Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  “As I’m gonna be.”

  Ramage fired, slow and steady, spinning around, arm outstretched, fifteen shots in six seconds, and then he was in the cab.

  Anna took off. The pickup whined and bucked, crashed into the van, got hung up for an instant, then broke free. The pickup’s rear drive wheel spun, black smoke filling the air. Then the tire caught, and the truck swerved around the van.

  The pop of gunfire followed them, but there were no hits.

  “Good thing those guys can’t shoot for shit,” Ramage said.

  Anna said nothing.

  It was hard not to leave a trail to Anna’s house. The last mile of the trip across her ranch was a dirt road that kicked up enough dust to let the International Space Station see where they’d gone, but there was no pursuit. Nothing. The locals knew Anna’s truck, and presumably where she lived.

  Anna parked the pickup behind the barn. It was past noon and long shadows fell across the yard. “Can I meet your dad?”

  “Doesn’t look like he’s here. His car is gone. He goes for lunch in town some days, or Lucy’s.”

  They went into the barn and Anna said, “You ride?”

  “Couple of times, but it was a long time ago so consider me novice level.”

  Anna chuckled. She didn’t appear shaken by their confrontation. She was a tough one and he wondered what she’d been through to make her that way. She’d mentioned her father, but they’d been no mention of a mother. The other thing that bothered him—no, not bothered—the other thing that concerned him was how easy they’d fallen into their partnership. He knew very little about her and for all he knew she was a Sandman stooge. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. There were theories and then there was paranoia. He wouldn’t believe Anna was anything but true, otherwise he’d have to admit the woman scrambled his radar.

  “I’ll give you Bill. Anyone can ride him.”

  They saddled up, Ramage bitching the entire time about how uncomfortable he was, and why couldn’t they take the truck, but in the end he found that Anna was right. Bill was a good donkey, and he carried Ramage with him having to do little more than keep an eye on the loose reins hung over the pommel.

  They went around K-2 and took Anna’s shortcut to the spot overlooking the compound. It took them an hour of slow riding, and the sun was starting its descent to the horizon when they got there.

  “Wow,” Ramage said. “This place is in the middle of nowhere. How often do trucks come and go?”

  “Regularly. Sometimes twice a day, but that’s just what I see. I’m sure there’s more.”

  “All the trucks go into the hut?”

  “Yes.”

  Other than equipment and vehicles, there was nothing stored on the exterior of the large gray storage hut. It didn’t look like the place could hold much sand. “You saw my truck go in there?”

  She nodded.

  “And it didn’t come out?”

  “Don’t know for sure.”

  “Something doesn’t add up. You said sand was going for a hundred dollars a ton, right?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So, how much sand do you think they can fit in there? Ten thousand yards? Tops? On that scale there’s money to be made, but not much. Then ask yourself why bring the sand here at all? Why not bring it directly to the drill sites?”

  She said nothing.

  “None of this smells right. We need to know what’s in those trucks and what’s going in that place, how often, what actually leaves and when.”

  “Why you making this your fight?”

  “I didn’t. Piranha did.”

  “So you’re expanding the scope of your work?”

  “Would you like that?”

  “I think I might. What else can you do?”

  He smiled.

  “Seriously, though?”

  “I’m saying, the math of the sand business doesn’t add up. Either we’re missing something, or the sand is just a cover.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m gonna find out and burn it down, Piranha along with it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sebastian Gutierrez, Anna’s grandfather, crossed the border from Mexico to the United States in 1916. Back then the wastelands of Texas were literally the wild west, and Sebastian settled the land that became the ranch Anna’s father, Santino, the first Gutierrez to be a U.S. citizen, spent his entire life building. The cinderblock foundation of the original Gutierrez family home was still visible behind the current house, if you looked close. Tall weeds surrounded the area, and they swayed in the gentle breeze that pushed across the plain. The four hundred and nineteen acres that made up the Gutierrez ranch was mostly sand dunes and prairie grass grazing area, but the land was dotted with patches of yucca, prickly pear cactus and sagebrush.

