Spectre Black

by J. Carson Black

  “I can pay the going rate, whatever that is these days, you just name it. I don’t care how you do it but I want him dead, and I want him to know why. You with me?”

  “The kid with the Camaro, his father owns the agricultural farm? I hear he owns the town, too.”

  Kilbride nodded. “And the sheriff’s office. That’s why I need you.”

  The man must have thought that because Landry was big, he was also stupid.

  “If he owns the town, you’re in trouble.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  “I’ll think about it and get back to you,” Landry said.

  Chapter 21

  It had been a bad day. Not bad enough to take his meds, but almost. Jace had gone to see a friend of his, but they’d had an argument and he started seeing things he knew weren’t real. Nothing crazy. Just a cockroach running across the floor and up the wall and across the ceiling.

  And some colors. Dirty-colored rainbows.

  Now, though, he was fine—better than fine. It was all good.

  He saw the checkpoint outside Branch, and tried not to let the memories eat at him. Nothing to worry about; they always waved him through. Usually, they stood at full attention, like he was a visiting dignitary.

  And seriously: Who would try to stop him?

  There was a new batch of militia members today, but it didn’t matter. They came and they went. Bunch of weekend warriors playing soldier, most of them giving up after a few days of boring sentry duty in the hot sun. Plenty of flies around here, too, thanks to the hog farm nearby.

  He expected them to step back and let him drive through as usual. He knew they were scared shitless—for obvious reasons. They knew he wouldn’t take shit from anyone. He had demonstrated that, for sure. If they didn’t know it before he blew away that spy, Connor, they knew it now.

  There was a car ahead of him, though, and even Jace Denboer couldn’t crash through an immovable object. So he waited, revving the Camaro’s engine, thrilling to the big, throaty roar, a Z28, 500-hp, 7.0-liter dry-sump LS7 V8, to be specific. That would put the fear of God into anyone! Get past this asshole and he’d be on his way, per usual.

  One of the militia, though, was looking at him. Not just looking at him, but scrutinizing him. The tall guy with the shaved head and the tiny gold cross earring. Even though the big guy’s face was impassive, even though he wore dark aviator shades, even though his arms were crossed at his chest and not lingering near his hip where his sidearm was . . . even so, Jace knew the man was drilling through him with his eyes.

  He could feel it. Not just the X-ray eyes, but the man seemed to have some kind of powers beyond that. Suddenly he felt bugs crawling on his arms, up his neck, onto his face. He always sensed when he was under scrutiny. That was happening more and more nowadays. And it made him flinchy.

  For a minute he thought about confronting the guy: do you know who I AM? But his father had told him to keep a low profile, and he understood why.

  “I had to promise the sheriff’s office you’d be a model citizen,” his dad said.

  He’d never even been charged in the shooting of the guy at the checkpoint. That was because, although there were witnesses, there were no witnesses. How about that for a paradox?

  Still, a lot of people were after him, waiting for him to make another mistake, and there were spies everywhere.

  He had to comply out of self-defense. “Walk the straight and narrow,” he mumbled to himself. “Walk the straight and narrow, walk the straight and narrow . . .”

  But Connor was a spy—he deserved what happened to him. Didn’t they get that? He was a goddamn spy. Jace had done the right thing, and if given the chance, he’d do it again.

  Finally the car in front of him moved away. He’d reached the entry point.

  The man stood there. His face was impassive. Like he didn’t give a damn who Jace was. No expression at all. Just those crossed arms, the light gleaming on the top of his shaved head. New guy.

  Possibly, bodyguard material.

  Jace had to crank his head way up to look at the guy’s face. The guy didn’t lean down to him. Didn’t wave him through, either. Just stood there, peering through the window at him, like that guy on the commercial, Mr. Clean.

