The Devil's Bones

by Larry D. Sweazy

  If Ed had found the bones at the pond during a meth deal and thought the skeleton was Tito Cordova—then he could have alerted Big Joe that they were in trouble, they were about to be found out. What did Big Joe say at the hospital? “The past has come back to haunt us.”

  But, as far he knew, Ed didn't know the bones weren't Tito's. Buddy had told him that José found Tito at the pond near death—not dead. Ed didn't know what he knew. All Ed Kirsch knew was that Tito Cordova's body was dumped at the pond and a skeleton had been exposed by a drought twenty years later. Ed had assumed what Holister had assumed; the bones were the remains of the little boy he'd killed.

  But that would still not explain the St. Christopher's medal. Or why Big Joe had Tito taken in the first place.

  “Have you heard from Big Joe?” Jordan asked.

  “Not since we left him at the hospital,” Spider said. “He's probably still with Celeste.”

  “I hope you're right.”

  The storm edged closer. The first sprinkles of rain began to dot the windshield. Thunder rumbled close enough to send a vibrating wave through the truck.

  The police radio was alive with chatter. Jordan listened for a minute. “Change of plans,” he said. “They're looking for your van, Spider. You can't stay here.”

  “Damn it!” Spider said, slapping the dashboard.

  “I have a solution,” José said.

  “I'm listening,” Jordan replied.

  “The controls to the parking lot lights are on the south side of the building. Next to the docks. I can shut off the lights and we can hide the van and the truck behind the plant. No one will see us. Not Ed Kirsch or the policia.”

  “Is the box locked?”

  “I have the key,” José said. “Once the lights are off, take the truck and follow Spider. I will meet you there.” He opened the door and stepped outside. “I am sorry, Señor Jordan, I fear this has been difficult for you. The past cannot be changed any more than the course of a river can be changed. We all should have dried our feet long ago.”

  Jordan didn't know what to say. He leaned forward and offered José the .38. “You might need this.”

  “Do not worry. I am prepared,” José said, forcing a smile as he ran toward the plant.

  The Mexican was still spry for his age and it only took a second for José to cross the road and disappear into the shadows.

  Jordan turned his attention back to Spider, clutching the .38. “If you betray me, I'll shoot you if I have to.”

  “We got your back, Jordan,” Spider said. “I promise. I want to catch Ed Kirsch as much as you do. Maybe more.”

  “You know I never liked that motherfucker,” Charlie added.

  Distant voices on the radio distracted Jordan again. The parking lot lights went off. “We need to go,” he said. “Hogue's heading this way. The liquor store clerk just called us in. Everybody's really jumpy right now.”

  “Why not wait for 'em?” Charlie asked.

  “It's a long story,” Spider said.

  The van rumbled to life. Jordan slid over to the driver's seat of the truck and followed Spider across the street.

  All of the lights on the outside of the four-story building flickered off. Lightning danced in the sky, closer. Thunder exploded above them almost immediately. Jordan could barely see through the windshield as the wipers pushed away the heavy rain. He wasn't sure if José had turned off the lights or if lightning had struck a transformer.

  The wind buffeted the truck as Jordan drove through a maze of semi-trailers and came to a stop behind the van. When he opened the door he heard a chorus of sirens competing with the thunder and wind. The temperature had dropped an easy ten degrees in the last five minutes.

  José was standing on the dock. A tall garage door was open behind him, and it exposed the interior of the plant—lit only by dim emergency lights. Jordan grabbed the Remington, all of the magazines he'd taken, and the police radio. By the time he reached the dock, his jeans and bloody T-shirt were soaked to the skin.

  “I shut off all the lights except the emergency lights,” José said.

  Ed Kirsch's El Camino was parked next to a semi-tractor attached to a trailer. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Charlie jumped out of the van, holding his shirt over his head with one hand and a sawed-off shotgun in the other. He ran to the sliding door behind the driver's side of the van and popped it open. He didn't wait for the automatic lift to fold out. He put the shotgun down and disappeared inside, exiting a second later with Spider thrown over his shoulder.

