On the other hand, it was wholly possible Hal was being paranoid and the man had never killed anyone in his entire life.
"He dead?"
"Pretty much," Apple Valley said.
"Too late, I guess."
Scratch that. Dude probably killed everybody for 100 miles. Probably even killed his Mama.
"That probably sounds pretty bad, doesn't it?" the man said.
"Not one of the more reassuring things we've heard lately," Apple Valley said.
Not that we've heard too damn many, Hal wanted to add.
The man nodded, handed the shovel to Hal, and leaned on the car. His finger had come off the shotgun trigger and in fact, as his butt left a print in the dust of the Chevy, he held the gun against the front of his thigh, his right hand far up the barrel. Hal could get to him easily before he could get the thing down to shoot.
Hal tensed, moved his right foot slyly backward to get a hard spring.
"Hal? Are you going to get to digging?"
Did his look tell her how pissed he was, that she was cramping his style? If it did, she ignored it. She pointed to the ground and mimed digging a grave.
For whatever reason, that crappy little voice in his head--the one that sent his ass off on this entire jaunt--told him to trust her. She'd fucked things up for him pretty good, but he wasn't dead and that had to be a good sign. Reluctantly, he began to dig.
When he stood over a hole about six inches deep and a couple feet wide, the man came off the car. Hal jerked the shovel up over his shoulder, ready to bat this guy to the East Coast.
"I could save you some time, I guess," the man said.
Hal eyed him until he handed the shotgun to Apple Valley. She held it like she'd never seen one before. Good Christ, Hal thought. Get the damned thing up and on our freaky friend. He took the shovel from his shoulder and held it out to the man, ready to grab the shotgun and get the hell out of Bagdad.
The man didn't take the shovel. His eyes darted from Hal to the body and Hal would've bet the chicken coop the guy was drooling. The man didn't actually rub his hands together, but he damn sure wanted to. "I didn't mean I could dig your grave. I mean I could save you from having to dig it."
"What?" Apple Valley raised the gun just a bit.
The man licked his lips. "Well, I could…you know…take…uh…take it for you." He took a step toward the corpse, leaned down the slightest bit.
"Uh…," Apple Valley said. "I…uh…."
"What she means to say," Hal said, trying to get his footing. "Was that we didn't realize you were an undertaker."
The man half-laughed, as though he and Hal were in on some private joke together. "Undertaker, yeah."
This is where the camera comes in, Hal thought. Allen Fucking Funt or some TV news station doing some story on fleeing fugitives. 'Look,' their talking heads would say breathlessly. 'We found the killer the cops couldn't.' Then they'd lean over the desk and look directly into the camera. 'And he's killed again.'
Instead, Hal's phone rang. He hesitated but the ring was so loud he had to grab it. "What?"
"Would you like to make your fortune? It's as easy as--"
"Would you quit fucking calling me, you goddamned asshole?" Hal snapped the phone closed and shoved it in his back pocket.
The shotgun-toting man stared at him, frowning. Well, what the fuck was Hal supposed to do now? Was there some manual for when you were lost out in the middle of the desert with a body and a side-show freak came along? Was there some accepted etiquette for just such a situation? Guess he missed that class at good ol' Barefield High in Barefield, Texas.
What would Hanford think of this nightmare? Maybe more importantly, what would Hanford do to get out of it? What was the right decision in this case?
"You worried about identification," the man said. "That maybe someone will see him and know who it is. Maybe they'll ID him, he's a cop, after all."
"He isn't--" Apple Valley began.
"--only a cop," Hal said. "He's also head of security for one of north Las Vegas' most exclusive casinos, Jolene Entertainment Enterprises. He is involved, as an investigator, in a number of other situations. You can understand our reluctance to hand him over to you."
The man looked blank.
"Can I be completely honest?" Hal asked.
The man's right eye worked into a frown. "If you hafta."
Hal swallowed, looked into the sky but there was no inspiration there. Come on, man, pull your head out, you've been in worse places than this. His gaze came back down and caught the man's American flag letters.