  The guy made a cranking motion for him to buzz down the window. The air conditioning was on, and Jace didn’t feel like cranking down the window, so he just stared defiantly at Mr. Clean, slammed his hand on the horn, and kept it there. He yelled, “Get out of my way!” Once he started yelling he kept at it. Added a few choice words. Every invective he could think of, but the guy just stood there with his arms folded, so tall it was almost impossible to keep looking up at his face. He was so busy yelling at Mr. Clean, he didn’t see a dark blue Suburban come around him, pull in front, flash on the backup lights, and back up to his front bumper.

  Behind him, he heard another engine, and saw the grille of a black Suburban, jutting up high over his back bumper.

  He was trapped.

  Mr. Clean made the rolling motion with his hand again.

  Jace felt the coldness in the pit of his gut. He’d been afraid of a lot of things lately, but this! It was like quicksilver rippled straight down his legs, making them unmanageable. His heartbeat tripled; blood pounded in his ears.

  Mr. Clean was holding a tire iron. He motioned Jace to roll down the window again, make it quick—

  A tire iron! His car!

  He buzzed the window down. Stared up at the man. The man ducked his head down to Jace’s level, and Jace was transfixed by his face. By his moving lips. He almost didn’t hear what the man had to say, because what had once looked like Mr. Clean had become a viper’s head. Not completely, but close enough. Jace could see the faint outlines underneath—what Mr. Clean really was.

  Paranoia. Hallucinations. He should have taken his meds.

  Then the Suburban in front of him pulled forward and off to the side. The viper’s head receded as if it had never been there in the first place. Mr. Clean said to Jace, “You and I are going to talk, soon.”

  “Bullshit. No way I’m talking to a weekend warrior playing soldier.”

  “No? Maybe you should know that someone’s gunning for you. I can help you with that.” He slipped Jace a burner phone. “There’s one number on here. Call it.” He leaned in closer, so that his face was within an inch of Jace’s startled eyes. “And don’t tell your sister. She’s one of the people who are after you.”

  Then he stood back and tapped on the roof.

  “You may proceed.”

  Chapter 22

  Landry and Eric the Red hit the chimichanga place for lunch, sat outside in the shade of the building, looking out at the parking lot. Landry told him about his run-in with Jace.

  “You warned the kid? Why’d you do that?”

  “I gave him a fair chance. Who knows if he’ll take my advice? He’s so full of himself and his Magic Car he probably thinks he’s bulletproof.”

  “Why, though? Why’d you warn him?”

  “A couple of reasons. Kilbride, for one. He called me an assassin.”

  Eric looked at him as if he were crazy. “Well, you are one.”

  “I don’t consider myself to be an assassin. I don’t kill for money. What that is, is stereotyping. You see some big guy who’s former military and he can handle himself, you automatically think he’s a killer for hire? Kilbride’s assumption rubbed me the wrong way.”

  “Okay.” Eric rested a size-thirteen foot on the extra chair. “So now you’ve set his ass up to get killed. You warn him, too? It’s the least you could do.”

  “I did warn him.”

  “How’d he take it?”

  “He took it like the tough guy he is. He asked me if I wanted the hit or not.”

  “Cold.”

  “I suggested that he should take off
for a while and let things cool down, but he said it’s the principle of the thing. He said he’d just find someone else. Said he wasn’t for damn sure going to be scared off by a spoiled kid with money.”

  Eric removed his foot from the chair and stretched his legs out, staring into the parking lot. “Don’t look now, but there’s a lady who can’t get enough of you.”

  “Behind me?”

  “Yeah. Standing by a brand-new Jaguar. She’s staring a hole right through you, bro. Don’t look. She’s hot, though. Rich, too, judging by those wheels.”

  “Description?”

  “Slim, legs you could buy by the yard, long, dark hair but she’s got those pretty blond highlights, you know what I mean? Upscale suit, matching shoes, cheekbones to die for . . .”

  The wind shifted and it was chill. Landry stared into the plate-glass window of the chimi place and saw the car and the woman beside it. She shaded her eyes and stared in his direction. He remembered the last time he’d looked into a window’s reflection, the day he met her. “Carla Vitelli.”

