Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  She knew the owner/bartender Dudley from around town. Surprisingly, he wasn’t a bad guy. He paid all his dancers well, protected them from the rabble, and never pressured them for sex. Most of the girls liked him, and defended him, so Anna didn’t have a problem with what they did. Money was money, and if some dumbass wanted to blow his entire paycheck on a woman he had no chance with, that was their business. Fools and their money and all that.

  “Hey, Anna,” Dudley said. He was a big guy, not fat, but not skinny. He had gray sad eyes and short cropped blonde hair. His t-shirt had a silver star on it. “What brings you in here?” He looked around at the patrons watching them.

  Anna glanced down the bar and saw the mayor staring at her. “Need a word with Jessup. That OK?”

  He shrugged. “Free country.”

  The mayor must have overheard her, because he said, “I’m only two deep here, Anna. What is it?” Jessup Stein was a stooge, and he looked like one: unshaven, beaten expression, threadbare suit, uncombed graying hair.

  “You know what the sheriff is up to today?”

  The mayor rolled his eyes. “Why? Should I?”

  Dudley joined them. “Can I get you anything, Anna?”

  The mayor said, “No, she’s just leaving.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Anna recounted the day’s events, making sure to exaggerate when appropriate. When she was done a bystander might have believed a choirboy had been abducted by a terrorist.

  “What do you want from me? You know the law. He’ll be arraigned before Judge—”

  “In twenty-four hours. I know. You have keys to the sheriff’s annex. All I want is to see him and make sure he’s alright, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  The mayor made an exasperated sound and looked at the ceiling for patience. “You see I’m relaxing. Why would I—”

  She put a hand on his shoulder and channeled Ramage. “Your call. You can stay here and get drunk while I drive to the FBI field office in Dallas to file a complaint, or you can take a quick ride with me. What’s it going to be?”

  The man’s eyes darted around as he considered his situation. “Fine.”

  They found Ramage in the birdcage, alive and well but hungry and thirsty. Anna got him some food and sat next to the birdcage while he ate, the mayor standing behind her the entire time.

  “You OK with your law officers running amok?” Ramage asked the mayor.

  “The sheriff does his job, and I do mine. You’ll get your due process,” Mayor Stein said. “We done here? I got some place to be.”

  Anna pleaded with Ramage with her eyes, but he shook his head slightly. “I’m fine. See you in the morning.”

  “I’ll be at the hearing,” she said.

  Ramage nodded.

  Rolly Pepper stepped from the shadows and watched Anna’s pickup make a right on 1st Street. He pulled out his phone and called the Sandman.

  Anna drove Mayor Stein back to Dudley’s and called Splice. The man had betrayed Ramage, but she needed his help. It was time to use the feelings he had for her against him. Splice said he was at Lucy’s having dinner, and could she meet him there, so she did.

  When she arrived at Lucy’s Anna found Splice leaning against his car, waiting for her.

  She buzzed down her window. “Didn’t want to be seen with me, huh?”

  “What do you want, Anna?” He sounded hostile.

  “I thought you and I could spend some alone time together. I’ve got—”

  “Give it a rest. Do I look that stupid? You don’t even look at me for years, but now that you need something, you’re into me?”

  She said nothing.

  “Here.” He passed a folded sheet of paper through the open window.

  “What’s this?”

  “Help.”

  Anna said nothing.

  “There’s notes there on the security system as an apology, but if you say I gave it to you…”

  “You’ll what?”

  It was Splice’s turn to say nothing.

  She dropped the truck into gear and sped off, leaving Splice in a cloud of dust.

  Anna went home and spent the night worrying about Ramage. She lay on her bed, sleep fleeing further away, getting angry with herself for acting like a lovesick teenager. She knew nothing about him. How could she love him? Did she?

  She sat up in the darkness, a chill breeze snaking through the open window bringing the scent of sage and mesquite.

  The next day dawned bright, and Anna was up early and back in town by 8AM. The sheriff’s annex was locked up, no lights inside. She yelled for Ramage, but either he couldn’t hear her, was asleep, or he was no longer in the birdcage.

