The Devil's Country [Kindle in Motion]

by Harry Hunsicker

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Chigger’s eyes were wide.

  “Go inside,” I said. “Your friends and I need to have a little visit.”

  Silence. The two thugs looked at me like I was from Pluto. After a moment, they turned their attention back to Chigger.

  The leader, a heavyset guy with a goatee, said, “Don’t go inside, Chigger. That’d be a bad move.”

  Even though the temperature was well into the nineties by now, Chigger shivered.

  Mr. Goatee said, “If you go inside, I’ll torch the building. You’ll have to come out then.”

  Chigger looked at me, his expression filled with fear.

  I sighed heavily, not believing that I was going to have to defend this Aryan douche canoe. “Nobody’s torching anything, cowboy.”

  Neither man spoke.

  I looked at the two thugs. “Last night some of your friends tried to kidnap a woman named Molly.”

  Up until now, they had been moderately relaxed. At the mention of the name “Molly” they stiffened and looked at each other.

  “She got away,” I said. “Along with her two children.”

  The guy with the beard nodded once. His underling walked to the driver’s side of the pickup and got behind the wheel.

  I stepped between Chigger and Mr. Goatee. Chigger was about six feet behind me, standing to one side of the building’s front steps. Goatee was the same distance in front of me.

  “Somebody—I’m guessing your two friends—killed her a few hours later.”

  The guy behind the wheel of the pickup cranked the engine.

  Mr. Goatee shook his head. “You are intervening in matters that don’t concern you.”

  His diction and word choice were odd.

  “What are you?” I said. “A college professor in your off hours?”

  “Divine matters,” he said. “Righteous retribution awaits you.”

  “Whatever floats your boat, God Man. But one way or the other, I’m going to find those children and make sure they’re safe.”

  Mr. Goatee was a pro, much better than the two clowns last night. He moved like a finely tuned, extremely fast machine, pulling a gun from the rear pocket of his jeans, a black, semiautomatic pistol.

  There was no time to react other than to drop to the ground as his arm brought the weapon toward me.

  I was moving much too slowly, like a flat stone drifting downward in a pool of warm water.

  The muzzle arced closer and closer. I represented a huge target, and he stood only six feet away. No way was he going to miss.

  He didn’t.

  Two rapid shots, so close together they sounded like one long boom.

  The bullets found their mark, striking Chigger in the torso.

  I finally landed on the pavement right about when Chigger died. He staggered a couple of steps and fell on top of me.

  His blood was warm and sticky. One of his arms draped across my face.

  I tried to move the limb, but somebody grabbed my hand and pressed my fingers around a hard object, a piece of plastic shaped like a pistol grip.

  I yanked my hand away.

  Metal clattered by my head.

  I managed to shove Chigger’s arm off my face and saw the pistol a few inches away.

  Mr. Goatee ran to the passenger side of the gray pickup.

  I reached for the gun but stopped once he got in the Chevy. No sense putting even more of my prints on the thing. A moment later, the pickup sped away.

  And that’s how Sheriff Quang Marsh found me a few seconds later.

  Hand poised over the gun used to kill the guy on top of me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  They put me in jail this time, deep in the basement of the courthouse.

  They took my new knife, my wallet and watch, and the belt I was wearing. A deputy I’d never seen before fingerprinted me and swabbed both my hands to determine if I’d fired a weapon recently.

  When he was finished, he stuck me in a cell. A few minutes later the red-haired deputy who’d run me out of the conference room earlier brought me a hand towel and a bar of soap and told me to clean myself up. There was a sink-toilet combo in the corner, so I washed off as much of Chigger’s blood as possible. Then I rinsed out my T-shirt. When I was finished, I hung the shirt to dry on the bars of the cell.

  About an hour later, the same deputy brought me lunch—a bologna sandwich, a bag of chips, and a bottle of water.

  I took the food and said, “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

  The deputy left without speaking.

  I ate. Then I waited.

  Another couple of hours went by. It was maybe three or four in the afternoon when the redheaded deputy came back and told me to put on my T-shirt. I did so even though it was still damp along the seams. The deputy cuffed my hands behind my back and led me upstairs to the conference room.

  This time two people were sitting at the table: Sheriff Quang Marsh and a man in his fifties, the latter wearing a starched khaki shirt, a straw cowboy hat, and an ivory-gripped semiautomatic pistol on his hip.

  The guy in the hat was a Texas Ranger named Aloysius Throckmorton, one of the most vocal of my colleagues in demanding my dismissal from the organization. He thought of me in the same terms that a pest-control man would have a cockroach—something nasty that needs to be eradicated.

  Throckmorton was old school, as hard as granite, with all the warmth of a concentration-camp guard. Rumor had it that he once used a machete to hack off the kneecaps of an abusive pimp and then left the man to the mercies of the street, specifically his stable of battered prostitutes. This was in El Paso, where stranger things had happened, so most people believed the story to be true.

