered hearse they’d found parked round the back. Grant unplugged the electric kettle, and the red light stopped blinking. Despite the lack of starlight in the darkened office, he had no trouble following the track of the struggle.
The overturned chair and table.
The slew of papers and area maps scuffed with dirty footprints.
The cups and plates broken amid the scattering of teabags.
The kettle on its side on the carpet.
Leading to the phone ripped out of the wall.
The disturbance wasn’t wanton destruction or signs of an overenthusiastic search of the motel reception. It was evidence of a man being caught by surprise who tried to make the warning call before it was too late. Who Athey thought he was going to call, Grant wasn’t sure. There was no phone at the Fort Pena Colorado Park, and he must have known that cell phone coverage was bad south of Absolution. Grant righted the chair and sat down. He drummed his fingers on the overturned table leg. Sabata leaned against the wall.
Grant thought about the cat—the one with its neck snapped around backwards. An old saying ran through his head: in the dark, all cats are gray. He didn’t know what that had to do with anything here, but the thought persisted. He needed a second opinion, so he turned to Sabata.
“What do you think?”
Sabata pushed off from the wall. “I think it is very bad.”
“Where would they take him?”
“That depends what they want him for. To make him talk? That he can do anywhere. Macready is not worried about what people think. He is not afraid of the law. So, the hacienda.”
Grant nodded. Macready owned the law in Absolution. If he wanted Athey to disappear, the body would never be found. There would be no evidence that he was killed at Macready’s compound.
“What else could he want?”
“He wants you.”
Grant was leaning towards a theory but wanted Sabata to confirm his thinking. “So?”
“So, if he wanted to send a message, there is only one place you have shown an interest in.”
“Adobe Flats.”
“What is left of it.”
Grant nodded his agreement.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
He’d been staring at a fixed spot during all this. Focusing his mind. That odd saying popped into his head again. In the dark, all cats are gray. The spot he’d been staring at was the scattered papers near the telephone. The smudged footprints and crumpled maps. A dark stain on the wall where the phone’s wire had been yanked out. Dark gray. All cats are gray. In the dark. He remembered taking witness statements in Yorkshire, especially ones about cars fleeing the scene of a crime in the dark. How many times had the color been disguised by the night or the orange sodium lights?
The stain on the wall was dark gray.
The smudged papers
were the same.
In the dark, all cats are gray.
Grant stood up and picked up a book of matches from amid the spilled teabags. He went to the stain and struck a match. Sulphur flared. The light flickered and settled down. The smudge wasn’t gray. It was red. The crumpled papers on the floor obscured the trail of blood, but it concluded the struggle that Grant had tracked. It didn’t end with the phone being yanked from the wall. It ended with somebody being dragged towards the back door. The one that led to the mortuary.
Grant closed his eyes and extinguished the match. He counted five seconds to allow the burned image to dull, then opened them again. With his eyes readjusted he crossed to the door, barely registering the smell of gas in the background.
Starlight bathed the mortuary in pale blue light through the skylight that Grant hadn’t noticed before. The last time he’d been in here, he had been somewhat the worse for wear. Hiding in a coffin until Hunter Athey had entered and turned on the fluorescent lights. Neither of them turned the lights on this time. Grant remembered Vince McNulty blowing his gas-filled flat up in Leeds, the ex-detective not being quick enough to stop Donkey Flowers from flicking the switch. Tony Sabata wasn’t that stupid. Both men smelled the gas. Both saw the propane bottles standing against the back wall, the taps partly open for a slow feed. Two bottles that hadn’t been there the last time. The RV park might use gas bottles for its visitors, but the mortuary was fully electric.
Grant went straight to the gas taps and turned them off. Sabata wedged the back door open to ventilate the room. The gas was heavier than air. It was slow to clear. Grant finished with the second bottle, then turned to face the coffin on the trestle—a different coffin than the one he’d been hiding in. The same layout: heavy wooden box with the lid resting loosely on top, not nailed down, slightly off center. Blood trail on the floor.
Sabata followed Grant’s gaze. Both men stood rooted to the spot, one at either end of the coffin. Grant was the first to move. He stepped forward and stood at the shoulder of the coffin. He would have taken a deep breath but the gas was still thick in the atmosphere. He pushed the lid to one side. Six inches. Just enough for the glow through the skylight to pick out the inside.
Adobe Flats Page 18
