by Vince Milam
Gulls called from the outside salt air, and the sounds of coins as they slid into the soda vending machine drifted through the closed door from the hallway.
“There was someone.”
Francois slid off the windowsill and eased toward Cole, as if any sudden movements might spook the sheriff.
“You saw. Your eyes observed?” asked Francois.
At that moment, a clerk gave a cursory knock and stuck his head in the door to announce, “Sheriff, there’s a call on line two you’ll want to take.”
Francois raised both hands, blew out a puff of disgust, and gave the young clerk a glare that caused the door to slam shut. Cole snapped out of his reverie and moved back behind the desk, grabbed the phone, and punched line two on the antiquated system. “Yes, sir. No problem. No, sir. Three hours. Will do.” He set the phone down and turned to grab his hat. “I’m afraid I have to go, Father. Right now.”
“Again, call me Francois. And to where, might I ask? It is most important, our discussion.”
“Austin. It’s three hours. I won’t be back until late today.” A decision made and potential lunacy averted, Cole added, “I believe our discussion has ended. It’s all craphouse crazy. There’s nothing I can do for you, Francois.”
“Bon. I shall see you tonight then.” The priest moved with his determined style to the door, apparently unable to grasp the meaning of “ended.” Before he exited, Francois spun and pointed a finger at Cole. His round, florid face had taken on a hard intensity.
“You saw. Your heart. You felt. You saw.”
A loud, puffed-cheek exhale, rife with resignation and relief, accompanied Cole’s reply. “Yeah. I saw.”
Chapter 9
As she tromped into the kitchen Nadine May told Mule to move, even though the cat remained perched on a shelf high above racks of computers, servers, and screens. She stopped, leaned back into the main room, and told the cat, “Never mind.” Mule flicked his tail.
She rummaged through the refrigerator and pulled out food items well past their expiration date, or that looked suspicious, and dumped them in a trash bag. The cleansing left three diet sodas, a brick of Irish butter, Portuguese sparkling wine, goat cheese, a jar of caviar to go with the cheese, and some sesame crackers. A serious grocery run lay in the near future. Empty takeout containers strewn about the place found their way into the trash bag. She counted them in threes, an OCD trait she accepted as part of her makeup and no big deal, since lots of folks had worse little defects. The synapses still fired on all cylinders. That’s what counted.
The imminent arrival of guests constituted an event so unusual it required substantial preparation as to where they would sit and what hospitality she would provide. Cole had called and that was better than good. The recent Rockport events poured through both the media and her more reliable sources. Cole had shown up on TV. She thought he cut a fine figure for the camera, but wasn’t exactly Mr. Talkative when it came to presentation. His phone call had provided a cool new puzzle to solve about some guy named Moloch. More importantly, the call reignited the opportunity to connect as friends, and maybe build on that to create something more.
She hadn’t known Cole when Martha was alive, but had worked with him twice since that tragic event and had established a personal relationship. On one of those occasions, she helped him, the Rangers, and federal agencies when drug smugglers began to focus on Cole’s part of the Texas coast. Assigned by Homeland Security to assess and gather information for the newly formed task force, she traveled to Corpus Christi.
Cole ranked high in the looks department, no doubt, but it was his quiet strength and touch of sadness that especially intrigued her. He probably thought of her as a friend and professional compatriot, which made no sense whatsoever given the overt signals she’d sent in his direction expressing her keen interest. At least she thought they’d been overt. Surely he had picked up on them, although maybe not, but either way another opportunity lay ahead with his visit due in the next forty-eight hours.
Nadine managed to get by within social frameworks, but getting by still left bumps and byways—frustrating for someone used to excelling at any endeavor. She loved life and all of its components, although her apparent inability to adjust to social signals drove her crazy. No matter how hard she tried, her responses to subtle changes within interpersonal settings often came out off-kilter. It made for a chink in her armor, and self-awareness of the issue failed to lead her to any satisfactory solutions. Frustration at others’ misperceptions of her would boil to the surface regularly.