  Ramage stared into the night through the screen door at the back of the Gutierrez kitchen, the scent of livestock thick in the air. Anna cooked, and the clinking of pots and the tinkle of glasses echoed through the house, the buzz of the insect night symphony like background static.

  The current Gutierrez family home was an unassuming sturdy Spanish style foursquare, the exterior of flat stucco freshly painted mint green. There was little landscaping. Water was scarce and expensive to control, so ornamental plants were something that didn’t compute in a rancher’s mind. There were two barns, one old and dilapidated, which Anna informed him was used for storage, and a newer and much bigger structure painted white. The donkeys, cattle, cows, and a menagerie of cats and dogs called the place home.

  Anna had offered Ramage the new barn’s loft for the evening, since going back to the hotel was sure to be dangerous. His car was still at the diner. He hoped. He’d have to go back there at some point, but not in the dark, and not after they’d been attacked in daylight on a public street. Ramage wanted to leave the ranch because the Sandman probably knew where he was, but Anna was one hundred percent sure Carl Sr. would never attack the home of a local. As long as Ramage was on Gutierrez land, he shouldn’t have to worry.

  Anna came up behind him. “You OK?”

  He nodded, but said nothing and took a pull off his beer. The cool wheat taste was refreshing, and he felt himself relaxing as the alcohol soothed his wounds.

  “Man of few words,” she said.

  “I think people do too much talking and not enough thinking.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  “Your dad be home soon?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes he has a few after dinner. Depends on who he runs into.”

  “Where does he go? The diner? I didn’t see—” Her laughter made him pause. “What?”

  “He goes to Lucy’s. You wouldn’t have seen it.”

  “The brown place without a sign?”

  “No. No. It’s outside town. Big local spot. She basically turned her large front living room into a dining hall, and when the weather is nice she sets tables up out on the porch.”

  “Sounds delightful. I’ll have to take you to dinner there as a thank you for all your help,” Ramage said.

  “Yeah, right, and you’re supposed to be helping me. Remember? Come eat.”

  The table was piled high with steaming plates. There was yellow rice with black beans, spiced chicken and salad. It was the best meal Ramage had eaten in months. “You’re quite the chef. This is awesome.”

  She smiled and said nothing. They ate and drank beer, and when they were done, they threw the dishes in the sink, got fresh drinks, and headed out to the porch where a cliché double bench swing swayed gently in the wind. They sat on it, and Ramage felt the heat between them. He rubbed his neck and tried to scoot away from her, but there was nowhere to go. She smelled good, like a field of flowers, and Ramage felt the old guilt stir.

  They sat in silence a long time, the crickets and the tinkle of sand blowing over sand filling the silence. The moon was three quarters full, and pale beams of moonlight cut across the front yard and made the banged-up
white pickup glow in the blackness.

  She put her hand on Ramage’s knee and he felt a shock of energy race up his leg. He got up and paced across the porch. “Where’s your mom? I saw some pictures on the mantle, but none in her later years. Did she pass on?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She died of heart failure when I was five. Dad raised me by himself, along with help from the ranch hands.”

  He nodded. Usually when two people were talking and one person gave-up a big piece of information, or made a confession, the expectation was that the other person would do the same. Thing was, Ramage didn’t share information about himself. His trust meter moved slow, and it took a long time for him to get to know a person. There’d been no such person since Joan, and he’d told himself a million times they’d never be another. Then he met Anna.

  He sat next to her again. He had to say something. Anything. “How is it you’re not married?”

  “Who says I want to be married?”

  He sighed.

  “Not exactly a large pool of prospects out here.”

  “Leave then,” he said.

  She stared at her feet and didn’t respond.

  The darkness had brought the cold, and Ramage rubbed his hands together. His coat was in Big Blue. In the distance headlight beams appeared. They cut a tunnel through the darkness in their direction.