"Uh…have you…uh…what I mean to say is, I'm sure you've heard of the Homeland Security Department?"
A huge grin broke across the man's face. "Applied for a job. Ain't heard back yet but I feel pretty good about it."
"And you'll feel better when we call the regional supervisor in Phoenix and tell him how you helped two HSD agents in their hour of most dire need."
There was more confusion on the man's face than teeth in his mouth. "Uh…what?"
Hal pointed at himself and then at Apple Valley. "This is Special Agent Poheman and I'm Special Agent in Charge Epstein. We are Homeland Security."
"No shit?" The man's eyes went wide. "No fucking shit?" He grabbed Hal's hand and shook it generously. "That is absolutely righteous." He thumped the American flag letters on his chest. "Tell me what you need."
Hal took a deep breath, used the most authoritative voice he could muster. "Well, sir, we need this body to be buried deep and good. He is an agent with the HSD, as you can see from the badge."
"He ain't undercover?"
"Exactly. This--" Hal touched the bloody badge. "Is simply part of the charade?" He took a step toward the man, slung his arm around the man's shoulder. "No one can know he's been murdered, not yet. Once the case of the terror cell in Kirkland is broken--"
"Kirkland?" The man's eyes bulged. "I gotta cousin livin' over there."
"Agent?" Apple Valley said.
"Special Agent in Charge," the man said pointedly.
"Right. Special Agent in Charge, you weren't supposed to tell anyone anything."
"I understand that, underling, but this is a special situation. This requires decisions. Besides, this man is a God-fearing American."
"Ain't scared of nobody," the man said.
"Figure of speech," Hal said. "Once the case is nailed down and presented to the military court working out of Phoenix, we can announce what happened to our agent and get him a proper burial and the Congressional Medal of Honor. Until then--" Hal put a finger over his lips. "Sshhhhh."
"But can't you put him on ice somewhere? Seems like a bad thing to bury him out here."
Hal cleared his throat. "Well, of course we could but--Uh…well, it's like this--"
"The cell is centered on HSD agents," Apple Valley said.
"Oh, my God." The man's voice was quiet. "That's treason. Ain't it?"
Hal nodded. "Absolutely. And we're not sure who's working for who. Until we do, we have to keep the details quiet."
The man hesitated. A thin, pale-pink tongue ran over his equally thin lips. His beefy right hand wiped down his forehead. He moved from foot to foot, his gaze again moving between Apply Valley and Hal.
"You can help us by burying him," Hal said gently.
The man's eyes narrowed. "But what if someone comes along and identifies him? Kirkland ain't but a few miles up the road."
Hal licked his lips. "I guess you'll have to bury him in such a way that no one could identify him."
Silence rained over them. Then the man cleared his throat. "Maybe this'll help. I don't usually keep the head and hands."
"That's a start," Hal said.
"And I don't usually bury them. I don't do nothing freaky with 'em, I just…you know…." The man's eyes cast down.
"Say no more, sir. What a true American does for the cause is for the cause. Word will never get out. All people will know--once Kirkland is broken--is that you are a t
rue patriot. You will be recognized for this."
The man stood tall and straight and for a moment, Hal thought he might salute.
"And I hate to mention this."
"What?"
"What happened to our agent also involved us being robbed of everything. Our ids, our ready cash, everything."
The man pulled out a thin wallet, cranked it open, and handed them a few tens. "It's all I got but you take it."
"Sir," Hal said. "You have a deal."
The man grinned. "Now, get outta town fast, 'cause you breakin' curfew."
Hal gaped. "This place has a curfew?"
"Yeah. My brother's the town marshal but he don't even give me a break on it." The man stared at them for a long moment. "It's good you guys with the Department, 'cause otherwise this would look pretty funny, you know?"
"Funny how?" Apple Valley asked.
He nodded to the car. "That's probably stolen and you got a body. Not just anybody but one looks like a cop. Don't guess other cops, like my brother, would take any too kindly to that." The man raised his hands. "But you're national security so it's all legit, ain't it?"
