Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1)

by Edward J. McFadden III

“I don’t see why we should wait. You’ve done nothing wrong and from what you’ve told me this guy is into all kinds of shit. The Dallas office probably already knows about the guy.”

  Ramage had no response to that, so he said, “Just give me a little more time.”

  “You’ve got forty-eight hours,” Rex said, and cut the connection.

  Chapter Twenty

  Since they had a couple of hours to kill, Anna and Ramage decided to take a donkey ride across the Gutierrez family ranch. Anna said there were several spots where sand had been stolen recently that she could show him, but there was one spot bigger than the rest she thought might be of interest.

  “You don’t hear the backhoes, see lights at night?” Ramage said.

  “I hear them out there sometimes, but they don’t use lights and in the blackness it’s next to impossible to tell exactly where the sounds are coming from, and they move around a lot and are in and out fast,” she said.

  “How do you know that? You’ve seen them?”

  “Haven’t seen them, but I’ve come close to catching them a few times.”

  Ramage leaned forward and rubbed Bill’s neck. It was his second ride on the donkey, and he was growing comfortable with the beast.

  A gust of wind pushed sand and dust over the plain. If he never saw sand again Ramage didn’t think he’d care. The fine Texas particulates found every gap in his body, every fold of his skin. It was in his eyes, covered his clothes, and he tasted the grit in his mouth. Sand. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but white sand dotted with twisted evergreen shrubs.

  They came over a rise and Lizard Way snaked back and forth across the hardpan on its way to CR-115. Anna jerked on her reins and said, “Whoh. Whoh.”

  “Damn,” Ramage said.

  The rise in the plain fell away before them, and there was a huge chunk of earth missing between the hill and road. It looked as though someone had taken a giant ice cream scoop and removed enough sand to fill the universe’s biggest sandbox.

  “This is one of the big ones. They return here often because it’s so close to the road. I put in a trail camera, you know, one of those things people use for hunting and to catch their neighbor stealing their newspaper or letting their dog take a dump on their lawn? I went through three of them before I gave up.”

  “Thieves broke them?”

  “Took them, I suppose. As you can see, there aren’t many places to put a camera where it won’t be seen, yet still get meaningful footage.”

  Ramage spurred Bill forward and started down the incline into the hole. It was early, and no cars moved out on Lizard Way, which was half covered in sand. When he reached the bottom of the depression Ramage no longer saw the road. A path big enough for a huge rig to drive on switch-backed down into the crude quarry. All that was missing was the mechanical equipment. A cliff wall made of sand rose a hundred feet and towered over Ramage as he dismounted. He saw claw marks from the backhoes bucket in the face of the sand wall, and the sand got darker toward the bottom of the hole as layers of striations marked off the years like tree rings.

  “Why’d they stop digging at the dark stuff?”

  “Different sand composition. Particulates tend to be smaller in the darker sand, less durable, and hence less effective as a fracking agent. They like the white stuff.”

  Ramage nodded.

  He walked up the path that led out of the makeshift quarry, and dropped into a catcher’s stance, resting his arms on his legs as he examined the ground. Two sets of clearly defined tracks led in and out of the sand pit.

  One set was thicker and wider than the other, but both were the tracks of large trucks. It didn’t take any great brain power to figure out what he was looking at. One set of tracks was the eighteen-wheeler with a trailer to haul the sand, and the other was a rig transporting the heavy equipment. Ramage figured they could be in and out in half an hour with over two thousand yards of sand.

  He traced the tire pattern with his finger and got to his feet. He followed the tracks until he had clear prints and took close-up pictures of them with his phone. “Should be easy to match these tire treads to the Sandman’s trucks.”

  “How do you—”

  Anna’s donkey Shadowfax whinnied and bucked. “Easy, boy, what is it?” The beast rose on its hind legs and almost threw Anna.

  A copperhead snake slithered over the sand, moving away from them but Ramage jumped anyway. Anna laughed. “How is it a tough guy like you is afraid of such a small thing?”

  “Tough guy? Why do you think that?”