  Anna finished her beer and got up. “Dad.” She went into the house and left Ramage alone. He heard water running and the tinkle of plates as she did the dishes.

  He joined to help, and when the night filled with white light, she dried her hands and said, “He’s probably had a few drinks, so I don’t know which dad I’m going to get. When he sees you I don’t know what he’ll say. Don’t take anything personal. He’s… protective.”

  “Don’t blame him.” Ramage smiled.

  A car door slammed, then coughing and wheezing.

  “He smokes,” Anna said.

  Ramage knew that. The house smelled like an ashtray.

  The front screen door slammed, keys hit a table, a grunt, rustling fabric as a jacket was removed, and the whish and thump as it was tossed on a chair. “Anna?” A voice dragged over gravel.

  “In here.” Anna got up, brushed her clothes flat, and said, “Stay here.”

  Ramage lifted an eyebrow. He’d met a few fathers in his day—at one point he’d hoped to be one—and there was one indelible truth that fit them all: when it comes to his daughter, a father couldn’t be expected to be rational. Ramage put his feet in Santino’s shoes. His only family, his daughter, picks-up a stranger and brings him home. Ramage looked at his reflection in the oven door. His black hair was combed, but he wore a dark shade of stubble, had bruises and cuts on his face, and dark bags hung beneath his eyes.

  Faint conversation floated into the kitchen from the living room. No raised voices. No yelling. Seemed they’d gotten the old man on a good night.

  Poppa Gutierrez wasn’t what Ramage expected. He’d been expecting an aging, short, rotund man with a receding hairline and a workman like appearance. Instead he got an Elvis wannabe.

  Santino entered the kitchen with a flourish, his dark eyes finding Ramage. The man looked forty, his hair slick and styled in a pompadour, his round glasses tinted. His white dress shirt was open several buttons, revealing a collection of gold chains. Red sneakers with silver trim gleamed, and he wore several rings on each hand.

  Ramage thrust out his hand. “Theodore Ramage. Very nice to meet you, sir.”

  The guys eyebrows went up and he glanced at his daughter. Then he took Ramage’s hand, and said, “You as well. My daughter tells me Piranha stole your truck.”

  Ramage said nothing. There was no question there and Ramage always said as little as possible. It was one of his mantras.

  “Where you from?” Santino asked.

  Ramage started to answer, but Anna cut him off. “Poppa, don’t pry. He’s helping me go after the sand thieves. We think they’re the ones that stole his truck.”

  Anna’s father nodded.

  “Have a drink with us, pop?” Anna said.

  “Naw. Let me get changed. I’m exhausted.”

  “OK, poppa.” She pecked him on the cheek.

  Santino looked at Ramage, then at his daughter, and said, “Anna, we need to have the herd up on the back fifty by 10AM tomorrow.” He paused and stared Ramage down. “Don’t stay up too late.”

  Anna smiled.

  With one last warning look fired at Ramage, Santino disappeared down the hallway.

  “Sorry,” Anna said.

  “Don’t be. I was expecting way worse.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. One of those times when neither party knew what came next and didn’t know how to proceed.

  After five minutes of silence and sipping, Ramage said, “Can I see your logbooks on the comings and goings over at the Sandman’s compound?”

  “Just a minute.” She got up and followed her father.

  A clock on the wall ticked, the refrigerator hummed, and outside a coyote’s mournful wail split the night. A picture of what had to be Anna’s mother holding a baby—presumably Anna—hung above the sink. The woman’s eyes were sad, as if she somehow knew her fate.

  “Here. What’cha looking for?”

  “Patterns. I think our first step is to track the trucks that come out of the compound. See what they’re up to.”

  “You’ll see dates and times, type of truck, color, notes on the drivers if I saw them.”

  “Now that could be interesting. How many different drivers would you say you’ve seen?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Four or five?”