  A clear plastic bag sat in front of Sheriff Marsh. The bag held a gun that looked like the one used to kill Chigger. Next to the bag rested several sheets of paper.

  The deputy sat me in the chair across from the two officers. He didn’t remove my cuffs.

  Throckmorton pulled a can of snuff from his back pocket. He put a pinch in his mouth and said, “Afternoon, Arlo. How you doing today?”

  “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

  “People in hell want ice water,” Throckmorton said. “Don’t mean they get it.”

  I rattled the handcuffs on my wrists. “This any way to treat a former colleague?”

  Throckmorton smiled. “Protocol. You understand how it is.”

  Sheriff Marsh stared at the far wall, his face blank.

  “Two murders in twelve hours.” Throckmorton shook his head. “That’s some kind of record around here, I bet.”

  I didn’t respond. No lawyer, no talking.

  “And you’re up to your ears in both of ’em.” He spit into a Styrofoam cup. “Hell, you got in a fight with the second vic not an hour before he got shot.”

  My T-shirt felt itchy from air-drying. The fabric still had a faint smell of blood and sweat, along with a heavier odor of cheap soap.

  Throckmorton looked at Sheriff Marsh. “You know about my boy here, don’t you?”

  The sheriff continued to stare at the far wall.

  “Killed three police officers.” Throckmorton paused. “And got away with it.”

  I took slow, deep breaths. It wouldn’t have taken a fortune-teller to predict that the Texas Ranger would bring that up. A cop killer who walked—that was my personal brand in certain law enforcement circles. Even though crooked cops had murdered my family, to many fellow officers, that hadn’t mattered, since those responsible had been popular and well connected politically, certainly more than I was at the time.

  For a moment I debated telling the rest of the story, about my father-in-law’
s fingerprints being found on the gun, not mine. But I decided that under the circumstances, the less I talked about fingerprints on guns, the better it would be.

  I glanced at the papers in front of Sheriff Marsh, recognized them.

  “I see you have the results of the gunshot residue test,” I said. “So again, how about taking off these cuffs?”

  He pulled a page from the bottom, held it up for me to see.

  Two enlarged fingerprints.

  One was clear and easy to see, whirls and ridges as distinctive as roads on a map. It probably came from my personnel file at the state.

  The second was smudged, hard to read, a partial print. Not something that could be used definitively to identify who’d held the item in question. The second one no doubt had been lifted from the murder weapon.

  I didn’t say anything.

  The gun used to kill Chigger was a Glock. The grip was stippled on all four sides, dotted with hundreds of tiny bumps. Stippling made a gun easier to hold but harder to retrieve a good fingerprint.

  Throckmorton put down the paper with the prints in front of me. “You want to tell me about this?”

  Sheriff Marsh got up without speaking.

  I watched him walk to the window on the far wall. Once there, he just stood in front of the glass and stared outside. I turned and faced Throckmorton.

  “Let’s talk about the results of the gunshot residue test instead.”

  Throckmorton didn’t reply. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but his eyes were unblinking.

  “My guess is the test was negative,” I said.

  No response.

  “And the partial print.” I nodded toward the paper. “That looks like a low-probability match, probably ten percent or less.”

  Throckmorton pulled the other papers closer. He read the top page. He didn’t say anything.

  The nearest criminal defense attorney was probably two hours away. The nearest good one—El Paso or Fort Worth—would need the better part of a day to drive here.

  I decided to cooperate. A little.

  “You want to know what happened?” I asked.

  Throckmorton looked up, face blank. He didn’t speak.

  I described the two men and the pickup truck, a late-model Chevy, extended cab, gray, parked so that I’d not been able to get a look at the license plate.

  Throckmorton pushed away the papers and listened.

  I related the conversation between the men and the victim, as well as Chigger’s obvious reluctance to go with them. I described how the guy with the goatee pulled a gun and fired twice into Chigger before driving away. I didn’t say anything about how he’d forced my hand to grasp the pistol. No sense giving them any more info than was absolutely necessary at this point.

  I told Throckmorton about Chigger and Suzy and their date the night before. Said Suzy could corroborate everything because she’d been watching from the abandoned nail salon.

  Sheriff Marsh spoke from behind me. “We searched that building. It was empty.”

  “What about the old man?” I turned around. “What about Boone?”

  “The old vet?” Marsh snorted. “That mush-head never leaves his house. What the hell would he be doing there?”

  Throckmorton looked at the sheriff. “How about the pickup? You know anybody in town who drives a rig like that?”

  “Shitballs,” Marsh said. “Whose team are you on? Nobody in the county has a truck like that. He’s making it all up.”

  “So let’s go over the stuff that you know to be true.” I ignored the sheriff, spoke to Throckmorton. “You’ve got a partial print that might or might not be mine on the murder weapon.”

  Silence. Throckmorton read the papers again.

  “You’ve got a gunshot residue test that probably shows only a few trace particles on my hands,” I said. “Consistent with someone six or seven feet away firing in my direction.”