  The rain was blowing vertically and Jordan and José stepped to the right of the large garage door, out of the rain.

  Jordan listened for movement and scanned the inside of the plant for anything that would alert him to Ed Kirsch's presence. He had checked the exterior locks on the plant nightly, but had not been inside more than a handful of times. The sheer size of the building was overwhelming. Seventy-five foot ceilings extended as far as the eye could see, and every inch of the football field–sized floor seemed to be filled with machinery that looked like a roller coaster inside a giant's kitchen. Several silver vats, each the size of a small car, lined the far wall. A water flume traversed up and over his head, an inclined conveyor belt with small paddles on it that was used to wash the tomatoes once they entered plant. The flume eventually angled down onto another conveyor belt where the tomatoes were manually sorted. Beyond the sorting stations, a series of large blades hung in wait to begin the chopping phase. Stacks and stacks of fifty-five-gallon drums were piled everywhere. Tomato paste waiting for transport. There were a million different places for Ed to hide. If that was his plan.

  The plant smelled worse on the inside than it did on the outside. Yellow emergency lights gleamed softly overhead. There was much more than just the shipping and receiving section of the plant, and Jordan was glad José was with him.

  Charlie sat Spider on the floor next to Jordan.

  “I'm not sittin' this one out,” Spider said.

  Charlie disappeared outside again.

  “What now?” Jordan asked José, ignoring Spider.

  “There are many places to hide. If he knows we are here,” José said.

  “I don't think he's here to hide,” Jordan said.

  José nodded. “No, me either, señor.”

  Charlie ran up the ramp of the dock, pushing Spider's wheelchair. The shotgun was in the seat, wet from the rain. Charlie picked up the gun, wiped it down quickly, and hoisted Spider off the floor and into the wheelchair.

  Thunder boomed. The wind whistled, and pushed more rain inside the door. Small pebbles of hail danced on the roof of the van. Lightning flashed every couple of seconds, and the sirens had quieted.

  Jordan turned up the volume of the police radio. Hogue was at the liquor store.

  “You guys stay here. Keep an eye on Ed's car in case he slips by us and tries to get away,” Jordan said.

  “What if Hogue shows up?” Spider asked.

  “Tell him José and I are inside. We might need the help.”

  “What if he still thinks you're the shooter?”

  “I can prove I'm not. I'm going to have to take him at his word that he was just doing his job. Hogue might be a lot of things—and I've got a lot of reasons to believe that he might be involved in this. But there's one reason to believe he's not.”

  “What's that?” Spider said.

  “He's always been a good cop. He cleaned up the sheriff's department and kept it that way. I can't see him risking everything he's worked for to cover for Ed.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Just stay here,” Jordan said. “Call us on the cell phone if you need help, or if you see anything.”

  “I need the number.”

  José gave his cell phone number to Spider, and quickly followed after Jordan, who was making his way up a ladder on the wall.

  Jordan stopped halfway up the ladder. “Call Big Joe, Spider. Find out where he's at. You've got his number,
don't you?”

  Spider nodded. “I always call him on his cell phone these days.”

  Pain screamed through his body as Jordan pulled himself upward to a catwalk that extended outward through the plant, branching off in several different directions. He was exhausted. The Remington on his shoulder was heavy, and he wasn't sure he was going to make it to the top. But he had to. Ginny and Dylan's life depended on it. On him.

  José followed Jordan up the ladder. Jordan stood back and allowed José to take the lead. He chambered a round in the .38, put it back in the holster, and loaded a magazine in the rifle.

  They moved slowly, quietly, searching for any sign of movement. The storm echoed through the metal building and the rattling hail on the roof made it difficult to detect any sound out of the ordinary. There was nothing but shadows and machinery below them. It did not take long for Spider and Charlie to disappear from their sight.

  The air cooled as they passed over a row of freeze dryers. José stopped. A second later they heard Charlie yell from far behind them. A gunshot. Followed by another. And then the distinct retort of a shotgun echoed throughout the plant. They ran as fast they could back to the ladder.