  “The FBI agent Albuquerque sent to look for Jolie? You have any idea what her game is?”

  “She was the one who got me put in jail.”

  “She the one who set you up with that crazy cracker tried to kill you, Earl? That’s cold, man.”

  Landry shrugged. Water under the bridge. “Still there?”

  “Still there. She’s leaning on the truck adjusting her shoe. You want me to go over and talk to her?”

  “I can fight my own battles.” Landry stood up and turned to face the parking lot. A gust of wind blew past, shuttling a paper cup across the pavement. Landry started in Carla’s direction.

  She climbed into the Jaguar, gunned the engine, and backed out of the parking space. Turned in his direction. Expensive sunglasses concealed her eyes. She drove past without bothering to look at him, her expression impassive. She reminded him of a mannequin.

  The car reached the street and turned right onto the thoroughfare.

  Eric whistled. “Cold, brother. Cold.”

  They gave it ten minutes before walking to the truck. Landry reached down, felt under the left rear panel, and produced a transponder.

  “Cute,” Eric said.

  Landry leaned against the car next to the truck to check his shoe and clamped it behind the rear tire.

  “What next?” Eric asked as he opened the driver’s door.

  “We split up.”

  Eric drove him back to the Travelodge. Landry would miss the plush seats and the growling engine of the Dodge Ram, but the Forenza would do just as well.

  As Landry walked to his Forenza, he placed a call to the militia kid, Luke. He got a message, and left one of his own. Landry wondered if the kid was busy or if he was scared.

  Twenty minutes later, his phone buzzed. The readout showed the number for Luke Winkler.

  “What do you want?” Winkler said. His voice was a little on the high side; he was spooked.

  “Did Rick Connor ever talk about what was going on at Denboer’s farm?”

  “I don’t know if I should—”

  “This is not going to go away. I will find you. The best thing you can do is give me the information and I’ll leave you out of it. What do you know? What did Rick Connor tell you?”

  “He told me to stay away.”

  “From Denboer’s farm? Why?”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “He didn’t say anything else?”

  “He just told me to get out of the militia. That they could be in a lot of trouble.”

  “They could be in a lot of trouble? Do you know what he meant by that?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been to his house?”

  “Yeah. I can show it to you.”

  “Just give me the address. I’ll find it myself. Was he living with anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “And you were there on how many occasions?”

  “Just once.” Added hastily, “It was a party. For the militia.”

  “Did you know the other two who were killed? The man and the woman. Gary Short and Amy Diehl?”

  “Kind of. I worked the checkpoint with them.”

  “They tell you anything about the shooting? The guy who came through?”

  “They said it was some guy in a white car.”

  Landry and Eric had a checkpoint to man. They were relieved by the evening shift, grabbed something to eat, and drove to Rick Connor’s rental house.

  The house was old, probably built in the forties or fifties. And small. There was a pocket porch surrounded by arches. White stucco over adobe, Landry thought, a Bermuda grass lawn, and beds full of flowers. An enormous eucalyptus tree that would scare the bejesus out of any thinking person during a thunderstorm.

  A big “FOR RENT” sign stood outside, with a notation to inquire next door.

  The man who answered the door must have been in his eighties. He was stringy, as if he’d recently lost a lot of weight. Most of his weight hung down below his waist. He was tanned, with white hair and wire-rim glasses.

  He showed them around. The house was dark despite the ancient dome lights set in the ceilings, and smelled of something bad. Landry thought it might be rat poison. He told the old man, whose name was Ben, that Rick Connor was his cousin. Ben wasn’t too interested. He was watching Wheel of Fortune and he wanted to get back to it. He told them to go ahead and take what they wanted—otherwise it was going to Goodwill— and bring back the key when they were done.