"Legit enough for now," Hal said. "He's yours but remember what we said--no identification."
The man grabbed Officer Douglas' shoulders suddenly, a father shaking a misbehaving child. He stood, Officer Douglas' body in his clutch, and headed into the darkness.
Hal took the shotgun, needing to feel the comforting weight of it. I got all kinds of miles yet to go, God knows who else is up ahead of me. And something's niggling at the back of my brain. I don't know what it is, but I damn sure don't dig it.
"Maybe," the voice said, "up ahead of you ain't all you got to worry about."
On the other hand, if we get stopped somewhere along the way the last thing we want in that car is a fucking sawed-off shotgun. Cops'll ask permission to search the car and if I give it, they'll find this ugly hunk of metal. If I don't, they'll call that probable cause and find it anyway. The Glock was already going to cause enough problems.
"We'll pass on the shotgun," Hal said finally.
"Why? Thought you needed it."
"Well…we're going into the hornet's nest. We go armed and they'll kill us, too."
"Can't get me a medal if you dead," the man said. "Give it back then." He nodded toward Officer Douglas. "Put it on him."
Apple Valley set the gun on Officer Douglas' belly but it slipped off.
"Jam it in his pants," the man said.
She did as he demanded and when the two of them, man and corpse, slid off into the darkness, Officer Douglas had quite the armed erection.
Hal jammed the money in his pocket, and he and Apply Valley hopped into Jolene's Nova and roared the hell outta Bagdad.
1,107 Miles
After Phoenix, San Simon was a blink.
All night long, the road to Phoenix had been mostly empty. In the cloak of darkness, another car or semi-rig occasionally passed, but those headlights and taillights were only visible long enough to pass or be passed.
Like everybody I ever knew, Hal thought. Passing each other or seeing each other or knowing each other just long enough to snatch something from whoever they saw. Maybe a few Franklins or a snort of the white or a swallow of the amber. Whatever the item, it was also a bit of their soul, maybe whatever they could scrape together from pieces they stole from someone else, or maybe only what they had left.
But since Phoenix, Interstate 10 had been packed. Too many people to find any soul.
Wouldn't mind a little blast of the amber right now. A bottle at the next stop. A bottle and new boots. But he knew he wouldn't. Not because Theresa hated his drinking, though that was true enough, but because he was scared shitless right now. Piss was eating through him he was so scared. Hell, he'd been that scared three times in less than twenty-four hours.
He chuckled nervously.
Things getting ugly, Hal. Keep going this way you damn sure gonna get to see Hanford, maybe not the way you want but seeing is seeing, ain't it?
Sunrise cranked itself up over the highway out in front of them, toward Las Cruces and then on toward Texas. Brighter than hell and maybe the sun was trying to blast out enough light so Hal could see everything, in all the corners and behind all the doors.
Morning sun was no good, never had been.
Hal preferred the night, always had. Hanford was a morning boy, Hal was a night boy. Many was the time they'd crossed each other's paths in the living room, Hanford headed out to work, Hal coming in from working just as hard.
A little after six, after the sky had gone from mostly dark to mostly pink with slashes of orange and purple, San Simon rolled into view.
Time to stop. Gas, food, and Hal had to take a hellacious piss. And there wasn't any chance he was going to stop on the road, flop his equipment out, and squirt. Surprisingly enough, he would have been embarrassed to do that in front of Apple Valley.
So he held it. For just about a million miles. Hours and hours. And just about now, his bladder was screaming like a band of migrant cotton pickers who spent their entire wad on tequila and quarters for the jukebox.
Not that I'd mind some tequila, he thought.
He came off I-10, slowed down to avoid getting noticed by the local cops, and popped into San Simon. At the end of a Main Street only a bit longer than Bagdad's, a convenience store hid inside a metal building that might once have been a barn. The side was painted to resemble all the of the adobe buildings that had sprouted between dark last night and sun-up this morning in this end of the state. It even had a little brown outline of the crenellations at the top.