  Spider was sitting in his wheelchair holding his right leg. Charlie was out on the dock, the shotgun at his shoulder, aiming out into the darkness.

  The fiercest part of the storm was past them—the thunder rolled east, shaking the ground as it went. Lightning still lit the sky every few seconds.

  “That son of a bitch Ed Kirsch came out of nowhere and shot me in the leg,” Spider said. His hand was covered in blood as he put pressure on the wound. “Good thing I can't feel a fucking thing.”

  Even in the dim light Jordan could see that Spider's face was pale, pasty. “We need to get him an ambulance.” It didn't matter that Spider couldn't feel anything, his body would still go into shock, still react to blood loss.

  A semi rumbled to life, the engine as loud as the thunder. Jordan brought the rifle up to aim and ran to Charlie on the dock.

  “He's getting away,” Charlie said.

  “Your shotgun won't do any good. You're out of range,” Jordan yelled. He zeroed in on the tires of the semi and then inched his sights up to the cab. The semi lurched forward. He locked onto his target—he was going to try and shoot Ed through the passenger window. His finger was on the trigger, ready. He tried to regulate his breathing. There was only going to be time for one shot before the semi was gone.

  Lightning flashed in the black sky and Jordan saw Dylan Kirsch sitting in the passenger seat as he pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 31

  August 23, 2004, 12:29 A.M.

  Jordan lowered the barrel of the rifle and staggered back against the wall. The trailer's taillights swerved, but the semi continued rolling forward, picking up momentum as it sped toward the back gate. The wind had died down and the rain had slowed—it now fell in buckets instead of sheets. Distant thunder met the echo of the shot from the Remington in a rousing crescendo. He had no idea if he'd hit Dylan, no idea whether or not he had just killed the little boy he was trying to save. But he was sure of what he had seen. It was not a ghost in the cab of the semi.

  Spider groaned. Charlie was on the phone calling an ambulance. The semi passed through the gate and the engine whined as Ed accelerated, pushed on the gas to get out of range as fast as he could.

  It only took a few seconds for Jordan and José to make it to the truck. Jordan's body was numb—he was not thinking, or at least trying not to. He pushed an image of Dylan, covered in blood and dying, as far out of his mind as possible.

  José put the truck in gear, muttering softly, and Jordan quickly determined the Mexican was praying as they tore after Ed and gave chase.

  If God could help them now, he'd become a believer . . .

  The Kenworth was obviously pulling a full load because it was just reaching top speed as José passed through the gates. Dim red taillights shone in the distance—the semi was about a mile and a half ahead of them. Voices on the police radio were constant, shouting orders, static trampling the traffic. Jordan looked behind them and saw the strobes reflecting off the SunRipe plant, and in the distance, he heard the tornado siren go off, wavering three times. It was a call to all of the members of the fire department to come to the station. A few seconds later, an ambulance radioed that it was on the way to the plant.

  Jordan glanced over at the speedometer. They were going eighty miles an hour on a wet gravel road.

  “Dylan Kirsch was in the front seat. I saw him when I fired the rifle,” Jordan said. “I don't know whether I hit him or not. We can't lose the semi.”

  “We won't,” José said, staring straight ahead.

  Jordan exhaled. He hadn't realized that he was holding on to the door handle, that his knuckles were white.

  “Ed Kirsch is a very bad man, señor.”

  “I know.”

  “No. He is a mula, a mule. He carries drugs for the cárteles.”

  “Hogue said he was planning a big bust, that a huge shipment was coming through here. I've thought all along that Ed was transporting.”

  “The trailer is full of drugs. That is why he went back to the plant,” José said. “When he returned from Texas, he parked an empty trailer in the lot and they loaded a new trailer on his tractor for another run. But the trailer was not empty. Many pounds of meth are hidden inside. If he loses the shipment, he will be killed. My guess is that he has transferred the drugs to the new trailer. It is loaded with ketchup for a short run to Chicago. So he fears for his life. But he is a user. He is unpredictable and unreliable. He may not care at this point if he lives or dies.”

