Key Witness

by Sandra Bolton

  Abe called Patch, put on a coat, and walked out into the immaculate snow. Sunlight bouncing off untainted drifts struck his eyes, momentarily blinding him. Though the cold air stung his face, azure skies promised a quick melt. Bowman’s low-slung Chevy Impala would not make it out today, but they would be able to leave tomorrow or the next day. He leaned against the south-facing wall and lifted his face to the sun, engulfed in its soothing warmth.

  “It’s your shift, man,” said the deep voice from the open door, breaking his trance. “Should be easy. She’s out like a light.”

  “Right.” Abe called Patch and reentered the cabin. Marilu had not moved. Her body made a small rounded lump under the quilt. He glanced at Bowman before settling into the big oak chair. “What will happen to her now?”

  “We’re taking her to Dumas, Texas, Citizens Bank, to retrieve the tapes. Then into protective custody and an unknown rehab center. When she’s up to it, she’ll testify against her father.”

  “Are you sure she’ll do it?”

  “You heard her. She hates him. He never showed her an ounce of human compassion. That bastard would sell his only child’s body to those scumbags if he thought he could get a few more bucks out of it. And who knows, maybe he did.” Bowman shook his oversize bald head. “Shit.”

  Stretching his legs so he could rest his feet on the coffee table, Abe asked, “How are you working this in Dumas?”

  Bowman rubbed his back against the door frame, scratching an itch he couldn’t reach, then stood, hands in his pockets. “Looks like we might need your help after all. I need a woman in the vehicle when I transport Marilu to Dumas, so Emily’s riding with me. I’d like you to follow in the Bronco.”

  “No problem. I can manage that.” He could pick up Emily afterward, head for her place, and get his truck. The next morning he and Patch would be back on the road bound for the West Coast.

  “There is a slight problem,” Bowman said. “My sources inform me that DiMarco is out on bail, and best guess as to where he’s headed.”

  Abe’s eyebrows raised, forming question marks, but it didn’t take more than a second to figure things out. “Dumas, Texas.”

  “You got it. He’ll be watching the bank, waiting for Marilu, and he won’t be alone.”

  “Jesus, won’t you have backup when you get there? Why don’t you arrest them when they show up?”

  “The Bureau is sending a couple of agents, and we’ll notify local law enforcement in Dumas, but we want them to keep a low profile so we don’t scare anyone off.” He screwed his mouth into a frown. “We can’t arrest anyone unless they try something first. Look, Freeman, Emily and I talked this over and decided maybe you should escort Marilu into the bank, look like a young couple. You’re not nearly as conspicuous as I would be in Texas, a big black dude hanging on to that little white girl’s hand.”

  “Forget that. I’m done. I’m not a cop or a babysitter.” I only came along on this trip as a favor to Emily’s mother and Will, Abe thought. And all right, damn it, I wanted some more time with Emily, but I didn’t figure on getting involved in an FBI sting operation. Let them handle it. “You’re the professional, Bowman—it’s your problem now.” Abe opened the door to step outside. “I’m going out for some fresh air. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “And Emily’s problem. You want her to walk in with Marilu?”

  The agent’s words stopped him. Abe spun around. “What’s wrong with that? Emily can take care of herself.” But as soon as he said it, Bertha Etcitty’s words came back . . . I would like for you to make this trip with my girl. She is an excellent police officer, very competent, but headstrong and foolish at times. She needs someone to look after her.

  “I need Emily with me to cover you and Marilu when you come out of that bank. There’ll be a couple of agents watching the street, but the Bureau has no idea what a loose cannon Marilu is and they only sent me two Feds for backup. Said that’s all they could spare. Emily and I decided they should both stay on guard outside, because we don’t have any idea how many snakes are going to be crawling in there. Okay, we’re a little shorthanded, but we’ll have your ass protected at all times. In an emergency, we can always call the locals for assistance, but I’d rather not involve them in the setup. Sometimes too many yahoos just get in the way.” Bowman put his hands on his hips and glared at Abe. “It won’t be the first time you and Emily got involved in a rogue operation, and to tell the truth, I don’t have a problem with that. It’s gonna be easy this time. Walk in, walk out—should go down as smooth as Tennessee whiskey.” Bowman walked over to Abe and tapped on his chest. “Nobody’s forcing you to do this. You can sit in the car and wait till it’s all over if you want.” The two looked each other in the eye for a long moment before Bowman threw up his hands and turned away. “Go on outside, but before you step out that door I want to remind you, it’s your watch, so don’t spend too much time feeling sorry for yourself. You came along on this trip.” He walked into the kitchen to an old rotary-dial telephone connected to the wall and picked up the receiver.

