The Last Chance Olive Ranch

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “You boys sure you got a fix on Max Mantel?” Carlos asked, raising one thin black eyebrow. “When I got your call, I checked with the boss and he phoned Harry Royce, up in Austin. Royce was watching his kid pitch a Little League game, but he’d been on the line with Houston. He told the boss that the Rangers’ Special Response Team is closing in on Mantel as we speak. In fact, he said that they have him cornered in a lumber warehouse not far from the Ship Channel. They expect to have him in custody shortly.”

  “Barring complications,” Jocko put in. For a big man, he had a high, squeaky voice that sounded like it might be coming from a fourteen-year-old kid with braces. “Royce told Roper—that’s our boss—that Mantel doesn’t aim to go back to Huntsville.” He grinned mirthlessly. “Which wouldn’t hurt my feelings none. Since he’s been out, there’ve been five people dead, including a cop, a DA, and a couple of witnesses.”

  Five people. Five.

  McQuaid shook his head. “Royce’s guys only think they have Mantel cornered. I talked to him on the phone less than ten minutes ago. He’s in that building over there.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the metal building. “It belongs to Joe Romeo, who owns this salvage yard. Far as we know, he’s got just two guys with him—Romeo and a stepbrother, Lester McGown. They’re holding a woman hostage. My ex-wife.”

  “Jeez,” Jocko squeaked sympathetically. “Your ex? How in the hell did Mantel happen to snatch her? Man, that’s rotten.”

  But Carlos understood. “Now I got it,” he said, pointing an index finger at McQuaid. “You’re the cop who put him away, aren’t you? He snatched her to bait you. You show up to get her, he aims to take you down.”

  McQuaid gave him a brief smile. “That’s what he’s got in mind, yes. I’d just as soon that didn’t happen.”

  Blackie turned to look at the pair. “So you guys talked to your boss before you came out here, right? He’s okay with our little expedition?” He grinned. “I know what it’s like to work in a department. We wouldn’t want to get you in any trouble with the powers that be.”

  “Right,” Carlos said. “Roper’s okay with it.”

  “Roper’s okay with it because he thinks it’s a wild-goose chase,” Jocko put in, pulling a cigarette out of a crumpled package and lighting it. “He thinks the action is happening in Houston, so he told us we could waste our own time any way we wanted.”

  Carlos chuckled. “If he thought Mantel was here in San Antonio, he’d have the whole freakin’ department out.”

  Jocko buzzed the window beside him down a couple of inches to let the smoke out. “But if we bring Mantel in, it’ll mean merit points down the line.”

  McQuaid nodded. As former police officers, both he and Blackie had had plenty of experience in that part of the job. As PIs, they were commissioned security officers—what in other states were called bounty hunters—and could make a legal arrest anywhere in the state of Texas, including right here, if they had to. But they were in Bexar County, this was an active crime scene involving a hostage, and it was smart to involve the local police. It also saved time—and maybe some hazard—since if this operation was successful, Carlos and Jocko would make the actual arrests and take possession of the three prisoners. According to Royce, Romeo was clean, with no priors until today. But Lester already had two misdemeanor possessions and one felony armed robbery—and he was likely involved with the murders in Houston. And for Mantel, this was a last chance, his last chance. He was a dead man walking, a convicted murderer with an execution date. He planned to kill McQuaid for revenge and take Sally with him as a guarantee of a safe escape across the border. If that proved impossible, he would a helluva lot rather be executed here at Romeo’s than live the interminable hours until his execution. Yes. It was definitely good to have cops on the scene.

  “So let me give you what we’ve got,” McQuaid said, and began the briefing. It didn’t take long.

  “The vehicles,” Jocko said, tossing his cigarette out of the window. “Can they get to them?”

  “Tires slashed,” Blackie said. He raised his hands. “But don’t look at me. Your friendly neighborhood vandal did it.” He pointed to McQuaid, and Jocko laughed, an almost comic, high-pitched whinny.

  “They may not be in any shape to get to the vehicles,” McQuaid said, “if you brought the crowd control.” In his phone call, McQuaid had asked them to bring an M79, a single-shot weapon that can launch non-lethal tear gas cartridges. “Fire a half-dozen CS rounds through those front windows, and they shouldn’t have anything on their minds but scrambling out of that building and into the fresh air.” CS gas—tear gas—was one of the most effective riot control agents available.

  “We brought a couple M79s,” Jocko said. “Plus all the CS we’re likely to need. And the masks you asked for.”

  “Twice as nice,” Blackie said approvingly. “Get the job done in half the time.”

  “Not knowing exactly what you had in mind for the party,” Carlos said, “Jocko and me took a quick tour around the back fence before you guys arrived. We didn’t see nobody, no dogs, no nothing.”

  “Good to know,” McQuaid said.

  “Yeah,” Jocko said. “No dogs is good. These salvage yards usually got dogs. Mean ones.”

  “The lot is a long, fenced rectangle,” Carlos went on, “with the sheet-metal fence along the highway and chain-link on the other three sides. The building has a twelve-foot overhead door on the back—that would be the west side. But apart from that, the only two exit doors are the one at the front of the building, facing the street, and the one in the left rear, on the north. No windows but the two on either side of the front door.”

