Spectre Black

by J. Carson Black

  Of course, even fakes could be dangerous. In fact, fakes were probably more dangerous, simply because they had to prove they weren’t fakes.

  Landry noticed one of the figures—all in black—leaning against one of the Suburbans. He was the picture of inattention.

  Landry knew he could handle them. He knew he could handle their friends. He would have no problem kicking their asses into next week for impersonating a police officer or worse, a member of the armed services. The question was, did he want to?

  He was dressed to fit this car: the tourist T-shirt, the flip-flops, the shorts, the sunglasses. The average-guy haircut. The Timex. The fast food wrapper balled up on the dash and the Big Gulp in the console cup holder.

  A box of tennis balls on the seat.

  He removed the balled-up fast food wrapper—it was from a Dairy Queen brazier in Las Cruces—uncrumpled it and laid it over the Colt—

  And slowed down like a good boy.

  A big guy in combat boots, a ball cap with an official-looking insignia too hard to read, a black bulletproof vest, and Army fatigues you could buy online, stepped toward him and raised his hand. He bristled with weapons—a sidearm on his hip, a rifle slung across his back. Big kid playing dress-up. Another stood nearby, a Bushmaster cradled in his arms.

  Landry obliged by stopping. He buzzed down his window and looked up at the guy. His gape was excellent—sterling. He knew he looked like a cowed tourist.

  The dress-up guy tipped the bill of his cap and said, “Can I see some ID, sir?”

  “May,” Landry said.

  “What?”

  “May I see some ID. You can, physically, but you’re asking.”

  The man stared at him.

  Landry gave him a vague smile—his professorial face—and tried to look clueless. He knew the guy was no cop. Not even an undercover cop. Cops were not allowed to stop people and demand their IDs. Not in any state in the union, with the exception of Arizona.

  For a moment Landry considered taking one of the guns from the fake cop and pistol-whipping him across his beefy dumb face, but decided against it. Maybe the guy was from Arizona, and didn’t know any better.

  So, innocent as a lamb, he dug out his wallet and handed the man his license.

  “Is there trouble, officer?”

  The guy held his license and looked at it hard. “Where are you going, Mr., uh, Keeley?”

  “Is there something wrong? I’m going to Branch to see my sister.”

  He looked at the license one more time. Reluctant to let it go. But when you pretend to be a cop, you have to act like one. “May I look inside your trunk, sir?”

  Landry pulled the latch and the trunk popped open.

  The guy stood there for a few minutes behind the car. Landry watched him in the rearview. He raised the trunk lid for a quick look and pushed it shut again—

  Which was a good thing for him.

  The duffle in the trunk was Landry’s “run bag”—a bag packed for him to grab up at a moment’s notice. He kept it in his closet, packed with the basics. The run bag contained shampoo, bath soap, pain meds, an extra phone battery, a suit and a dress shirt laid out and folded neatly, dress shoes and socks, work boots, jeans, a baseball cap, and an emergency medical kit. It also carried twist-tie plastic cuffs and loaded magazines.

  One reason he rarely flew commercial.

  Landry heard the crackle of the walkie-talkie. The man was talking into it, wandering this way and that behind the car. For entertainment, Landry studied the two people leaning against the bumper of one of the Suburbans, a short, squat woman and a string-bean man, both dressed in paramilitary outfits and black Kevlar bulletproof vests. The bulletproof vests were decorated with Velcroed epaulets—a nice touch—and the camo pants contained plenty of pockets for their lip balm and breath mints. Someone had a mom who liked to sew. Landry thought it must be hot as hell in those vests, but if you want to play cops and robbers, it’s the price you pay. Landry also got a closer look at the three Suburbans. They had a lot of miles on them, especially the one that was mid-nineties vintage. The others were in the right decade but were dusty and dented.

  The first man came back around to the driver’s side window. “You may go, sir,” he said, just as a walkie-talkie crackled on the hip of the fake policewoman.

  Landry sat there, his hands on the steering wheel, ten and two.

  You have no fucking idea how lucky you are.