  She did a drive by of the diner and saw the Sheriff’s cruiser, but no sheriff, and Ramage’s rental car was gone. She drove around town, searching. It didn’t take long to find Ramage’s Taurus. It was parked at his hotel.

  “What the?” Anna said.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ramage came awake to the sound of squeaking brakes and crunching gravel. He rubbed his eyes. A beam of sunlight cut across the room like a spotlight, illuminating a file cabinet on the western wall. It was morning. They hadn’t come for him in the night as he thought they would. The mayor’s visit may have had something to do with that. Anna may have saved his life.

  A car door slammed.

  Ramage sat up and ran fingers through his hair. He felt dirty, because he was. He hadn’t showered in two days and his clothes… He rubbed his eyes.

  Metal scraped on metal as a key slid into the lock, and the door swung open. Sheriff Kingston stood in the doorway, his rotund frame backlit by the blazing sun. The scent of oil and smoke wafted into the office. He flicked on the light and went to his desk, ignoring Ramage.

  “What? No breakfast?” Ramage said.

  The sheriff said nothing as he shuffled through the mail on his desk.

  “Look, dickhead.” Ramage wanted to provoke the man, get him riled up. When people were angry they made mistakes, didn’t think rationally. He’d had enough of the birdcage, and he didn’t think the Sandman would be back, so it was time for him to check out of his luxurious accommodations. “We’re coming up on twenty-four hours. Am I ever going to get my phone call? You know the rules, right? Even in this ass-stain of a town you had to go to training, right? How to deal with the public and all that. What? You absent the day they went over a suspect’s rights?”

  The sheriff leaned back in his chair, and the accompanying shriek sounded like a car running over a cat. Kingston stared at him, puffy white cheeks striated with red lines, his nose red. This was a man who drank a lot, and from what Ramage could see he’d tied one on the prior night.

  “I’m going to start yelling if you don’t tell me what’s up. Would you like that?” Ramage shrieked as loud as he could, his dry throat screaming with pain from the effort.

  The sheriff said, “The judge isn’t around, so you’ll be charged this afternoon and held for a couple of days before your hearing.”

  “What about my call?”

  “You got it, didn’t you?”

  “Just making shit up now, are we?”

  “Anna visited last night. No? Mayor said she did. Sounds better than a call to me, so I think I’m good.”

  Ramage said nothing. He really hated small towns.

  Outside the crow was back, but he didn’t hear the refrigerator compressor. “I need to take a piss,” Ramage said.

  “Why? You haven’t had any…”

  “Yeah, not something you want to admit. It’s prisoner abuse to withhold water and food.”

  “Whatever. Hold it or piss in your pants,” Kingston said.

  “But these are my only pair.”

  “And I care, why?”

  “Because if you don’t take me for a leak, I’m gonna piss on you. Savvy?” Ramage got up and walked to the bars. He positioned himself in one of the birdcage’s corners, where the steel support columns were thicker.

  The s
heriff sighed, but didn’t say anything.

  “OK,” Ramage said. He undid his belt buckle, unzipped his pants, and dropped his underwear to his ankles. He took hold of his package, and looked up at the ceiling, humming.

  “One drop hits that floor and I’ll—”

  “You’ll do what, fatboy? I’ll tell you what you’ll do. You’ll get wet.” Ramage shifted on his feet, like he was drawing his urine to the surface from a deep reserve.

  The sheriff pushed up from his chair and put his hand on his nightstick.

  Ramage reached out with his left hand and gripped one of the cell bars. He leaned over, making like he was about to start peeing.

  The sheriff waddled across the room and smacked the cell bars with his baton. “One drop, Ramage. I swear.”

  “Screw you.” A thin stream of urine arced through the cell bars, splattering the sheriff’s shoes.

  “You little shit.” The sheriff pulled back his arm, preparing to swing his nightstick and crack Ramage’s left hand that gripped the cell bar.

