Spy ah-4

by Ted Bell

  “We lost ’em. They couldn’t keep up on the steep hills.”

  “Roll your window up for starters. It’s cold as snow in here,” Daisy said.

  “Whoopee,” June said, cranking her window up, “Hey. Look at the sky over there. To the south.”

  “What is that?”

  “Something’s burning, I reckon.”

  “Looks like a lot of ‘somethings’ burning to me. Over toward Dolores.”

  “Let’s go see.”

  “I guess that’s where what’s left of our police force went. I was wondering who gave the looters the key to the city.”

  Daisy took the first right she could. It was old state road #59 heading south. The sky on the horizon was aglow with a red haze as she crested a hill. A big eighteen wheeler passed her headed the other way, smoke pouring from its twin stacks as it chugged uphill. Then, about fifteen or so more trucks evenly spaced behind it. One after another, until she thought the line would never end. She counted: twelve trucks in all.

  Before she could even digest that fact, she saw something else. Right behind the very last truck in the convoy, one of the two brand spanking new Crown Victorias newly acquired by the Prairie PD.

  “That was Homer Prudhomme, I do believe,” June said, craning her head around to look. “Wonder where the heck he’s going. Following that big convoy?”

  “Off on another wild goose chase, I reckon,” Daisy said, “It is his night off, I guess.”

  “Prairie, Texas’s, very own Ghostbuster,” June said, shaking her head, and Daisy laughed until she cried.

  59

  H omer had just passed a battered pickup headed in the opposite direction on SR-59. Just a blur, the vehicle was going pretty fast, but it sure had looked an awful lot like Mrs. Dixon’s truck. He was too busy trying to stay on the semi convoys’ tail to look around and be sure. It had been an old pea-green Ford pickup. Out the corner of his eye, he’d seen a couple of ladies up front, laughing about something maybe.

  He remembered it was Friday night. He hoped, whoever was in that truck wasn’t counting on whooping it up over in the border town of Dolores tonight.

  Dolores, at least some of it, was on fire. In his rear view mirror he could still see the reddish glow above the town. Arson, he suspected, because it sure looked from here like it was more than one building. Time was, arson was an occasional thing. A destitute rancher burning his barn down hoping to collect the insurance. But that was then. Now, it seemed like the whole county was going crazy.

  All of Texas, if you wanted to be honest with yourself. It was certainly not a good night for a couple of nice ladies to be running around out in the desert that was for sure. It was a bad night, Homer felt, and it was going to get worse before it got better.

  Well, he thought, the sheriff was still down in Key West. Supposed to be coming home some time after his talk at the conference, whenever that was. So, maybe that had been Miz Dixon after all, going out to party with a friend, maybe. Like they say, while the cats away the mice will play.

  He smiled and shook his head. It was a side of Mrs. Daisy Dixon that he’d never imagined. She was such a quiet, churchgoing lady from what he’d seen. When she didn’t have her nose buried in some Nora Roberts novel, she was fixing supper, tending her knitting, mending Franklin’s shirts, or mucking out the barn. He’d never seen her at a single solitary Saturday night square dance, and he’d pretty much decided she had to be one of those foot-washing Baptists who frowned on dancing.

  To be truthful, Homer had been a little worried about Mrs. Dixon ever since the boss had left town. All alone out there, and, things being as unpredictable as they’d been lately, it scared him some. She’d always been good to him, the problems he’d had, and he appreciated it maybe more than she knew. It was time to give something back.

  But, when he’d mentioned it at work, his idea of just dropping by to check on the missus occasionally, June Weaver had told him in no uncertain terms to leave her be. “You do that, she’ll bless you out from here to next Sunday, Homer Prudhomme,” June had said. “She’s settler stock, Homer, Texas women can take care of their selves. You’ll just make her mad you show up out there looking worried.”

  So Homer had left well enough alone. If things got worse in Prairie though, he’d make sure to look in on her or just make up an excuse to call and check. Drop off a new mystery book, maybe.