  “I talked to Gypsy. She told me everything,” she said.

  Ramage should’ve anticipated that, but what did it really matter? He walked around the site, looking for garbage, cigarette butts—any clue that might help him, but all he found was an empty beer can and a crumbled flyer for a professional wrestling match in Odessa. The paper had greasy fingerprints on it, and in barely legible handwriting a phone number was scrawled in black ink in the lower right corner. He folded the paper and slipped it in a pocket.

  With nothing else to see Ramage mounted Bill and they headed back to the house. They didn’t talk as they rode, Ramage’s thoughts filled with the night before, and how things had changed between them, and not for the better. He played back what had happened over and over and couldn’t see how he could have done things differently. They didn’t know each other. Throw in an overprotective father and you get an explosive situation Ramage wasn’t prepared for.

  When they got back to the house, they fed the donkeys, gave them a fast brush and mucked their stalls. Ramage’s stomach was doing summersaults. It was after 9:30. Time to go meet Splice and get some breakfast.

  They passed two cars on their way into town, both heading down CR-115 toward the Sandman’s compound. After their meeting with Splice they intended to follow another truck. See if the anomalies of the prior day repeated.

  Sand pelted the pickup, a million tiny bugs crawling over the metal. He saw Prairie Home in the distance, nothing more than a smattering of old buildings. Anna drove for five more minutes then made a left onto First Avenue. They passed the closed Christmas tree lot, the destroyed bank. She paused at the blinking light on Main Street, then made a right into the diner and passed Ramage’s white Ford Taurus, which was exactly where he’d left it.

  With the breakfast rush over, only three other cars were in the lot. A red van that looked new, a beat-up Jeep, and a blue pickup that was neither old or new.

  “The blue truck is Splice’s,” Anna said.

  Ramage nodded. “Anything I need to know here? Will he be armed? I can get the Glock from my car.” He’d rather not do that, but he refused to be the only one without a gun when a gunfight broke out.

  “I doubt it very much. He’s not the type.”

  “What type is he?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She swung into a parking space and killed the engine.

  They entered the unnamed restaurant and were greeted with a familiar scene. Ginger sat alone at the counter, reading a book, her side of the diner empty, and Janice moved about serving the six customers. The same elderly couple Ramage had seen the first time he’d been in the diner were there, and a couple that looked fresh and young and just passing through.

  A large overweight man who had to be Splice sat in a booth by himself, away from the other diners.

  Ramage pushed through the glass door and a bell chimed and everyone looked. Anticipating being disturbed, Ginger put her book face down on the counter and folded her arms across her chest. Ramage made a right and headed for Splice, and he thought he saw disappointment spread over Ginger’s face.

  “Hey, Splice,” Anna said.

  The man looked up from his menu and Ramage was struck by the abundance of acne on the man’s face. Zits of all sizes and in all stages of eruption covered the man’s forehead, cheeks, and chin. His dark eyes were half closed, and he looked like he might fall asleep at any moment. He wore a faded Star Wars t-sh
irt showing Han Solo, Chewie, and the Falcon, and beneath the picture in faded letters ‘Need a ride?’ was printed.

  Splice said nothing; no hello, no grunt, nothing.

  Ramage was nothing if not polite, especially with people he didn’t know. It was one of the things his mother had been a stickler about. Nasty people are nasty, she used to say, and Ramage wasn’t a fan of rudeness, so he pushed his anger down and dropped into the booth across from Splice and Anna sat next to him.

  Ramage decided the best course of action was to start over. “Hi, I’m Ramage, and you know Anna.”

  “Thanks for meeting with us, Splice. I know your plate is full,” Anna said.

  Dark eyes studied Ramage, and Splice said, “This the guy Gypsy told me about? The guy who beat four guys out at one of the drill heads?”

  “Took down two, actually,” Ramage said.

  “But there were four.”

  Ramage said nothing.

  The silence dragged out until Janice arrived with the coffee pot and two menus. “How are we today?”

  “Starving,” Ramage said.

