Second, the major had to swear he wouldn’t divulge to anyone that the house was secretly occupied.
That part worried Steve the most.
But then again, if a field-grade officer in the Texas Rangers couldn’t be trusted to keep a secret, then who else could?
So his original plan was to let the major leave unmolested the first visit. Maybe even the second. By the third visit, he reasoned, the major would have learned to trust Steve. He’d be less guarded.
And that would allow Steve to sneak up behind the much bigger man and hit him with a baseball bat.
Of course, it would be easier to just shoot him.
But there were neighbors living on each side of Steve’s house. Neighbors who’d find it curious that gunshots were coming from inside the vacant house next door.
Maybe curious enough to go investigate.
And that would have greatly compounded Steve’s problems.
It was all that bastard’s fault. The one at the gun store who’d eyed Steve suspiciously when Steve inquired about purchasing a silencer.
Steve was wise to the ways of the world, he being of far superior intellect than the average Joe Schmuck.
Or so he thought.
It seems he never knew that silencers were illegal to purchase or own in the United States.
“What do you mean, you don’t stock silencers?” he’d asked the gun shop salesman. “Can you at least order me one?”
“Look,” the man said. “I can’t sell you something that’s illegal, even if I did have one. And for the record, I can’t sell you hand grenades or bazookas or nuclear weapons, either.”
Steve honestly hadn’t known that silencers were illegal. He watched a lot of TV, and all the bad guys on the crime shows had them.
Therefore they must be available. TV didn’t lie.
He took a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and slid it across the counter to the salesman.
“I know it’s illegal,” he said. “I was just kidding. I also know that there’s a way around everything. Surely you know somebody in town I can talk to about a silencer.”
The clerk thought he was dealing with a crackpot, but wasn’t going to pass up a twenty. So he pointed Steve toward a pawn shop in the bad part of town.
“They might be able to help you there,” he said.
As soon as the crackpot left the store, the clerk was on the phone to the Lubbock PD.
When Steve visited the pawn shop later in the day, local cops were there to talk to him. They didn’t charge him, but assured him they’d be watching him for awhile.
Steve was pissed, but at least he wasn’t arrested. The heat finally wore off after a few months and he put it behind him. Killing Shultz with a baseball bat would be a little harder, but it was doable.
Steve’s original plan went out the window when Ranger HQ in Austin told the major they’d procured a working radio for him.
With his own radio, Shultz would have no reason to return to Steve’s house to use his again.
But he would still be out there, walking the streets.
And he still knew Steve’s secrets.
And that, to Steve, just wasn’t acceptable.
Chapter 22
Randy knew Tom’s neighborhood, though not as well as his own. He also knew that Tom was working his way south from 34th Street to the south loop, between Indiana Avenue and Slide Road.
What he didn’t know was how far he’d gotten in his canvas, and where Randy could find him.
But find him he would.
The first stop was to Tom’s house.
There was no answer at the door, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Tom seldom overslept, and frequently started his day at the crack of dawn. Odds were he was already on the streets, knocking on doors and talking to citizens.
And burning bodies.
Randy walked around the side of the house and peeked over the fence into the back yard.
He called Buddy by name and made a clicking sound with his tongue.
But Buddy didn’t come. He wasn’t there.
And that confirmed Randy’s suspicions that Tom wasn’t home.
Tom had specifically mentioned he was working his way south through the neighborhood.
That made Randy’s search a little easier, but not much.
He started out on 40th Street, knocking on doors just as he’d been doing in his own neighborhood.
Only this time, his intent wasn’t to inform the citizens about the legalized looting of food and water, nor the advice to gather seeds to plant in the spring.
This time, he had only one question to ask: has a Ranger named Tom already swept down this particular street, and how long ago was he here?
There was no answer at the first two houses, but that wasn’t unusual. The major estimated that only fifty to sixty percent of the citizens were answering their doors to a stranger, even when said stranger identified himself as a lawman.
At the third house, a man answered the door but said Tom never came through.
That also wasn’t unusual. The man may have been out gathering supplies when Tom came through. Maybe he just missed him. Or maybe he was one of those too timid to answer the door when Tom came to call.
Just to make sure he wasn’t being misled, Randy continued up the street.
It wasn’t until the fifth house until Randy got his answer.
“Yes, he came through maybe five, six days ago. Nice fella. Told us it was okay to go into the old supermarket and carry out a case of water and some canned goods. Just told us not to get greedy, to save some for others.”
He’d already worked this street.
Randy thanked the man for the information and left, going up five more blocks to 45th Street.
Randy had left a note on Tom’s door that morning which read:
Major is worried about you and told me to hunt you down. I’m starting on 40th, then advancing five streets at a time until I get to territory you haven’t covered yet. Then I’ll be working my way back, street by street. Come find me. I’ll be easy to spot. I’ll more than likely be the only other guy within five miles who’ll have a horse. –Randy-
Randy knew that if Tom made it home before dusk, he’d find the note and set back out to meet up with him. As dusk grew near and Randy was leaving 50th Street and riding over to 55th, he had a decision to make.