  The guy had expected Landry to drive off. He was discombobulated. He wiped at the sweat on his cheek and said, “That a tennis racket in your trunk? Guess you’re a tennis player, huh?”

  “Just an amateur,” Landry said. “But it’s fun.”

  The guy fumbled for words. Finally he said, “Good job.”

  Whatever that meant.

  Landry took his foot off the brake and eased it onto the accelerator. He pulled away, almost running over the man’s feet. The fake cop jumped back, and Landry smiled as he watched the little band dwindle away in the rearview mirror.

  He’d seen better playacting at a Punch-and-Judy show.

  Chapter 4

  After a few hills, the road straightened out through a wide, flat valley. It was an agricultural area: beans, chiles, and cotton, the road a black arrow straight to hazy blue mountains in the distance.

  The milepost number grew higher. When it passed 120, Landry actively started scanning for a Circle K. He was only eighteen miles away from Milepost 138.

  He drove past several farms, everything from a few acres and a farmhouse to massive agricultural concerns. There were three big farms and two small ones. The big farms looked new and well kept; acres and acres of farmland hemmed in by twelve-foot-high chain-link fences with concertina wire on top. The wire was new and shiny. He noted complexes inside complexes and rectangles inside larger rectangles. The buildings looked new and state of the art, made to loosely resemble the gracious haciendas of California and Mexico. All of them appeared to have the same architect. The only differentiations in the buildings were the individual layouts and the colors of the buildings. One farm had beige walls and rusty-brown metal roofs. Another had white outbuildings and slate-gray roofs. Another had beige buildings with red roofs. A white sign flashed by: “Jordan H. Green Experimental Agricultural Station: Your Tax Dollars at Work.” Another sign, also white, but with blue letters instead of black: “Heron Lake Agricultural Farm.” Landry looked for a lake but didn’t see one. He did see irrigation ditches, though.

  The third big farm was called “The Valleyview Experimental Agricultural Station.” Like its companion farms, the Valleyview Experimental Agricultural Station was neatly laid out with computer motherboard precision. There were two gigantic manufactured steel buildings and several smaller ones, all fitting together in a pleasing manner, divided by paved roads lined by poplar trees. A small airfield and hangar were situated at one end of the grid of bean fields.

  He slowed a tick—no one else on the road—as he drove past the mega farm, instinctively enjoying the layout, the neat interlocking parts. Precision was something that appealed to his eye. He had always been drawn to circles and squares and triangles. Geometry had been his favorite subject in school.

  He watched the farm dwindle in his rearview. The land became fallow farmland again and the odd patch of desert. As he left the valley and the farms behind, the road climbed a little.

  Up on the left he saw a child’s building block of a structure—the Circle K. An old one, the kind he used to hang out at during his youth. The pole rose above it but the sign was gone, except for a rusty square frame.

  Landry didn’t alter his speed, but drove past it, cop style. First, get the lay of the land. Then, go back. At approximately two hundred yards beyond the Circle K, Milepost 138 flashed by.

  He scanned the road, looking for anything or anyone, but saw nothing. He turned around and dro
ve back, pulling off the road into the pitted asphalt parking lot. Aimed for the tamarisk tree at the edge of the lot near the rear of the building, and parked behind it. This way he was hidden from the road on one side and blocked by the bulk of the abandoned building on the other.

  He saw the pay phone on the side of the Circle K. Turned on his 4G and punched in the number Jolie had left with his answering service. The phone rang.

  Landry had mixed feelings about tamarisk trees. They were salt cedars, imported from the Mediterranean. They clogged up rivers and streams in the west, killing the natural flora and fauna, and they sopped up a lot of water. On the other hand, their shade wasn’t just good, it was spectacular—the deepest, darkest, coolest shade you could find anywhere. At this time of day, going on eleven in the morning, the area under the tamarisk tree was as black as ink.

  Landry went out on the road and looked from every angle. The car was, for all intents and purposes, invisible.