  Homer felt right guilty about sticking with his ghost truck convoy while there was a big fire going in Dolores. But he’d convinced himself it was okay. He’d heard some police radio chatter here about twenty minutes ago, and he knew the other two Prairie PD cruisers and a couple of PFD fire trucks and EMS vans were en route to the scene to render assistance. He’d taken a deep breath, shut his radio off and concentrated on minding his own beeswax.

  He knew it was against regs, strictly against regs, but he just couldn’t stand all the police chatter right now. He had to think. Had to concentrate on this trucker mystery he’d stumbled on to. He didn’t know what it was all about yet, but he could guarantee dollars to donuts it wasn’t good. When he got to the bottom of it, and he would, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been wasting anyone’s time.

  The big rig hit the brakes for a sweeping curve and Homer slowed it up a bit, too. He was staying five hundred yards back. Just above the rear doors, he’d seen a little camera doohickey. Some of the big trucks were fitted with them these days, so they could see behind them when backing up. He guessed you could turn it on anytime, see who was behind you. Pretty good system.

  He was on to something big. He could just feel it.

  Homer knew the expression for someone in his position. He was what you called a man on a mission. He’d been following the convoy of eighteen-wheelers for pretty near an hour now. He knew they were headed north, that was for dang sure. North, and by the looks of things, east maybe. Twelve trucks, all headed northeast, carrying God knows what all in those fifty-foot long trailers. Wherever they were going, they’d have to stop for gas at some point. He checked his gauge. Luckily, he’d filled her up just before spotting the convoy.

  One by one they’d put their blinkers on;the big rigs had peeled off as they came to different highways. Like it was all pre-arranged, he thought. He had his map spread out on the seat beside him. He’d looked at all the possible routes and decided that all of them were basically headed in a northeasterly direction.

  Not one truck had taken a turn that would indicate it was headed west, or circling back to the south. Homer could have picked any one of the trucks to follow. They were all basically the same rigs. Up front, Mack, Freightliner, Kenworth, and Peterbilts. All heavy-duty trucks, standard forty eight-foot aluminum vans, all weighing in at around 26,000 pounds. But they had different logos on the trailers. Even though the cabs were all the same. Funny, he thought, trying to study his map and drive at the same time.

  Headed north on Texas Highway #59 out of Laredo, he’d watched them gradually peel off, trying to decide which one would be best to follow. There was no method to it. The big citrus hauler, Big Orange, had turned right off of #59 at Freer. She was headed east over to Alice, Texas maybe. He stayed with the main convoy headed north, biding his time.

  At Beeville, Texas, and again at the little one-horse town of Victoria, another truck turned north, heading up Route 181 or 183 to the I-10, most likely. That was the interstate that ran due east to Houston and points north. He stayed with the main body of trucks, taking #59 all the way to the Houston Tollway.

  The trucks all must have had EZ-Pass, because they all got in that lane and blew right through. He stayed right with them around Houston, then followed the convoy when it got right back on #59 again headed for the Louisiana border and Shreveport.

  But then he got lucky, if you could call it that. At Shreveport, all the trucks got on the I-20 which headed east to Jackson, Mississippi, then northeast up to Birmingham, Alabama, and up to Chattanooga, Tennessee where you could pick up I-75 headed north. All the trucks
but one, that is. What happened was, the last truck separating him, it was owned by the Valley Spring Electronics Company, took a right on a two-lane going due east.

  Bingorama, as the saying goes.

  The truck now in front of him was very familiar. It was the one he’d followed into Gunbarrel. The one that had disappeared inside the garage. The very same one that he and Sheriff Dixon had stopped that terrible night the posse came home without their hats.

  It was the same truck, all right, the big Yankee Slugger. When it had braked for a moment on Route #59 just outside of Nacogdoches, Homer had pulled up alongside and tried to look inside the cab.

  One thing they’d done to all the Slugger Garage trucks, they tinted all their cab windows dark. Illegally dark, if you wanted to get picky about it. Tinted to almost what he called full limo black. He could pull the truck just for that alone if he wanted to. In his experience, pulling low riders and hot rods, people tinted their windows that dark for only one reason.