  Rain continued to fall. The windshield wipers steadily cleared the view into the darkness ahead, thumping back and forth like a metronome, a heartbeat. There was no dust on the road, the storm had soaked the gravel and it was slippery. The truck slid as they rounded a curve and gained on the semi. It was a half a mile ahead.

  “How do you know this?” Jordan asked.

  José drew a deep breath. “I have been in this town for a long time, señor, and have had to walk in two worlds. But I am old, like Señor Buddy, like your father, and my time here grows short. I, too, have amends to make for my sins. For a long time I turned my back to the drugs that came up with my people. I thought they were harmless and had nothing to do with the harvest. How could I not know of its existence?”

  Jordan did not take his eyes off the semi.

  “But this meth. It is muy malo, very bad. Almost overnight it has poisoned us all. I have worked silently with the policia for some time. The cárteles are powerful and smart. I suspect they know I am working with the authorities.”

  “For Hogue?”

  “And the DEA.”

  “Undercover?”

  “Sí.” José looked away from the road to Jordan. “Even Holister did not know. Ed Kirsch is related to him.”

  “And to Hogue.”

  “The sheriff is a good man,” José said, turning his attention back to the road. “The law burns in his heart. He will send his sobrino to jail if he has to rid the county of this scourge.”

  Jordan tried to get his bearings. The semi was heading out into the country and they'd come a long way fast. He gripped the Remington tightly. Shooting out the tires was never a consideration, knowing Dylan was inside, but he had not considered what to do next, other than follow Ed. Oddly, it did not appear that Ed was trying to outrun them now . . . he had to know he was being followed, pursued. He was leading them somewhere—away from the plant, from the police.

  “What about the bones?”

  “It is bad timing, divine intervention, or a plan to put an end to me. I am not sure which. Many of my people are aware of the sepulcros, the graves at the pond. It is no secret among us. The markings are quite clear to those who know what to look for. There are some who are tied to the cárteles working in the fields. It would be a way to silence me, to be rid of me. Killing me would be simple. Punishin
g me for my sins would be far more painful. They would like nothing more than to see me bound in an American prison.”

  “You're between a rock and a hard place.”

  “Sí. I have betrayed people on both sides of the law. I have already confessed. Now I must make my atonement.”

  “To who—Hogue?”

  “No,” José said. “To God.”

  The semi turned north. “What does Tito Cordova have to with all of this?”

  “I don't know. And that is why I am still here. Otherwise, I would have left as soon as the sepulcros were discovered so Señor Buddy could have blamed that on me. He is very weak, and I fear he is not up to the trouble he faces.” José slowed the truck to make the turn. They were twenty yards behind the semi.

  “Something's wrong,” Jordan said.

  The semi geared down to a crawl and José was inches from his bumper. It wasn't until he saw the brake lights come on that Jordan realized where they were.

  The truck's headlights flashed on a small white house sitting alone on a rise. Drops of rain were intermittent. The storm had been fast moving. A thin line of thunderclouds on the dark horizon was all that was evident of the front that had brought much needed relief to the air and to the ground. Lightning flashes faded and the wind had quieted back down. With everything that had happened, Jordan could only wonder why Ed Kirsch had led to them the abandoned house—to Tito and Esperanza Cordova's house.

  José brought the truck to a stop, and they watched the semi lurch up the driveway and park about ten yards from the house. José's headlights were pointed directly at the cab.

  José flipped on the brights, illuminating everything in view with intense white light.

  The Cordova house stood to the left of the semi in the shadows. No lights shone in the windows. Withered weeds dotted the yard, glistening with moisture from the rain. A broken screen door was on the ground along with a scattering of empty beer bottles and old tires.

  José stared silently at the house, and almost magically pulled a Glock out from under the seat. The sight of the gun made Jordan's heart skip a beat.