  Just in case someone pulled in (unlikely, as the Circle K was obviously abandoned) Landry opened the trunk and pulled out the spare tire and the jack. He left the trunk open and set the spare tire against the car and the jack near it. It would look like he was just getting ready to work the tire.

  He leaned against the car, staring out at the road and the shimmering blue mountains to the east, and once again punched in the number of the pay phone.

  This time he let the pay phone ring again and again and again while he scanned the desert for movement.

  She did not come.

  But someone did. Or rather they drove by, in a hurry: two Tobosa County Sheriff’s cars, light bars blinking. They whisked past, going at least eighty miles an hour, in the direction Landry had come from. They disappeared over a hill and the sound diminished.

  Landry wondered where they were going in such a hurry, but decided it was none of his business. He continued to wait for Jolie Burke, staring out at the desert, and tried calling again.

  The same result. Nothing.

  Another city or county car—this one a plain wrap—blew through, followed by a tall white panel van. After that, nothing. Landry continued to try the phone at the Circle K periodically, as noon turned to afternoon. One hour turned to two hours turned to three hours. The sun moved and he moved with it, staying in the shade of the tamarisk tree.

  For hours at a time, the road remained empty. There was very little traffic either way. Maybe one or two cars, zipping by.

  No sign of Jolie.

  He checked his answering service: nothing.

  Maybe she was waiting until it was dark. But Landry couldn’t stay out here much longer. Even though there was little traffic on the road, the disabled car would become conspicuous at some point. That point hadn’t been reached yet, but it would soon.

  He counted only fourteen cars in a three-hour stretch, all whizzing past.

  Late in the afternoon, a rancher drove into the lot and parked near the tree. He leaned across the seat and yelled through the open window, “Need help?”

  “I got this,” Landry said. “Thanks.”

  “You sure?” The rancher turned off the engine and got out of his truck. He wore a straw cowboy hat, a snap-button plaid shirt, and boot-cut Wranglers. Wranglers and Roper boots. The man’s face was seamed and brown, like a gingersnap cookie. He reached out and shook Landry’s hand. “Name’s Jerry Boam.”

  “Boam? Like the giant bottle of wine or the first king of Israel?”

  The rancher laughed. “Both, I reckon. My parents, God rest ’em, had a sense of humor. Funny thing is, they was both teetotalers.”

  “I’ve heard everything, now.”

  “Nope. There’s plenty more where that came from. My sister’s name is Margarita.”

  Landry covered his eyes against the glare. “I’m new here, came to see a friend of mine. Her name’s Jolie Burke. Do you know her?”

  He thought for a moment. “She live in Branch?”

  “Yup. She’s with the local sheriff’s.”

  “Sounds familiar. Local girl? You sure you don’t want a lift?”

  “No thanks, I’m good.” Landry grinned. “It’s time I brushed up on my tire-changing skills.”

  “Seek and ye shall find, that’s what the Lord says.” The rancher reached into his breast pocket and pressed a pamphlet into Landry’s hand. “We’re all travelers in search of answers. I think you’ll find some comfort here.”

  Landry looked down at the religious tract in his hand. Boam hopped into the truck cab, started up the engine and cocked his elbow on the door. “You see those sheriff’s cars?”

  “Sure did.”

  “You know what they were going to?”

  Landry shook his head. “No idea.”

  “Guess I’ll hear about it on the news. Or on the Internets. You take care now and drink plenty of water. It gets hot out here.”

  Landry held up his water bottle with a grin. “What are the motels like in Branch?”

  “Oh, fair to middlin’. The Satellite INN is nice, though. Wife’s cousin works there. They got cable TV, even serve breakfast. Nothing fancy, just some coffee, rolls, butter patties. Swimming pool, too. I remember when the place was built in 1963. Most modern thing I ever saw. Oh, if you do like wine, which I do not, there’s a winery right here in Branch. Think it’s over by the Walmart.”

  “Thanks.”

  Boam nodded to the leaflet. “Be sure to read that now, there’s nothing like God’s Word to set you straight on the path.” He saluted, put the truck in gear, and drove away.