  “Sounds like something we can manage,” Blackie said. “What’s your plan, exactly, McQuaid?”

  McQuaid laid it out and they agreed on the timing and the signals. “They won’t be looking for me for another—” McQuaid looked at his watch. “Another forty-five minutes. We’ll go now. Jocko and Carlos, you take the front and fire the M79s through the two narrow windows beside the door. Fire two rounds each, rapidly. Hang on maybe ten seconds, fire two more rounds. The interior appears to be high-ceilinged and open, and you’ll want to fill it with gas. Blackie and I will take the rear doors, both the single door on the north and the overhead door at the back. That’s where they’ll likely emerge, since you’re firing from the front of the building. We’ll signal when they start coming out, and you can move in to apprehend. But stay covered. They may come out firing.”

  “If they’re able,” Carlos said. “They won’t be, if they get enough CS. It’s pretty potent.”

  “What about the hostage?” Jocko asked, frowning. “No attempt at negotiation?”

  “If we try that,” Blackie said, “we’ll lose the surprise. If you lay down enough tear gas in there, fast enough, you’ll disable them to the point where they won’t be thinking about the hostage. If she’s bound hand and foot, she may not be able to exit and may get gassed. But it’ll be a temporary discomfort.”

  “One more thing,” McQuaid said grimly. “However this goes down, let’s not give Mantel what he wants—suicide by cop. Let’s send him back to Huntsville.”

  “Aww,” said Jocko.

  Carlos elbowed him. “We got it,” he said.

  “Guess that pretty well covers it,” McQuaid said, and opened his door. “Let’s roll.”

  “Hot dog,” Carlos said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The olive tree is a slow-growing, disease-resistant tree with an average life span of some five hundred years—one of the longest-lived species of trees on the planet. The most ancient may be the gnarly-trunked Al Badawi tree, in the Bethlehem district of the West Bank, which experts say may be five thousand years old. A runner-up at some four thousand years: the still-productive Olive Tree of Vouves, on the island of Crete, which has been declared a national monument. Olive branches symbolize victory, and branche
s from this tree were used to weave wreaths for the winners of the 2004 Athens Olympics and the 2008 Beijing Olympics.

  Olive wood is hard, heavy, and strong, with a fine texture, attractive streaks of brown and yellow, and a high polish. It is among the densest of woods and hence is extremely fire-resistant. Precious and costly, it is used to make small items: jewelry, bowls and cutting boards, and decorative objects and boxes.

  China Bayles “Virgin Territory” Pecan Springs Enterprise

  The Kendall County fire marshal told me later that it wasn’t a flashover that singed my hair, scorched my shirt, and flung me out the front door like a rag doll. It was the exploding propane gas tank that sat against the outside back wall of the cabin, behind the small corner kitchen. The fire got too close and too hot. The tank blew up like a bomb, shooting flame and fiery shrapnel in all directions and sending me flying through the air and out onto the front walk. I landed next to Sofia and cracked my head smartly against a rock.

  The few minutes after that were filled with fiery Fourth of July sparklers and patches of thick, roaring blackness. The next thing I knew, Ruby was cradling me in her arms, her cheek against my singed hair, crooning anxiously, “There, there, China, you’ll be all right. Come on, sweetie, wake up. Wake up, please!”

  “I’m awake,” I mumbled, and pushed myself up, trying to sit. “Ooh,” I said, as the world cartwheeled around me. I felt as if I were riding on a carnival Tilt-A-Whirl. My head hurt and my T-shirt seemed to be plastered to my shoulders with hot glue. “What happened?”

  “There was an explosion,” Ruby said. “It blew you out of the cabin and you hit your head on a rock.”

  “Roll over onto your stomach, China.” It was Maddie’s calm voice. She was kneeling beside me. “The EMS will be here in a few minutes. We need to see how badly you’re burned.”

  “Yes, nurse,” I muttered. But when I was lying on my stomach, the world stopped tilting and whirling and I could pay attention to the pain in my shoulders. I winced as Ruby ripped my scorched T-shirt to get a look at the damage.

  “It’s not as bad as I thought,” she said. “It looks like the skin is beginning to blister a little. And your bra—I can see its imprint across your back. It looks like you got sunburned through your shirt.” I could feel her fingers unhooking my bra.

  “Aloe vera,” I said, through thick lips.

  “Hello, Vera?” Ruby asked, worried. “There’s nobody named Vera here.” She leaned closer, scrutinizing me. “China, are you okay?”

  That made me snicker. Almost.

  “No, aloe,” I said, trying to speak more clearly. “I think I remember seeing a big pot of aloe vera beside the porch steps. Best thing in the world for burns—if it hasn’t been fried by the heat.”

  “Oh, sure!” Ruby jumped up. A moment later, she was back with a couple of thick leaves of aloe in her hands. “It would be better if I could peel them with a knife,” she said.

  “Snap them where they’re thickest and pull the green skin back an inch or so,” I said. “And then squeeze, as if you were squeezing a tube of toothpaste. It’ll be gooey. Just slather it on.” In a moment, I could feel the cooling aloe as Ruby smeared the clear, jellylike sap liberally on my shoulders and back.