  36

  For as long as he could remember, Abe had felt alienated, a disembodied specter peering down from his perch on high at the poor slob who occupied his body. He stumbled through life, never in control of his destiny. Abe would shake his head and mutter, You idiot, what are you getting into now? That old feeling returned as he tailed Bowman’s Chevy away from Datil, New Mexico, northeastward toward Dumas, Texas.

  He followed the FBI agent’s car down I-25 to Albuquerque, where they caught I-40 East at an intersection called the “Big I”—the only place in New Mexico he had encountered anything resembling traffic congestion.

  Trucks dominated the scene on Interstate 40. The big eighteen-wheelers roared through the sparsely populated eastern plains, leaving a trail of noise and noxious diesel fumes. Tumbleweeds skittered across the highway, settling in huge piles along fence lines.

  They had left Datil before dawn because the trip to Dumas would take over six hours, and they needed to get to the bank before closing time. Emily and a subdued Marilu, dressed entirely in black and wearing dark shades and a head scarf, rode with Bowman in the lead car. Abe followed, with Patch at his side riding shotgun. He turned and looked at the little dog, who sat alertly staring out the window. “You and I are two of a kind, Patch. We get into trouble and don’t know how to get out, so we tag along no matter what the odds are against us.” Patch gave him a wag and a grunt that sounded like he concurred. He rubbed the dog’s head. “Don’t worry, boy. It’ll be over soon.”

  Bowman had filled Abe in. “We need someone to stay with her until she goes into the vault, then walk her out to the car when she’s finished. In her condition she’d never make it on her own. Agents Wilson and Peters will be there ahead of us posted outside on each side of the bank. They’ve been advised to keep an eye out for DiMarco and his bodyguard. Evidently those two left the Bisbee courthouse in a black Buick with Kansas plates. He must have a fleet of them since one registered in his name was recently found in a motel parking lot outside of LA.”

  Abe and Emily had exchanged knowing glances as he recalled the blond floozy in Bisbee. He hoped she hadn’t been arrested for car theft.

  “Emily and I will post ourselves inside so that we can see you and whoever comes into the bank at all times,” Bowman continued. He made it sound simple, walk in and walk out.

  Abe mulled this over as he tried not to lose sight of Bowman’s vehicle. The long drive provided plenty of time to think, and he came to the conclusion nothing much mattered anymore, so he might as well do this and move on. He’d lost Sharon and, after dismissing all hope of finding someone else, he had found and lost Emily as well. He had his dog, and that was enough. He made Emily promise that if anything happened to him, she would give Patch a home. Her grandfather’s sheep ranch would be the perfect place. With that settled, he no longer feared dying, and accompanying Marilu into the bank seemed superfluous.

  But Abe had a
lways been inquisitive by nature—too smart for his own good, his mother was fond of saying. There were puzzles to unravel and he wanted answers. How did the Aryan Brotherhood fit in? What were they doing in Bisbee? He knew Easy Jackson had been a member of that gang, but what was their connection, if any, to this case? He decided to ask Bowman when this crazy episode ended—that is, if he got the chance.

  They crossed into Texas a little before one p.m. Even though they had made a quick stop outside of Albuquerque for gas, a pee, and some premade breakfast burritos and coffee to go, Abe’s stomach growled—more from nerves than hunger, he reasoned.

  At Amarillo, Bowman steered them north on Highway 287. The road shot through level prairie, varied in places by the meandering Canadian River and irrigated croplands. On the outskirts of Dumas he saw a sign that read “Welcome to the seat of Moore County, population 13, 529.” Below the sign was a round logo of a comical cowboy clicking his spurs, accompanied by the words “I’m a Ding Dong Daddy from Dumas, Texas” printed around the edge. Bowman pulled off the road where it widened into a rest area, and Abe sidled up to the Chevy.