Over dinner in Corpus Christi with members of the task force, someone asked her, “Any idea where they may try to land and unload next?”
“I’ve done some predictive modeling,” she said. “Next Thursday night. Late. Port Lavaca. Man, my skin feels salty here. I wonder if that’s good? Two boats. Five or six people, total. Coke, mostly. Some heroin.”
One of the feds joked, “Any idea about their style of clothes?”
Nadine stared at him for a moment, digesting the request. “No. Do you need that? I can run some heuristics and give it a shot. Or shall we just assume it won’t be Armani.”
Everyone at the table laughed good-naturedly.
She had asked Cole about his life and interests. He’d replied modestly that he was nothing special—“plain vanilla.” She shared how she grew up a tomboy, aced every test she ever took, went one year to college to satisfy her PhD parents, and wore out several boyfriends.
“Are you married?” she asked during the conversation.
Cole explained his circumstances. She filed the information, piecing together probabilities on how such a tragedy affected your worldview.
“Still figuring it all out,” Cole finished. “I can’t get the higher purpose.”
Nadine decided on a pensive look for Cole at that comment. Pensive provided neutrality. Any conversational gambit regarding spirituality never ended well for her. One exasperating experience after another in that realm had taught her to craft a neutral response as the best social strategy. A higher power in the universe? Sure, she knew odds pointed in that direction. Hard data, on the other hand, was scarce at best, and all of it wrapped in alternative explanations. And those type of spiritual conversations, she had come to realize, led to false impressions about her—impressions that she viewed everything through analytical eyes. That wasn’t entirely true and there was no point in bringing that subject up either, since that led to conversations during which the other person’s eyes grew wider by the second, and once that train left the station it was nigh on impossible to pull it back. Man, people were strange.
At the end of the meal, she said to Cole privately, “Plain vanilla. Maybe that’s what I like about you.” She felt that was safe and solid. He didn’t appear to carry any major defects or strange baggage or peculiar habits. A normal guy, a straight shooter—appealing qualities all.
The task force disbanded after that last big bust. At eleven forty-five on Nadine’s predicted Thursday they boarded two boats that had just arrived in Port Lavaca. They arrested five men. They found two hundred kilos of coke and fifty kilos of heroin.
Hands on hips, she surveyed the living room of the garage apartment and squeezed three times. A past boyfriend had called her rawboned, which in that part of the world meant a swimmer’s body but more angular, with sharper edges. Those hip bones were pretty pointed, but a quick assessment of ribs and rear revealed nothing protruding beyond reason. Besides, some heads still turned when she entered a crowd dressed to the nines, which admittedly had become more and more rare an occasion.
She owned the large house and unattached garage with its overhead living quarters. The house provided far too much area for her to fool with, so she rented it to a doctor who worked at the nearby Texas Medical Center.
“This place is a mess, Mule. I blame you.” The cat rolled on his back and stretched a back leg. “You look like a furry ballerina when you do that.”
Years ago sh
e completed extensive work on the one-bedroom garage apartment, adding layers of physical and electronic security. Its interior held a mishmash of computer equipment, printers, backup power supplies, charts, graphs, and printed photographs.
Nadine loved to help catch the bad guys. Her professional endeavors provided personal satisfaction and brought deep admiration from her clients and law enforcement teammates. Once on an assignment, she would forego food and sleep for long stretches, focused intently on solving the puzzle and stopping the evildoers. A client at the FBI had once told her, “Nadine, you may not be in a class of your own, but it sure doesn’t take long to call the roll.”
She thought maybe it was karma or some cosmic circle that would cycle Cole back through her life. She knew she tended to put men off for some God-only-knows reason. Her looks department was okay and maybe better than okay. She had learned affectations such as massaging egos and listening to horrifically boring stories as if they were the most enthralling things imaginable, all accompanied by attentive facial expressions. But men scooted away at the first opportunity. It was a drag, but she couldn’t just douse her uniqueness. Cole came across as different. He didn’t appear threatened by her mental acrobatics. He laughed when she hoped he would. She discerned from him some true affection toward her.