  Throckmorton looked at me and then over my shoulder at Sheriff Marsh.

  Marsh swore.

  Throckmorton heaved a sigh and looked back at me. “Let’s talk about the dead hooker from last night. The one you were chattin’ up.”

  “I’ve known a hooker or two in my day,” I said. “She wasn’t one.”

  Throckmorton spat into his cup again.

  I continued. “Let’s talk about her children.”

  Another muttered curse from behind me.

  “A boy and a girl,” I said. “Ask the sheriff why he doesn’t want anybody to find them.”

  The blow came from nowhere, a blinding starburst of pain on the side of my face.

  One moment I was sitting in the chair, talking to Throckmorton, the next I was on the floor, wiggling my jaw to see if it would still work.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Sheriff Marsh stood over me, fist raised. “Coming into my town and killing people.”

  From the other side of the table, the sound of a chair scooting back.

  Marsh leaned down and struck me again in the face, the opposite side this time.

  I saw the punch coming, so I rolled away and avoided the worst of it.

  That was good for my face but not for my temper.

  Now I was mad. I kicked at him with one foot, connecting with his leg. He fell, landing a few feet away with a thud.

  He stared at me, eyes like slits, anger coming off him like a wave. He pushed himself up, grabbed an ASP baton from his belt.

  I kicked at him again but missed.

  He extended the metal baton to its full length.

  I was helpless. On the floor, hands cuffed behind my back.

  Throckmorton appeared in view. He grabbed the baton. “Back off, Marsh.”

  The sheriff took several deep breaths, regained his composure. “Let’s get this piece of shit back in the cell where he belongs.”

  Throckmorton pulled me to my feet.

  “What’s the charge?” I asked.

  “Assaulting an officer,” Marsh said. “Let’s start with that.”

  “I assaulted you while I was handcuffed?” I said. “Isn’t that the point of handcuffs?”

  Throckmorton shrugged.

  “I want a lawyer.”

  Sheriff Marsh headed toward the door. “I’ll get a deputy to take him downstairs.”

  Throckmorton shook his head. “We ain’t putting anybody back in the cell right now.”

  Marsh stopped, an astonished look on his face. “Come again?”

  “You don’t have enough,” Throckmorton said. “If we put away this bastard, I want to make sure we do it right this time around.”

  Marsh spun on me, his face purple with rage. “Get out of my town, Baines. Take the bus or rent a horse. I don’t give a shit how. Just get out. Now.”

  Throckmorton, a curious look on his face, stared at the sheriff. Then he pulled a key from his belt and unlocked my cuffs.

  I touched my cheek. A spot of blood came away on my palm. Marsh must have backhanded me with the first blow and his ring broke the skin.

  “Arlo’s not going anywhere,” Throckmorton said. “He’s still a person of interest. We need to keep him close.”

  Sheriff Marsh clenched his fists. A vein in his neck throbbed.

  Throckmorton looked at me. “If you leave the county, I’ll throw you back in a cell so hard your grandkids will feel it.”

  I didn’t say anything. Sheriff Marsh had attacked me when I’d mentioned the children to Throckmorton. The altercation had the effect of abruptly stopping that particular conversation. Now he was in a lather to get me out of town even though the proper protocol, as pointed out by Throckmorton, would be to keep me around.


  The children were the key.

  “All right, I’ll stay,” I said. “But no more talking without a lawyer.”

  Silence.

  “When I come for you,” Throckmorton said, “ain’t no lawyer in the world gonna be able to save your ass.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The red-haired deputy handed me a manila envelope full of my personal belongings.

  We were in the main office of the sheriff’s department, a large area on the ground floor of the courthouse. No other deputies were around. The sheriff had remained in the conference room with Throckmorton. He’d sent a text, authorizing my release.

  “What happened to your face?” the deputy said.

  “Sheriff Marsh didn’t like it when I asked about the dead woman’s kids.”

  “She didn’t have kids,” he said. “She was a hooker.”

  “What the hell does that mean? You think prostitutes can’t have chi—” I squelched my anger. Took a deep breath. “So what’s Marsh’s connection to the guys in the hats?”

  A blank stare, like he was trying to understand what I meant.

  “And why is everybody so worried about Molly?” I said.

  I didn’t really expect an answer, but he struck me as being a few bars short of full cell coverage, so I figured what the heck.

  The deputy crossed his arms. “Why don’t you quit asking question and just leave town?”

  “I’m a person of interest in a murder,” I said with no small amount of satisfaction. “The Texas Rangers won’t let me.”

  He frowned.

  “Thanks for bringing me lunch.” I headed for the door.

  Outside the courthouse, the air was hot and dry. It was a little after four thirty in the afternoon, and the town was preparing to shut down.

  A man in a western-style brown sports coat stood on the sidewalk, talking on a cell phone. When he ended his call, I asked him if he knew where the county appraisal office was. He directed me to a one-story brick structure a couple of blocks away, just off Main Street.