  So you couldn’t see what they were doing in there. Or, who was in there.

  It wasn’t a ghost driving that rig, haunted garage or no.

  He was pretty sure of that much, at least.

  Homer didn’t believe in ghosts. But, one thing he did know for sure. This truck didn’t run on air. Sooner or later, whoever or whatever was driving that thing was going to have to stop for a pee or diesel. And when it did, watch out. Katy bar the door, as his grandma used to say. He was going to follow this truck until it ran out of diesel fuel and then he was going to climb all over that thing, tear that big rig apart and see what the heck made it tick. He was going to get to the bottom of this case.

  Because that’s just what this was. A case. And by God, Homer was on it.

  The truck, if you discounted the illegally tinted windows, was acting like a solid, sober, law-abiding citizen. Very conscientious driver, Homer, Sheriff Dixon would say. Never speeding. Signaling every lane change or turn. And, for some reason or other, taking the scenic route. They’d mostly been sticking to the secondary roads instead of the freeways or the Interstate, which raised a question in his mind. Why do that? It was slower. Wherever these trucks were headed, they didn’t seem in much of a hurry to get there.

  Never more than a few miles over the posted limit. Stopping completely for every single stop sign (not a “low-rider drive-by,” which meant slowing and then cruising right through) and never, ever crossing the double lines. Of course not, he thought. The truckers, or, whoever, didn’t want to give law enforcement any excuse to pull them.

  Homer sat back against the seat and relaxed his grip on the wheel. He was in this for the long haul. He’d follow this truck to the North Pole if he had to.

  He picked up the radio, thinking he’d call it in.

  The sheriff was out of town for a few days. If he radioed in, who would he tell? Wyatt? June would just tell him he was acting crazy again. Behind his back, Homer knew, she called him the Ghostbuster. They all did. Heck with it.

  He put the radio down. He’d fly this mission solo.

  60

  LOUISIANA

  A fter they crossed the border into Louisiana, the Slugger started easing off the throttle. He dropped down to forty for a bit, then thirty. Homer couldn’t figure out what he was slowing up for. The road was cut through heavily wooded country, more like a swamp, and he hadn’t seen civilization for almost half an hour. Not even a roadside jelly stand or a lean-to shack.

  He slowed way down, opening up the distance. He had his lights off ever since they’d entered the Great Boggy or whatever it was called. There was plenty of moonlight and his quarry wasn’t going anywhere without him.

  The truck had slowed to about five miles per hour, the right turn indicator flashing now. He was pulling over, all right and now Homer saw why.

  There was a small, old-fashioned filling station coming up. Nothing more than a falling down shack with a couple of pumps out front. Homer made a decision. He slowed way down and pulled off on the shoulder into a stand of live oaks with a view down the road. The station was about a thousand yards away. He was low on gas, too, the needle hovering just above E. But he wanted to see what the heck would happen at the pump. His blood was pumping. He was on the damned case now, all right. And he wasn’t scared, either. Not at all.

  He sat behind the wheel of the Vic and waited, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He wasn’t expecting anyone to get out of the Slugger and he wasn’t disappointed. No one did.

  A minute later, though, a guy came out of the little office. He paused a second on the doorstep, looking at the big rig parked at his little pump. He raised his right hand to his ear for about fifteen seconds. Talking on his cell phone, Homer guessed. Then he shoved the phone in the back pocket of his jeans and shambled down the steps. He was big, maybe two-fifty, and walked slowly out to see what he could do his customer for.

  Unusual for a pump jockey, he was smoking a cigarette. Other funny thing was, the guy didn’t go around to the driver’s window and say, “What’ll it be?” Didn’t ask anything, he just did it. Went right to the diesel pump and pulled the nozzle out and started pumping fuel into the silent rig. Which told you something, too.

  It took a while to fill that big polished aluminum hundred-gallon tank. Homer, still behind the wheel of the Vic, was in no hurry, except he did have to whizz like a racehorse. Just as he was getting out of his car to answer that important call, the station guy yanked the nozzle out of the Slugger’s tank and stuck it back in the pump. Then he waddled back up the steps and into the office. Never even looked at the truck again.