  Everyone got out to stretch and use the bathroom. Patch found an accommodating bush and relieved himself; then they stood in a circle and rehashed the plan.

  “Marilu switches to your car now, Abe. Wait here till Emily and I give the all clear.”

  “Bowman and I will do a drive-through, looking for anything suspicious, vehicles with out-of-state plates, people who don’t seem to fit in the town, things like that. If there isn’t a problem, we’ll radio you and you can proceed to the bank. The local law is aware of our operation, but we’ve asked them to keep out of sight unless we need them.” Emily started walking in the direction of Bowman’s Chevy, then turned around. “You know how to operate the radio, right?”

  Emily carried a two-way radio in her Bronco, and she had shown Abe how to use it the night before. “Yeah, I understand, Em, channel twenty-one. Press the PTT button if I have something to say, otherwise listen for you.” It was kid stuff. He had used a walkie-talkie as a youngster. He pushed the power button to turn on the device, then squelched the static.

  Emily and Bowman returned to the Chevy Impala and drove off, leaving Abe and Marilu shuffling uncomfortably in their departure dust. “Want to get in the car?” said Abe. Marilu shrugged, but walked toward the passenger door, her pale face drained of emotion, as if she, too, didn’t care what happened.

  Back in the Bronco Abe took the pack of Camels from his pocket and shook a cigarette out, offering it to Marilu sitting beside him in the front seat. “Smoke?”

  She accepted the cigarette, and he held his lighter while she closed her eyes and inhaled, then blew out a gray cloud, filling the vehicle. Abe rolled down the window and lit one for himself. Several minutes passed as the two smoked in silence. When she spoke, her voice sounded distant and detached. “So, this is it. I’m glad it’s finally going to end, one way or another.”

  Abe turned to look at Marilu DiMarco. Her face was aged beyond her years. The furrowed brow, pinched mouth, and dark pouches under her sunglasses revealed the stress she felt. Wearily rubbing his head, he responded, “So am I.” Abe reached for his pack in the backseat and fumbled in the pocket until his fingers found the key. “You’re going to need this,” he said, handing it to her. “And this to put the video tapes in,” he added, indicating a black briefcase on the floor. Then, slumped in his seat, waiting, he started drumming his fingers on the window ledge.

  Marilu shot him a look and he stopped. She dropped the key into her purse, placed the briefcase on the seat between her and Patch, and stared out the window. After several minutes of gloomy reticence he glanced at her again. “I don’t get it.”

  “What?” Her voice contained an edge of irritation, or maybe defensiveness.

  “Why’d you ever hook up with a guy like Easy Jackson—petty criminal, convict, drug dealer, and whatever else he was mixed up in.”

  “You didn’t know him.” The cigarette smoldered down to her fingertips and she tossed it out the window, immediately asking for another. After a few minutes, she said through a haze of smoke, “He was different from the others.”

  “The others, meaning the Aryan Brotherhood? Those racist assholes? Then why did he join them?”

  A derisive chortle escaped through her parted lips. “You have no idea what it’s like in prison, do you? Easy was sent up on some petty charge when he was a country kid barely out of his teens. The Mexican Mafia jumped all over him, and the Brotherhood came to his rescue. They didn’t do it out of the goodness of their hearts, though. Those bastards have no hearts. They gave him a knife someone honed out of a spoon and told him he had to kill a certain Mexican gang member if he wanted to survive prison. That was his initiation into the Aryan Brotherhood. He got off on a self-defense charge, and had some extra time added to his sentence. But the Aryans owned him—from then on he did whatever they asked.” She grimaced and stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray. “Blood in, blood out. That’s their way.”

  Abe squirmed, knowing he was the last person to see Jackson alive. Looking straight ahead, he said, “I talked to him, you know—that night before someone killed him. He came down to my campsite at Clayton Lake.”

  She twisted in the seat to stare at him. “You talked to Easy? What did he say?”