  “Maybe we can get some information from one of them?” Ramage scanned the paperwork, and while there was no discernable time pattern, all the deliveries where handled by four trucks. Not a big fleet, and based on Anna’s notes, only two drivers had been identified, and one of them was Piranha.

  “Carl, Jr. drives?”

  “Yup. All the time.”

  “The boss’s kid hauls sand?”

  Anna said nothing.

  Ramage closed the notebook and got up. “Can I grab another beer?”

  “Sure, get me one.”

  They went back outside, the clear night sky filled with stars. A coyote’s cry was answered by another, then a third. The scent of manure dominated, but Ramage was getting used to the smell. It was forty-eight degrees, and a chill ran through him. The line of red Christmas lights that ran along the front gutter of the Gutierrez home blinked in the blackness.

  “So what do you think of Prairie Home now?” Anna asked.

  Ramage chuckled. “Not much, actually. I’m not a big fan of bigwigs, legal or not, abusing and bullying people, and stealing from them.”

  Anna nodded.

  “There a mayor? A court? What happens if someone gets in trouble around here and isn’t on the Sandman’s or an oil company’s payroll?”

  “Most administrative functions fall in Odessa. But we have an elected judge and mayor. There’s a room at the town offices they use as a courtroom. Frontier justice, though. You don’t want to end up in there.”

  “We’ll see.”

  They walked on, the heat building between them. He took her hand, and she didn’t stop him. Ramage sweat like Rex had just shown up at his door, his nerves jumping. He hadn’t kissed another woman, touched another woman since Joan. Since…

  He fought back his angst, gathered Anna in his arms, and was overcome with the scent of flowers. She looked away, and he lifted her chin and kissed her.

  “How we doing, mija.” Anna’s father stepped from the darkness into a shaft of moonlight, the metal barrel of a shotgun glistening as it rested on his shoulder.

  “Poppa?”

  Santino jerked his right shoulder and let the shotgun fall into his hand. He jacked a shell into the chamber and fired.

  Ramage jumped. “Are you crazy, old man?”

  “Maybe.”<
br />
  “Poppa!”

  “I didn’t want to have to take some white fool to Odessa General.”

  Ramage and Anna said nothing.

  Santino pointed.

  The tattered remains of a copperhead snake lay at Ramage’s feet, its bloody head on his boot.

  Ramage jumped again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ramage hated snakes, and he still felt embarrassed about the prior night. He’d jumped like an old lady who’d seen a spider. Twice. Some tough guy he was. What must Anna think?

  She drove, wind whistling through the weather-stripping around the pickup’s windows. The truck rattled like it might come apart. He’d tied-up the tailgate, rapped the dents out of the quarter panels so the wheels could fully turn, and patched the radiator, but the truck was still in bad shape from the collisions of the prior day.

  He’d slept OK, and the egg burrito Anna made him for breakfast was fantastic, her coffee well above average. He glanced over at her and saw she’d put on a thin coating of makeup—light blue eyeshadow, rouge, and black eyeliner. She looked good, and the floral scent of her perfume filled the truck’s cab.

  She noticed him looking at her, and said, “Something on your mind?”

  “Not anything I’m comfortable telling you about.”

  Her mouth opened to say something, then closed.

  The rising sun was at their backs as they headed toward the Sandman’s compound. K2 loomed up to their left, and the wind sandblasted the white pickup. Their plan was simple: follow the first truck that came out of the compound and see where it stopped and what it did.

  They rolled by the entrance, which was nothing more than a locked double gate and a small guard shack. All looked quiet. The day was just underway, and the earliest entry in Anna’s logbook was 10:19AM, so Ramage figured they had a wait ahead. The flat desolate plain stretched into the distance in all directions. There was no place to hide. Nowhere to setup their stakeout without being noticed.

  The compound receded into the distance behind them. Anna said, “What now. Hadn’t thought of where we’ll hide.”