  Never said word one to his customer, which told Homer the fat man already knew there was no one behind the wheel of the truck at his pump. Knew it all along. Homer’s brain was ticking now and he knew he was beginning to understand. Maybe not all of it. But some of it.

  This pit stop was prearranged way ahead of time. A little gas station on a deserted road in the middle of the night. Made a lot of sense if you didn’t want anybody messing into your business. Whoever was behind all this knew what they were doing. Organized crime, had to be. With very deep pockets. He’d thought drugs all along, and now he was sure of it. Somebody was moving huge amounts of Number Four heroin around the country, running on back roads at night.

  He looked at his watch. 0200 hours. He wondered if all the trucks in the convoy were stopping now. At little out of the way stations just like this one. The whole thing was getting curiouser and curiouser.

  Homer jumped back behind the wheel and pulled back out of the trees and back onto the highway. He accelerated smoothly the short distance up to the station, tucking in behind the Slugger.

  He got out, and removed his service weapon. Then he walked forward to the driver’s window and rapped on the black glass with his left hand. Once. Twice. Nothing.

  There was a sudden flat blatting sound from the engine, puffs of smoke from the tall chrome stacks, and the Yankee Slugger, in no hurry at all, slowly pulled ahead and out of the station. Her right hand turn signal went on and then she rumbled back onto the highway. Homer had a funny thought, watching the truck head north still, and taking her easy as always: if he ever did meet up with one of these drivers, he was going to try to get them to teach a driver’s ed course! They were good!

  Homer turned and looked at the small office building. He needed gas and he knew he wasn’t taking too much of a chance if he let the Slugger get a few miles down the road. He’d catch up quickly and they’d continue their cat and mouse game just like before.

  “Hello?” he shouted. “You got another customer!”

  Nobody came out so he walked between the pumps and across the cracked tarmac to the front steps. There was a neon sign buzzing on and off over the door. It said CITGO. He pushed the screen door open and stepped inside, his gun out in front of him. There wasn’t much to see. There was a single light bulb hanging on a wire over a counter. It had a green metal shade and was swaying slightly as if someone had just touched
it.

  There was nobody at all behind the counter.

  “Anybody home? Hello? I could use some gas anybody cares.”

  No response.

  Not taking it personally, Homer walked around the plywood counter. There was door behind it, presumably leading to the back office itself. The door was cracked and he opened it the rest of the way.

  A coppery smell, blood, instantly assaulted his nostrils.

  The old man who had owned the station was slumped forward over his cheap wooden desk. He was missing the top half of his head. His brains were leaking out on to a AAA map of Louisiana, the blood already soaking the paper and spreading across the desktop.

  Homer pressed his fingers behind the man’s ear, feeling like he had to check for a pulse. There was of course no pulse but—

  A powerful motorcycle started up just outside the rear door to the station. Big chopper with straight pipes. Damn, he hadn’t even looked out there! Before he could even replace the man’s arm, the big bike roared around the side of the office and headed toward the highway. Homer, in his excitement, almost slipped in the blood puddle on the floor around the desk. He raced out the door he’d entered by, vaulted over the counter and down the front steps.

  He was just in time to see the blinking red lights of the fishtailing chopper disappear up the black road headed south for God knows where.

  He had to get moving. Call this in. Right. Fill up the Vic’s tank, get on his radio and call local law enforcement with the crime scene location, a description of the victim, the perpetrator, and his motorcycle. With any luck, they’d have the biker in custody within half an hour. He couldn’t wait around. He had to go catch the Yankee Slugger. Then he was going to bust him wide open.

  61

  MANAUS, BRAZIL

  I t was pitch black outside, nothing but the dripping leaves of the overgrown banana trees in the lush hotel garden. Steady rain was hammering the canvas roof above his head and hissing on the river running beside the deeply rutted hotel drive. Of course it was raining. He was in the bloody rain forest.