Music, she thought, handling another garbage bag. Music to straighten up by. A few keyboard strokes later and Andean flute music came through hidden speakers. Mule watched. She went back into the middle of the room to assess and then back to the keyboard. The music changed as Susan Tedeschi began to belt out “Rock Me Right.” That was much better and she hummed along. She shook the plastic garbage bag to open it. One, two, three times.
Chapter 10
The Texas Rangers make claim to the oldest law enforcement body in America, although folks up in Boston and New York would argue the point. Rangers seldom number more than one hundred and fifty, spread across the state. They have no prescribed uniform, supply their own weaponry, and wear the star-in-circle badge crafted from a five-peso Mexican coin. These things have not changed since the 1830s.
Bruce “Jeeter” Johnson was approaching retirement as head of the Rangers. Among his many duties, supporting small rural law enforcement entities was a constant. Several of his Rangers had helped on the investigation of the Rockport murders.
The call to Cole to hustle over to Austin happened because the governor had just called him. The governor explained he’d received a call from the US State Department, asking if he’d help out. Prior to that, the department had received a call from the Vatican. These domino diplomacy proceedings happened on a routine basis, were a pain in the rear, but no red flags flew over the sequence of events.
The Rockport murders wrapped up simple and clean, always the best way. Those mullets in the media had hauled buns to cover some celebrity’s scandal so that part was wrapped up as well. This added twist from the governor shouldn’t affect things. The Rangers’ immunity from politics didn’t extend to state budgets, and lending a hand as long as it didn’t have to involve any of his Rangers held little risk and even a potential upside during budget season. Johnson would wipe this diplomatic booger on the sheriff of Aransas County.
Three hours after the request call, Sheriff Garza arrived at the Austin Ranger headquarters. The unwritten rules prompted this. Garza reported to the citizens of Aransas County, not the Rangers. But every county sheriff understood you did not say no to the head Ranger for a reasonable request, due to the fact that the Rangers always helped small-town law enforcement folks when needed, and made a point of crediting local law for solving crimes. Sheriffs were elected. Rangers weren’t.
“Good to see you, Cole. Thanks for hustling over. How are the kids?” He’d perused Cole’s personnel file over the last hour.
“Fine, sir. Fine.” Cole occupied the proffered leather chair, branded with an outline of Texas. Lyle Lovett sang in a low volume on hidden stereo equipment. The overhead fan emitted a slight squeak every slow rotation. He’d asked maintenance twice to fix the thing.
Johnson sat, boots on desk, crossed his hands behind his head, and said, “You know what flows downhill, son? And I’m not talkin’ water.”
“Yessir.”
Johnson knew that would put the sheriff on high alert and dang sure get his attention.
“The governor wants you to help a man coming from, now get this, the Vatican. Beats all. We’ve had to deal with potentates and such before, so tossing some help toward the pontiff shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“The Vatican?”
“Yep. International diplomacy. Something to do with that mess in your backyard. Now, Cole, two state concerns have sprung from this as well. Something the governor made crystal clear to me.” He moved his boots off the desk and pointed toward the corner cabinet. “Pardon my manners, son. Can I get you a drink?”
A moment’s hesitation, and then, “No, thanks. If you’ve got any coffee handy, that would work. I like a cup after a long drive.”
Johnson moved to a coffee setting on an old madrone credenza. Five cups with the Ranger badge on display stood next to a stainless steel carafe. Above the credenza hung an oil painting of a West Texas landscape. It wasn’t signed. Johnson didn’t want folks to know it was his work.
“Cream and sugar? This cream is the real deal—we get it from the Blue Bell ice cream folks in Brenham,” said Johnson.
“You bet. Thank you, sir. Any stevia handy?”
Johnson paused in mid-pour. “What’s that?”