Tom would have a tough time finding him in the dark. The sky was dark enough now to reveal the fact there’d be no moon tonight. And it was overcast. The stars wouldn’t be visible either.
On such a dark night Randy could tie Trigger to a tree in the middle of somebody’s front yard, and there was a chance Tom would ride right on by without seeing him.
That killed the option of Randy napping on the grass until Tom wandered by.
But if he didn’t get any sleep, he’d be trashed the following day, on a day when he had to be on his toes.
For if the next day dawned and Tom hadn’t been through, it would mean something was seriously wrong.
Randy found a 1975 Ford-150 pickup with a long bed and a bench seat. It was a stock version, meaning it came with crank windows he could roll down. It had died in the street and was forever abandoned.
But that didn’t mean it would never be used again.
He tied Trigger to the driver’s side mirror and rolled down the passenger side window. He left the driver’s side door open and lay down upon the seat.
It was still too short for his tall frame, but it was reasonably comfortable.
Tom would shy away from riding in the yards after darkness. He’d have to. There’d be no way to see a low hanging branch, or a hole Buddy might step in, or some other hazard.
No, he’d have to walk Buddy down the middle of the street, likely calling Randy’s name in the darkness.
If Randy didn’t wake up to his name being called, he certainly would from the clop, clop, clop of Buddy’s hooves on the hard pavement.
He allowed himself to doze in th
e knowledge that his best friend would be along soon.
But he slept fitfully off and on through the night.
The only thing which had awakened him was a series of gunshots which sickened his stomach.
They came from a couple of blocks to the east. One shot, followed by a second shot thirty seconds later. Two identical shots.
A murder suicide.
He, like the other Rangers, was now familiar with the clues. It wasn’t a shootout. Not with a long delay between the shots. It likely wasn’t a homeowner scaring off a prowler. One shot would have done that. Two shots that sounded alike were likely from the same caliber, likely the same gun.
In all likelihood, it was a desperate couple who’d given up. The strongest one shot the weaker, then turned the gun on him or herself a few seconds later.
It had been happening all over the city. Likely all over the world, since the early days of the blackout.
And more often than not it happened around sunset. For that seemed to be when the residents were in most despair.
The Rangers had taken to calling the hour after sunset each night “the killing hour.”
Chapter 23
Randy was back in the saddle and off again at the crack of dawn, although he was uncertain whether he was on a search or a recovery mission.
Whether he was going to find his friend and partner alive or dead.
He didn’t even want to think of the second option.
His first stop was back at Tom’s house. There was a slight chance the note he’d left wedged in Tom’s front door had been blown off by the breeze.
Or a lesser chance it had been so dark when Tom returned home, he simply couldn’t see it.
It was a lousy thing to pin his hopes on, but really all he had.
And neither option played out.
The note was still there, wedged between the door and the jamb.
Tom hadn’t returned home. If he had opened the door it would have dropped to the ground at his feet.
Of course, it was possible Tom came and went through the gate at the side of his house. Perhaps he took Buddy into the backyard, stripped him down and fed and watered him, then went into his house through the back door.
But that wasn’t the case either.
The gate on the side of the house which led to the back yard was locked from the inside. But Buddy wasn’t in the yard.
Randy inspected the soft dirt just outside the gate. The horse tracks as well as the footprints were more than a day old.
He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He went back to 55th Street, and only had to knock on a few doors before he ascertained that Tom had already been there. A middle-aged mother of three commented about what a nice man he’d been. And even gave her family all the provisions he had in his saddlebags.
He skipped over to 60th Street, and it took him half an hour to determine Tom hadn’t made it that far.
Then he backtracked, heading north street by street. First on 59th, then 58th, 57th, 56th and back to 55th Street.
By noon he knew that 55th was the last street his friend had worked. Tom had obviously started on the west end and worked his way east, but Randy hadn’t a clue how far he got.
But someone, in one of the houses before him, knew what happened to Tom Cohen. Randy just knew it.
He picked up the pace a bit. If Tom was somewhere close by, sick or injured, Randy certainly didn’t want him to have to wait another day to be rescued.
He walked briskly from house to house, working two or three houses on one side of the street, then crossing over to work the other side.
Trigger was well trained and well disciplined. He grazed on grass in the front lawns, and a selection of flowers in the flowerbeds. And he kept an eye on Randy at the same time. When Randy got a few houses ahead of him, Trigger galloped to catch back up with him.
Randy looked at his watch as he climbed the steps of 5555-55th Street. It was just after six p.m.
He only had about two hours of daylight left.
A little old lady answered the door.