When he stopped in the gravel parking lot, Apple Valley woke up. Her face was twisted with either sleep or anger, Hal couldn't tell which.
"The fuck we stopping for?"
Anger.
"I gotta piss. And I thought I might grab some sandwiches or something, if that's ho-kay with you." Hal climbed out of the car and leaned in the open window. "You want something or what?"
"What are you so pissed off about?" She rubbed her fists in her eyes, then glared at Hal.
"I'm not," Hal said. "You're the one woke up yelling."
"Yeah, it's me, always my fault."
"Whatever."
From the outside, it had been nothing more than a convenience store. Inside, the place opened up and Hal took a look around after coming out of the bathroom. There was a small café attached to the back and once he smelled the eggs and bacon--haute cuisine for any roadside café--he understood exactly how hungry he actually was. It didn't matter that the smell was mostly bad. His stomach roared like the guns and explosions back at the sewage plant. And the hunger came just as suddenly as those shots had.
"Hal," Apple Valley said from behind him. "I'm sorry, I don't wake up particularly well."
"Uh-huh."
Again, the speed with which she changed moods damn near broke his neck. Bitch Queen one second, Beauty Queen the next.
"Listen," she said. "I know we've got to keep driving, but we'll be no good to anyone if we're both starved to death. Let's take a few minutes and eat."
"No."
"But--"
"No." Hal strolled the aisles, grabbing candy bars and two-liter bottles of soda as though by moving he might be able to convince her. Fried fruit pies, a spinning rack of car deodorizers that you could hang from the rear view mirror, stacked twelve packs of cheap beer. He grabbed almost mindlessly. Time spent here was time not spent on the road and that road pulled at him like an insistent cop pulling his hands back to cuff him.
And then, somehow, those nasty smelling eggs were a Godsend. The odor became an aroma. Eggs, sausage, what smelled like relatively fresh-baked biscuits. And he knew his shaking hands weren't just from the piss-fear roiling in his guts.
I gotta eat, Hanford. Be there as quick as I can, but I gotta eat.
As they found a seat, he grinned. Hanford was a big boy who loved cheeseburgers and beer, both in huge quantities. If there was
anything his brother would understand, it was stopping for breakfast. There had been times when food was the only thing that brought the brothers together. Some guys had baseball or football or whatever sport, but the Turnbull brothers had food. Tex-mex, barbeque, fried anything, all the west Texas staples
A skinny waitress rolled up and cocked her hip. A giant gap shone out where two teeth should have been, and a single eyebrow lay flat and dull over both eyes. "Getcha?"
"Scrambled eggs, bacon, wheat toast, milk, muffin." Apple Valley nodded, pushed the menu back toward the waitress.
"And you?"
"'Good Morning, Sunshine,' and 'Bigger Biscuits for Baby.' Large OJ, small milk." He winked at Apple Valley. "Courtesy of the newest member of the Homeland Security Team."
"What?" The woman glared at him. "You're a terrorist, I'll kick your ass."
"Lita," a man said. "Ain't everybody a terrorist. Now can I get a refill?"
She glared at Hal a moment longer, then at the man who'd asked for more coffee. "Damn sure ever'body's a fucking idiot."
"Kiss your mama with that mouth?" Hal asked.
"Kick your ass with that mouth, dickhead." She stormed off.
"Good choice, Hal. I've always wanted eggs and bacon that some waitress has spit on."
"Naw. She does anything, she'll lift that polyester skirt and piss in my OJ."
Apple Valley giggled. As it died away, the smile did, too. "Tell me something. What's the deal?"
"With what?"
"Texas. You're putting together quite a little road trip here. I just wonder why."
Hal licked his teeth. Few minutes with Crest and they might belong to him again. "Going to see my brother, Hanford Turnbull."
"That's a hell of a last name."
"Sucks, you ask me," the waitress said as she set down a large orange juice and two small milks.
"Didn't ask you, unibrow."
2,000 Miles to Open Road (Barefield) Page 8