  Ramage’s right hand was a blur as it shot through the gap in the bars and clamped on the sheriff’s shirt. He twisted the fabric, felt the tip of the cop’s star dig into his palm, and jerked the man forward, slamming his head into the birdcage.

  The sheriff tried to bring up his baton, but Ramage was faster and stronger. He thrust his left hand through the bars and grabbed the club, yanked it from the cop’s hand, and tossed it away. Then did the same with his gun. He still had hold of Kingston’s shirt, and Ramage slammed the man’s face into the birdcage over and over. He was gone in the fog of rage, lost in the anger.

  When the sheriff went limp, Ramage let Kingston fall to the floor unconscious. He was gurgling and coughing like he was drowning in his own blood, so Ramage dropped to a knee and reached through the bars. He grabbed the cop by his shoulders and twisted him onto his side. Blood gushed from Kingston’s mouth and nose, but the ragged breathing and gurgling stopped.

  The sharp whine of the mini-fridge’s compressor cleared the fog, and Ramage looked around like a child amazed at what he’d done. The sheriff’s breathing was steady, but labored, but Ramage didn’t think he needed an ambulance.

  He reached through the bars and grasped the sheriff’s keyring, which looked like it held a key for every lock in Prairie Home. It took him several minutes to unhook the keys, because Kingston was partially laying on them. He stood and went about trying each key. Some were obvious nonmatches, and it only took three tries to find the old skeleton key that opened the cell. The sheriff lay unconscious in front of the cell door, and Ramage had to push hard to open the door as the sheriff slid across the dirty linoleum.

  He picked up the sheriff’s gun and slipped it into his pants behind his back. Then he grabbed the cop by the ankles and dragged him into the birdcage. He sat him up and propped him against the back wall, making sure his breathing was steady. He left the cell and locked the door behind him and dropped the sheriff’s keys in a pocket.

  The desk was a mess, but Ramage checked it out anyway. Never knew when you might find something useful, but there was nothing. Unopened junk mail, a few letters from attorneys, communication from the state police, but nothing about the Sandman, or his crew.

  Ramage went through the filing cabinets, but not very thoroughly. The odds of finding anything were astronomical, but he did find something, though it was of little use. The Sandman owned the Town Hall building and received rent checks from the state monthly. Ramage sighed.

  He looked around the room one last time, made sure the sheriff was breathing OK, and went to leave, but as his hand wrapped around the door handle his mouth spread into a smile.

  He went back to the desk, found a pen and paper, and wrote a note in big block letters. When he was done, he opened the birdcage and pinned the note on the sheriff. It read, “Ho Ho Ho. Now I have a gun.” Only question was, would the dumbasses get the joke? Everyone had seen Die Hard, hadn’t they?

  Ramage stepped out into the early morning sun, pausing just outside the door to stretch, looking around and making sure none of the sheriff’s goons were waiting. There was nobody.

  He pulled the cop’s keys from a pocket, found the door fob for the cruiser, and unlocked the vehicle. He dropped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Ramage looked over his shoulder. He’d been in the backseat of a few squad cars, but never in the front.

  The cruiser was equipped with a laptop computer that rested on a pedestal between two bucket seats. The machine was powered down, and there was a layer of dust on the keyboard. Ramage started the car and pressed the power button on the laptop. The crown vic roared to life, and the computer screen glowed, the white Ector County logo appearing over black. Then a password screen. Damn. Ramage considered trying to break the password, but without his gear it would be difficult and take too much time.

  He backed out, spun the car around, and pulled out onto 1st Avenue. It was windy, and sand pelted the windshield like tiny hailstones.

  It was still early, and Prairie Home was just waking up. Nothing moved, no smoke rose from chimneys, no windows glowed with light. He stopped at the traffic signal, looked both ways, and stepped on the gas. The diner was open, but there were no cars in the lot except his, and Ramage wondered for the first time how Ginger and Janice got to work. Probably parked in back. He swung into the parking space next to his rented Ford Taurus.