“Good evening, ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m with the Texas Rangers, and I’m wondering if you’ve seen a friend of mine. His name is…”
She cut him off.
“You’re not the same Ranger who went after my medicine. Did he send you to deliver it for him?”
Randy was taken aback and wasn’t sure quite how to respond.
She went on, “It was nice of him to go and get it for me, but I’m afraid I’m out of it. Do you know when he’s coming back?”
“No, ma’am. I’m afraid he’s gone missing. Do you remember how long ago he left?”
“Oh, my goodness. I hope he’s okay. It was two days ago. About this time of day.”
“Did he say where he was going to get it?”
“He said there was a pharmacy up the street. And in the direction he was heading, he must have been talking about Walmart.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Randy was off like a shot.
Chapter 24
Randy didn’t like running Trigger on pavement. But he made an exception in this case.
They covered the distance from the old woman’s house to the Walmart in less than five minutes.
Once there, he did something else which was totally out of character for him.
He led Trigger into the store with him.
Trigger didn’t know what to think. He and Randy went back to Randy’s high school days together. Yet Randy had never once, in all that time, taken Trigger shopping with him.
From Randy’s perspective, he was going into a situation where there might be a threat. Or an ambush.
Or someone who’d waited for Tom to go inside the Walmart before stealing his horse.
And who might very well do the same thing to Randy.
Randy left his mount to wander up and down the aisles of the abandoned store, mingling with several looters who were picking through what was left.
Randy made his way toward the pharmacy, but caught sight of the body of a man lying on the floor near the jewelry counter.
He went to one knee and said, simply, “Oh, Tom…”
He angrily shooed a dozen flies who were taking up residence in his friend’s brain cavity, as though by doing so he could make it all better.
Then he simply sat on the floor, Indian style, and buried his face in his hands.
Randy didn’t cry often. Losing both parents before he was twenty had hardened him to some degree.
Some of the things he’d seen as a Ranger, especially having to bury or burn human bodies, had hardened him much more.
But this… this was just too much.
The tears broke loose and he cried unashamedly.
For in his mind, this was his fault.
It had been his idea that the two of them split up so they could cover more ground.
Never mind the major had thought it was an excellent idea and asked all his other Rangers to split up as well.
To Randy, if he hadn’t suggested it, it wouldn’t have become Ranger policy.
And he’d have been there with Tom, covering his back.
Never mind that if he were with Tom when Tom was ambushed, there was a fair chance Randy would have been ambushed as well.
And there would have been two dead Rangers lying on the floor instead of one.
He’d never consider that. For he, right or wrong, was ready and willing to accept full responsibility for the death of his friend.
By the time he regained his composure the Walmart was pitch black. The looters had all gone home, for nobody wanted to be stuck there in the dark. It was just Randy and the corpse that used to be Tom, and the flies which buzzed around them both even in the darkness.
Randy felt his way to a rack of women’s clothing and wadded a couple of dresses into a makeshift pillow. He dozed off and on a couple of times. Once he was awakened by Trigger, who somehow managed to find him in the darkened stor
e and nuzzled him awake with his snout.
The big fella was thirsty.
Randy felt his way into his saddlebags and took out two bottles of water, then poured them into his Stetson so the horse could drink.
“Hang on until daylight, boy, and I’ll find you a patch of grass to munch on. Until then, it’s safer to stay where we’re at.”
The skylights in the ceiling above them began to lighten around seven a.m., but it was a couple of hours longer before the sun was high enough in the sky to provide any appreciable light.
Randy apologized to his friend for the twentieth time and got up. His whole body ached from sleeping on the hard floor, and he walked around a bit to loosen up his stiff muscles.
He found Trigger sound asleep in the main aisle and quietly passed him by as he headed toward the garden section for a shovel.
But he wasn’t quite ready to bury his friend. He would not, could not, let someone like Tom lie eternally in an unmarked grave.
He deserved better than that.
Chapter 25
Heading back from the garden department, shovel in hand, Randy could hear the sound of Trigger’s hooves against the concrete and tile floor as the horse walked around looking for him.
Randy called him by name and the big Morgan took a shortcut, fighting his way through the lingerie section to get to him.
By the time they met up, Trigger had a red bra hanging from his bridle and a nightgown from a stirrup.
“That’s quite a look for you, boy,” Randy observed. “But I don’t think red’s your color.”
Trigger just huffed.
Perhaps he didn’t get the joke. Or perhaps he disagreed.
“Come on, boy. I promised you some breakfast. I don’t think Tom will mind waiting a little bit longer.”
Randy led him outside and to the back of the building, to a grassy patch of land with a small retention pond. The tiny pond still held rainwater from three or four days before.
Randy sat beneath a tall oak tree and watched as Trigger first quenched his thirst and then grazed on the green grass.
A Whole New World: Ranger: Book 2 Page 7