  Rick Connor traveled light. There was virtually nothing that gave a clue as to who he was, other than some neatly folded knit shirts, underwear, and jeans nestled into the chest of drawers. A few frozen dinners in the refrigerator, a couple of bottles of beer.

  They assumed that the homicide detectives had been thorough, but it had been some time ago and the yellow tape that would have sealed the porch was gone. Landry wasn’t sure if it would be sheriff’s or the local PD.

  He hoped the homicide detectives weren’t that thorough.

  He hoped they missed something he and Eric were looking for: a thumb drive.

  They looked everywhere. Fortunately for Ben, he did not see them slit open the sofa cushions and the innards of the chairs and couches. He did not see them take the toilet apart or unscrew and remove faucets in the shower and the sinks. Or pull the old refrigerator out and go through the back.

  They tried everything they could think of but came up empty. There was no thumb drive.

  “His car?” Eric the Red said.

  “Looks like it’s been towed. We’ll have to find out where.”

  “Let’s try the front and back yards.”

  There was a small backyard. It felt as if they had been sent back in time to the 1950s. There was an old table and iron chairs, rusting in the New Mexico sun. Probably had the original paint on it, which was a sort of dusky rose that went well with the rust. They dug up the flower beds all the way around the house. Again, nothing.

  Ben didn’t hear them as they took the house apart. It must have been a damn good Wheel of Fortune.

  “What now?” Eric said, slightly out of breath.

  They were out front, just having finished unscrewing the porch light. Landry passed a hand over his brow and looked skyward. The sun was almost down. “What’s that?” he said.

  “What’s what?”

  Landry pointed to the ceramic roof tiles.

  “Oh, shit. You want to look under all those tiles?”

  “I don’t think we’ll have to,” Landry said. He pointed to the third tile over. Like every other tile on the roof, it formed half of a circle, the brittle terra cotta tile creating a semicircle of negative space. Landry spotted tiny branches stuffed into the mouth.

  “Probably a bird nest,” Eric said.


  “Or a hiding place.”

  A thumb drive was tucked deep inside the hollow, camouflaged by leaves and stems from the eucalyptus tree. And just beyond that was a small camera, state of the art. A car went by on the street, but didn’t slow. Landry up to his shoulder in the hollow. He threw the camera and the thumb drive down to Eric, who pocketed both of them smoothly, just as the screen door to the neighboring house squeaked open and banged shut. “You boys find anything for your trouble?” Ben asked.

  “No, sir,” Eric said. He walked up to shake Ben’s hand. Ben withdrew his hand and looked at the roll of cash. “You don’t need to do this, sir.”

  Eric clapped him on the shoulder. “Trust us. We do. Wishing you a very good night.”

  On the way back, Eric said, “Let’s hope it’s not photos of Connor’s son’s Little League team.”

  At the Travelodge, Eric plugged the thumb drive into his MacBook Air—and swore. “The drive’s blank.”

  “Encrypted?”

  “Hold on.” He tried a couple of things. “I don’t think . . . What’s this? ‘Show Hidden Files.’” He clicked to open.

  A video appeared on the screen.

  It was short and went fast. One moment it was there, and then it went black.

  “What the hell?” Eric ran it again—eight seconds, tops. He had to run it again and again before the pieces fell into place.

  The cam was shaky, handheld. Someplace in the hinterlands, desert. A road: tarmac. Dusk or dawn. A smattering of lights blurred in the background. All of it behind a chain-link fence.

  Then: three tiny jets of spray shot up from the wet surface of the road, accompanied by the sound Landry knew well: the engine of a small plane. The other noise was a rubbery chirp of tires as the plane touched down.

  “Look at that,” a man’s voice whispered. “Virtually invisible.”

  The phantom plane’s wheels hopped along the tarmac. Landry could only assume that was the case, because he couldn’t see the wheels. He could only see the water flung up by the tires.

  He amended that: he saw only a shadow of the wheels. A shadow of the plane.