  “Well good. Know what you want?”

  Anna ordered an egg white omelet with green peppers and onions, and Ramage got a stack of flapjacks, three eggs sun up, and a pile of bacon.

  As they waited for their food, Ramage said, “Like Anna said, thanks for meeting with us.”

  “You really think you can take on the Sandman?” Splice said.

  “Depends. Can you help me get in the compound?”

  Splice’s eyes shifted to Anna, and the unspoken question, “Can I trust this guy?” passed between them.

  Anna nodded, but said nothing.

  “I haven’t worked there in a long time, and what’s in it for me?” Splice’s eyes shifted to Anna again, as if he was ashamed he’d asked the question.

  Ramage started to speak, but Anna cut him off. “You remember how he treated you? You remember telling me you wanted to burn the compound down? Destroy the Sandman’s entire operation? Here’s your chance for revenge.”

  Splice looked at the table.

  Anna glanced at Ramage, rolled her eyes, and said, “Can I do anything to persuade you?”

  Splice’s eyebrow lifted. “You could have dinner with me. I’ve asked a few times.”

  Ramage felt rage kick him in the teeth. Who the hell was this guy? He opened his mouth to speak and Anna put a hand on his knee beneath the table. “You got it. Done. We can go to Lucy’s,” Anna said.

  Splice’s face brightened, and he looked at Ramage and smiled. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and slid it across the table.

  Before Ramage could read it, their food arrived, and he and Anna dug in. They ate in silence for a few minutes and then Ramage unfolded the paper. An eight-digit number was scrawled across the sheet in blue ink. Ramage looked up at Splice.

  “It’s an old security code I kept active for emergencies. A backdoor. I don’t know if it will still work, but in a pinch, you could try it.”

  Ramage sighed. “Might work? In a pinch? I thought you were—”

  Splice held up a hand. “I’ve got more. Just wait. I’ll—” Splice looked at his watch and then out the front window at the parking lot.

  “Expecting someone?” Ramage said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The sheriff’s cruiser rolled into the parking lot followed by a new green Chevy pickup and an old Mustang GT. One of the one’s with the hood scoop. The cop car pulled into a space, the truck fell in next to it, and the Mustang parked behind Ramage’s rental car.

  Ramage’s anger burned white hot, hands trembling, pain running up his back to his neck.

  “What the hell, Splice?” Anna said.

  “I’m sorry, Anna. Sheriff’s got shit on me, man. All lies, but people’ll believe anything. Sorry.”

  Ramage reached across the table and grabbed Splice by the shirt. “Is what you said about the compound true? There are security flaws?”

  “Yeah, man. Yeah. Screw those assholes. I had no choice with you, dude. Sorry. Really—”

  “Shut up!” Ramage rubbed his temples and surveyed the scene outside. Through the diner’s dirty front windows Ramage saw the sheriff haul himself from his car. The truck and Mustang emptied and four men holding guns fell in behind the sheriff, who hiked up his gun belt, unsnapped the strap holding his revolver in its holster, and pulled down the brim of his hat as he oozed across the parking lot toward the diner’s entrance.

  Ramage figured he had about two minutes, and the internal clock in his head started ticking.

  The diner had gone silent, and everyone, including Ginger and Janice, stared at their table. Ramage took a pull off his coffee. As he saw it, he had two options, flight or fight, the two choices human beings have been forced to make since the beginning of time. If he stayed, the confrontation would most likely lead to his arrest. There were five of them, and though the sheriff was a jelly donut, the other four guys looked big and tough, and they had guns. He had his hands. If he ran, he was just delaying the inevitable. They’d dog his every step until he left town.

  Ninety seconds left. The cop and his helpers were almost to the diner’s entrance.

  There was a swinging door behind the counter that led to the kitchen, and Ramage assumed there was a rear exit. He also had to assume it was being covered. They wanted him. Not Splice and Anna.

  “Anna, you should leave. No need for you to get mixed up in this, and I’d feel more comfortable dealing with this if I didn’t need to worry about you,” he said.