  Dusk came. A few official-looking cars and the tall white van went by—this time in the opposite direction. And this time, they were in no hurry.

  Curious, Landry checked his Samsung 4G. No bars. He’d called the pay phone intermittently, but getting a signal on his cell phone was catch-as-catch-can out here. He waited some more. The sun began to show through the tamarisk screen. The white Nissan sat there with the wheel propped against the back fender, telling its story. Someone had a flat tire, and that same someone had gone to get help. Landry left the car where it was and walked out into the desert.

  There wasn’t any high ground to watch the Circle K from, so Landry burrowed down in a desert wash an eighth of a mile away. He lay in a prone position at the lip of the arroyo’s bank and watched the Circle K through his nightscope. Every once in a while he called the pay phone.

  It stood to reason that Jolie would wait until after dark to make her move.

  But she didn’t.

  Night stretched into morning. Landry shifted positions a few times for comfort. Toward dawn, the cold seeped through his clothes from the ground. Deserts were dry places; hot during the day but cold at night.

  No one approached the disabled Nissan Versa.

  Not on foot, not by car. Whatever the cops and other officials had been racing to was over with.

  The road remained empty.

  Long before dawn, Landry knew that Jolie would not be coming. She hadn’t taken advantage of her window of opportunity, and now that window had closed.

  She might be looking to find him in some other way, and so he would stick around Branch and let himself be seen. Hopefully she would see him.

  But for now, Jolie Burke was in the wind.

  He ate an early breakfast at Dina’s Diner next door to The Satellite INN in Branch, tipping the waitress enough to make her happy but not enough to make him stand out. Before that, he’d ducked into the bathroom of the neighboring Texaco for a quick strip wash and a change of shirts.

  Landry had adopted his “average dad” look: sports sandals and plaid cargo shorts covered by a big T-shirt featuring a sun wearing sunglasses.

  Despite multiple deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan, Landry had managed to avoid tattoos—except for one, a snarling mountain lion on his upper arm. The tattoo was easily hidden by a short-s
leeved tee.

  Landry had a fellow Navy SEAL to thank for his lack of tattoos. Jim Doolen (now deceased) was his superior officer and a good friend. Jim had spotted Landry’s abilities early on. He’d taken Landry aside and suggested he think twice about getting more tattoos. After his service, Landry might have few options for work, and he should keep every option still available to him, open. Tattoos were memorable, and would likely disqualify him from some jobs—especially if those jobs were covert.

  Tattoos didn’t matter to Landry much either way, so he took Doolen’s advice.

  In the military, there was always pressure to conform, but Landry had been immune to outside pressure. What other people thought about him or said about him didn’t matter much. He knew that at some point he would leave the military, and he also understood that his skill set was limited—elite though those skills might be.

  He was also blessed with a forgettable face: good-looking enough, but without the edginess of handsome. He wouldn’t scare anyone, but he wouldn’t engender any romantic fantasies, either. Landry’s face could blend in. His best looks were “affable and open,” and “I’m in my own world—don’t bother me.”

  He looked like someone’s dad. He looked like that for a reason. He had a daughter.

  Here, in a small town where he looked like a tourist whose wife and kid no doubt were sleeping in at The Satellite INN while he had a quiet breakfast to himself, Landry opened the newspaper he’d picked up at the vending machine inside the door of the restaurant, half an ear on the babble surrounding him. He learned two things immediately. One, there was good fishing in the mountains north of here.

  And two, one of the militia members at the checkpoint had been shot to death yesterday morning.

  The article in the paper was mostly photos. The Las Cruces Sun-News had decided to go artistic. Four photos. One large—above the fold—and three smaller shots.

  Plenty of ink.

  Landry found himself looking at the crime scene—the three Suburbans as he remembered them, a detective in the foreground looking down at a marker, a plastic pyramid with a number on it, like you might see at a car wash. In the background the squat lady in the Kevlar vest from yesterday appeared to be wandering aimlessly. Of course it was a static picture, but that was the feeling Landry got.