  “He wanted to hitch a ride with me, to Bisbee.” Abe avoided looking at her face. With his chin resting in his palm, he gazed out the window at the Ding Dong Daddy sign, remembering his own brush with the law at an early age on a minor drug charge, and wondered if he and Jackson were really so different after all. “I’m a loner, I didn’t want him along, so I left early.” He didn’t know why he felt guilty, as if he were responsible for Easy Jackson’s death. “He didn’t look like a skinhead or an Aryan. His head wasn’t shaved, clothes weren’t right. He kind of looked like a drifter or hippie, except for the tattoos.”

  “Easy wanted out, and so did his friend in Bisbee. They were going to hide out near Bisbee and wait for me—then we were going to slip into Mexico and start a new life.” Marilu’s voice broke. “We could have done it, too, if my old man and his goons hadn’t shown up.”

  “Do you think your father or one of his henchmen killed Easy? Rico Corazón as much as confessed to it.” Abe could hear the Mexican Mafia boss’s words once again. Jackson got what he had coming.

  A chilling silence followed his question. When Abe turned to look at Marilu, her mouth had set in a hard line and tears streamed down her face. “I don’t know who killed Easy. The Mafia, they don’t use knives—that’s not their way—but my father caused his death one way or another.” She sniffled and wiped tear-stained cheeks, then began to absentmindedly pet Patch while the dog rested his head in her lap.

  Marilu’s words settled over him like a shroud as he recalled the night of his meeting with Easy Jackson. After Jackson left and before Abe drifted off to sleep, he had clearly heard a motorcycle, maybe more than one. Rico Corazón could have killed Jackson, revenge being a strong motive, and Corazón had arrived in Clayton the day Jackson was murdered. But then, so had DiMarco. And now . . . His thoughts were interrupted by the squawk of the two-way radio.

  “Abe, can you read me?”

  Holding the talk button down, he responded, “Yeah. Go ahead, Em.”

  “No sign of anything out of the ordinary in town. Not much traffic but we’re holding a parking spot for you directly in front of the bank. Pull in beside Bowman in the empty slot. Do you read?”

  “Roger. Then what?” He threw a quick glance at Marilu, who gnawed her thumbnail while he talked to Emily. She had taken off her glasses to wipe the tears, and her wide eyes resembled those of a panicked deer caught in the headlights of an approaching car.

  “Wait for further instructions. Bowman and I . . .” A loud crackling sound interrupted the transmission, drowning out Emily’s voice.

  “What’s that? Repeat. What did you say, Emily?”

  Static pre
ceded her voice. “I say again. After you park, wait for further instructions. Do you read me?”

  “Yeah, okay. One question. Where the hell is the bank?” Sweat beads formed on Abe’s forehead, even though an early-fall breeze chilled the air.

  He waited for another rash of static to clear before he heard Emily’s voice again. “Stay on 87. It becomes First Street. Citizens Bank is on the right, corner of First and Maddox, near midtown. Do you read?”

  “Okay. We’re on our way.”

  “We’ll have you covered and Agent Wilson will be positioned outside.”

  Abe held his breath, biting his lip during the silence that followed, until Emily said, “Abe, are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  He swallowed hard, and tried to sound composed, in spite of his nervousness and the sudden realization that, more than anything, he wanted to live. “Absolutely, Em. Roger and out.”

  37

  The Citizens Bank of Texas, a two-story brick structure, was easy to spot—being the only two-story building on First Street and occupying a prominent corner. Abe slowed, then pulled into the empty slot beside Bowman’s black Chevy, parked near the front entrance. As soon as Abe parked the Bronco, Bowman got out of his vehicle and went inside the bank, presumably to join Emily. Abe looked up and down the nearly deserted street. He and Marilu had not spoken since Emily’s call, but the tension in the air buzzed like a jar of wasps.

  “Waiting time again,” Abe said.

  She responded with an audible sigh, but followed it up with a show of bravado. “I can’t wait much longer to get the bastard.”

  A short time later, Emily’s voice broke the silence. “We’re inside. It’s all clear. Do you read?”

  “Roger.” Looking toward Marilu, Abe saw the determined set to her jaw as she put on her dark glasses. “We’re ready. Over.”