  His stomach grumbled, so he went in the diner and had breakfast. He sat on Ginger’s side.

  “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she said as she poured him coffee without asking if he wanted any.

  “I’m like a bad penny,” Ramage said. That got a smile. He was slowly breaking through her wall.

  “A penny, maybe, but not bad. We need more folks like you around here.”

  Ramage lifted an eyebrow. “Who? Little old me?”

  “Breakfast is on me today. OK?” She smiled.

  “Why? What did I do to earn such preferential treatment?”

  “Seeing that ass hit the floor was the highlight of my year.”

  Not everyone was a fan of the sheriff and the Sandman. Ramage ate, drank coffee, ate some more. When he was done, he left a twenty-dollar tip and told Ginger he’d see her for lunch. That made her smile again.

  Out in the parking lot Ramage locked the police car and threw the sheriff’s keys into the empty, sagebrush covered nothingness behind the diner. He saw them land with a puff of dust and made a mental note. Unless someone had a spare set of keys, they’d have to cut the sheriff out of the birdcage when they found him. Ramage smiled.

  He needed a shower, some fresh clothes, so he made his way back to the hotel and parked out front where anyone looking for him could see his car. He didn’t care. If they came, so be it.

  The hotel’s main office was dark, no sign of his slender old friend. He retrieved the Glock he’d taken off the cop in Dallas and placed the cop’s six shooter in its place. Then he trudged up the metal steps and peered through his room window. Everything appeared to be where he’d left it, though he’d be surprised if the sheriff or one of his goons hadn’t searched his room, but perhaps the old lady felt the way Ginger did.

  He stripped off his clothes, piled them in a corner, and put the Glock on the vanity next to the shower within reach. He turned on the water and held his hand under the weak stream, judging the temperature. When clouds of steam filled the room, he pulled back the curtain and stepped in. He’d barely put shampoo in his hair when he heard someone knocking on his door.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ramage slipped from the shower and pulled a towel around his waist. He listened hard. Water dripped in the shower, a TV moaned from another room, air moved through vents, and the tapping at the door continued. He grabbed the Glock nine and slipped from the bathroom, getting low, staying out of sight should someone be watching through the room’s front window, but there was nobody there.

  The tapping got harder, then, “Ramage! You in ther
e? It’s Anna.”

  He took four fast steps to the door and peered through the peephole. Anna stood there, big distorted head and all. He flung open the door and they hugged. Ramage’s towel fell off, and he broke their embrace and awkwardly picked it up and covered himself.

  Anna pulled off the towel, tossed it aside, and kicked the door closed.

  Ramage gathered her in his arms, drew her in close and kissed her neck, drinking in her scent of flowers and shampoo. He fumbled with her clothes until she got frustrated and pushed him onto the bed. He lay there, naked, watching her strip off her clothes.

  Then they were lost in their love making. Ramage was inexperienced, but if Anna noticed she didn’t show it. He did what Joan had liked, and from the reaction he got Anna was happy with their progress. They did this, but not that, and Anna took control, driving him onto his back and putting him inside her. She rocked and bucked, Ramage holding on, lost in the moment.

  When they were done they both collapsed onto the sweat soaked sheets, breathing hard, both wearing smiles so big a stranger might conclude they’d both just won the lottery, in addition to having sex.

  Ramage wanted to ask Anna what this meant, but then realized he had no idea what he wanted it to mean. Never ask a question you don’t want the answer to. Rex had taught him that. He stared at the ceiling, Anna’s head on his chest. Just enjoy the moment, he told himself. Let go. Let everything go. But Joan’s face filled his mind, and he knew he could never do that.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  The question. Even Ramage knew this one had to be handled delicately, and truth was not a requirement. In fact, like answering the questions ‘how do I look?’ and ‘how old do you think I am?’ truth was often frowned upon. “Nothing. Gas in sand trailers, refineries. I still can’t put it together.”

  “Not what I was after.”

  Ramage had an idea what she was after. She wanted to talk about what had just happened, so Ramage said nothing.