  “Might be a bit too late for that,” Anna said.

  Splice got up without a word and Ramage grabbed his wrist. “We’re not done.”

  “We are for now.” Splice jerked his arm free and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Forty-five seconds.

  Sheriff Kingston pulled open the diner’s door and held it for his men as they entered.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Ramage,” Anna said.

  “Who? Me?” he said.

  The sheriff stopped at the reception station, his eyes scanning the restaurant as if he’d never been there. When his gaze fell on Ramage, his face hardened, and he let his hand fall to the grip of his pistol. The fat man turned to the guy directly behind him, and the four men fanned out around the restaurant.

  The sheriff took two steps toward Ramage, and said, “Sir, are you armed?”

  Ramage soaked up egg yolk with his toast and smiled at Anna, but said nothing. Didn’t even look in the sheriff’s direction.

  “Sir, do you hear me? Are you armed?”

  Ramage took a long pull of coffee and held up his empty cup. Janice met his eye, then looked away.

  The sheriff drew his gun and nodded to his men.

  “Anna, can you move away from that man, please?” the sheriff said.

  Taking Ramage’s lead, she ignored him.

  The cop’s sigh put a smile on Ramage’s face. This was going to be fun. What the sheriff and everyone else in Prairie Home didn’t realize was he had nothing to lose, and that made him dangerous. Anger rose in him, stinging his stomach. He was having breakfast, hadn’t bothered anyone, had been robbed, and yet he was the problem. He picked up his napkin and dapped the corners of his mouth.

  “Put your hands on the table. Now!” the sheriff said.

  One of the patron’s gasped, and the old couple got up and hustled out of the restaurant.

  Ramage slowly put his hands on the table and turned to look at the sheriff. The guy held his pea shooter with both hands and was pointing it at Ramage.

  “What the hell are you doing? Can’t you see I’m trying to eat?” Ramage said.

  The cop’s eyes grew wide, and his cheeks turned red. “I’m gonna ask you one more time, and—”

  “And what!” Ramage yelled. Fat boy wasn’t the only one who could raise their voice. “You gonna shoot an unarmed man? In broad daylight, in front of…” Ramage counted the remaining people in the
restaurant with the tip of his finger like a child counting presents. “In front of ten witnesses? Now, that sounds like ten kinds of stupid. You stupid, sheriff?”

  “Anna is he armed?” Kingston asked.

  She looked at Ramage, who shrugged.

  “No,” she said.

  The sheriff lowered his gun to his side and nodded to his men to do the same.

  “Who are these clowns?” Ramage said, motioning toward the sheriff’s support team.

  “Deputies,” the sheriff said.

  “New ones, huh? What happened to the last crew? The ones that illegally stopped Anna and I yesterday?” Ramage smiled wide. “They still… under the weather?”

  “Are you Theodore Ramage?”

  Ramage said nothing. He sat with his hands flat on the table, staring at Anna.

  “Name, sir, please?”

  “Now, since you said please. My mom calls me Theo, but you can call me Mr. Theo, if you don’t mind.”

  “That your last name? Theo?”

  “Does it sound like a last name, dipshit?”

  Ramage looked at the cop. His face was flush, and his knuckles were red from holding the gun so tight. Ramage smiled.

  “That’s about all I’m going to take from you. Get up. Now.”

  “Piss off.”

  “Sir, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do—”

  “Fuck you, Kingston. You haven’t told me why you’re here. I breathe the wrong Prairie Home air? I fart too loud last night? What?”

  “Get up, or I’ll have my men drag you out of here.”

  “You could try, but I don’t think that will go very well.”

  The sheriff said nothing, and Ramage saw doubt spread over his face like sewage through clear water.

  “Yeah, you’re just now realizing your situation. You should have waited until I was done with my breakfast and was outside and away from innocents. But you wanted to be a big man. Showoff in front of Ginger and Janice.” He pointed at two of the cop’s guys. “Those two lackeys have shotguns, so I guess they’re planning on shooting Anna also?”