He watched Cole squirm a bit before answering, “It’s a no-calorie sweetener. Natural.”
“Cane sugar from East Texas is pretty doggone natural. You on a diet? You’re about as big around as my leg.” Two hundred fifty-four counties in the state, each with an elected sheriff, and good money could be bet this one was the only one who would ask for some newfangled sweetener.
“No, sir. No diet. A little sugar would be great.”
Johnson handed Cole his coffee and continued. “Like I was sayin’. This Vatican thing has kicked off some state concerns. The governor wanted to make sure I understood that it’s election season. And South Texas is big-time Catholic. Concern number one. During election season, the administration is a big fan of the Vatican. Sabe?”
Cole took a long sip, swallowed, and nodded. George Jones replaced Lyle as background music.
“And since it’s election season, it was also pointed out to me that old folks vote. Boy howdy, do they vote. It’s dang near an annual milestone for most of them. Which brings us to concern number two.”
Cole nodded again.
“If any questions come up during election season about the mass murder of old folks, the governor would like to assure these senior constituents that no stone has been left unturned during the investigation in Rockport.”
Cole finished off his coffee.
“Is all this jelling for you, son?” asked Johnson.
Cole looked at the assortment of Ranger memorabilia hanging behind Johnson’s desk. Framed ancient photos of Bigfoot Wallace, Rip (Rest In Peace) Ford, Lone Wolf Gonzaullas, and John Coffee Hays festooned the wall.
“I think I’ve already met him,” said Cole.
“Met who?”
“The Vatican’s guy. A priest. Francois. He dropped by my office this morning.”
This was a positive development and movement in the right direction. “Good. Good. Then the ball’s rolling.”
Johnson belted back the remains of his coffee. “I’ll back you on this, Cole. Whatever you need. I mean that. The governor has set aside funding for this little soirée. Within reason, of course. But you have to keep me informed. I know I cain’t make you do that. So I’m askin’, plain and simple. This is my fifth governor, and I’ve never gained an appreciation for any one of them crawling my rear end.”
“Well, sir. You know I will. And I appreciate the offer of assistance. But I could still use some clarity,” said Cole.
The head Ranger lean
ed forward and waited.
“The Vatican sent this priest. Asked for cooperation. But that doesn’t explain why he’s here.”
Boots up on the desk again, no rush, and it would be unfair to expect this county sheriff to get the bigger picture. “Don’t know, Cole. ’Bout half the time we never do. I could go up the chain to the State Department, but those Hunyaks aren’t going to tell us a thing. We just know that they’ve asked for cooperation from the ‘local authorities.’ That would be you.”
Johnson had less than fond feelings toward the US State Department. In his earlier Ranger days he had been assigned to the town of Marfa, in Presidio County, to assist the very large and very empty counties near the Mexican border. Quite a few ranchers in that part of the state owned small single engine airplanes that they flew as part of overseeing vast rangeland. On several occasions, a plane had been stolen and flown into the wilds of northern Mexico. Johnson would saddle an old horse, cross the Rio Grande, and disappear into those roadless mountains for a week or two. Then he would fly the stolen aircraft back to Texas, with his saddle and tack stowed. The folks in Marfa often wondered what became of those old horses. They were certain of what became of the thieves. The State Department went ballistic when they got wind of these exploits. Johnson told them to kiss his rear end—it was a matter of “hot pursuit.”
“It still doesn’t make sense. So it’s tied to the nursing home murders. Why is the Vatican interested in that?” Cole asked. He held up his coffee cup and stood, pointing at Johnson’s cup. The Ranger handed it to him with a “thanks.”
Cole poured for both of them and handed Johnson the now-steaming drink. Something clearly wasn’t sitting right with the Aransas County Sheriff.
“About that drink, sir. It might go good with this coffee,” said Cole.
Johnson had no problem with that. He ambled over to the corner cabinet, produced a bottle of bourbon, and poured two fingers into Cole’s mug and one into his.