  “Oh, Ruby, that’s wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Do you think this aloe vera will work on your hair?” Ruby asked, still slathering. “It sort of got scorched, too.”

  I reached up and felt the back of my head—and came away with a handful of brittle and frizzed strands. “Oh, God,” I moaned. “I’ll be bald!”

  “No, it’s only a patch or two that’s scorched,” Maddie said comfortingly. “If you get a good cut, you’ll be fine.”

  I heard the wailing of a siren in the distance—several sirens. “At last!” Ruby said excitedly. “The fire department. And the EMS!”

  Suddenly reminded of the situation, I sat up, clutching my unfastened bra and the unburned front remnant of my T-shirt against my breast. Behind me, I heard a loud, splintery crash as the roof fell in. I turned to see flames streaking upward against the dark sky. Fiery fragments rained down around us, trailing arcing plumes of smoke like a fireworks display. The cabin was completely engulfed now, a total loss, with nothing left for the fire department to save. But the men would be busy. The threat now was the fire racing through the dry brush and trees on the hillside, which could leap over the crest and into the olive orchard on the other side. The olive trees were fire-resistant, Maddie had said. They might not be destroyed, but they could be badly damaged.

  Beside me on the walk, Sofia heard the crash, too, and moaned.

  “How is she, Maddie?” I asked. “Is she breathing okay?” Smoke inhalation can be terribly serious. I was glad that EMS would soon be on the scene.

  The old woman was covered by a striped woolen blanket Ruby had brought from our cabin and Maddie was gripping her hand. “She’s breathing, yes,” Maddie said, “although if it weren’t for you, she wouldn’t be. And she keeps trying to say ‘thank you’ for risking your life to rescue her box.” She adjusted the blanket. “I still wish you hadn’t done it, China,” she added. “I can’t imagine what she could be keeping in it that could be that important.”

  “The box,” I said, suddenly remembering my trip into the burning cabin. “Did I manage to—”

  “Yes, you did,” Ruby said, as the EMS team ran up the walk toward us. Reassuringly, she added, “The box is safe. I took it into our cabin when I went to get the blanket for Sofia.” She looked toward the lane. “Here comes Chet and Jason with their tractor,” she said, sounding relieved. “Andrea’s right behind them, in the truck.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “Lots of help. Everything will soon be under control.”

  The next few moments were busy, in an orderly way. The EMS paramedics transferred Sofia onto a gurney, loaded her into their ambulance, and one of them began administering oxygen. Maddie climbed into the vehicle with her. Andrea ran up the walk to see how I was and told me that she was going to the hospital as well—she would follow the ambulance in her truck. She promised to call the answering machine at the ranch house with frequent updates on Sofia’s condition.

  She looked up at the burning cabin, her eyes wide and frightened. “How in the world did it happen?” she asked. “Sofia was afraid of fire. She was always so careful—never left a candle burning, never left a fire in the fireplace unattended.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s something we’ll have to find out.”

  Then it was my turn, and one of the paramedics came back up the walk to look me over. “Not too bad,” he said, examining my bare back. “Good thing you got that aloe on there so fast.” He peered at the large bump and slight cut on the side of my head, where I’d whacked it against the rock, then tested my reflexes and turned on his little light and peered into my eyes. I thought I passed inspection, but he wasn’t letting me off the hook.

  “You were lucky about that burn,” he said. “It isn’t too bad, but you got a little concussed when you hit that rock. It’d be a good idea for you to let an ER doctor check you out tonight. There’s room in the ambulance, or you can go in your friend’s truck.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said. “I’ve had worse sunburns. And my head is fine, really it is. I’m sure I can take care of myself here just as well.” I gave him what I hoped was a candid and engaging smile. “If I start feeling woozy, my friend Ruby can drive me to the ER.”

  I was lying. My head wasn’t exactly fine. There was a reason I hadn’t tried to stand up yet, and I had a headache the size of Dallas. But I was afraid that if I let them book me into the hospital, it would be noon the next day, or maybe even later, before I could bail myself out. If I checked into the hospital, I would have to call McQuaid and tell him. He would insist on coming to sit beside me and hold my hand and worry. What’s more, there was something I needed to do h
ere. Here and now, preferably before the night got another hour older.

  “That is not a good plan, Ms. Bayles,” the paramedic said severely. “I advise you to come with us and see a doctor. Tonight.”

  Polite but stubborn, I held my ground. And since I was over twenty-one and in evident command of my faculties, the paramedic finally agreed that I could stay where I was—if I signed a waiver saying that I had refused medical treatment and agreed to assume responsibility for all proximate and contingent legal, financial, and moral consequences, including my own personal death. In other words, I was giving up the right of my nearest and dearest to sue the paramedic, his employer, or the hospital if I keeled over the minute the ambulance drove around the corner and out of sight. I scribbled my signature on the waiver and traded it for a tube of white burn ointment, which the guy allowed might be almost as good as the aloe vera Ruby had smeared on my burns.

  The paramedic climbed into the ambulance and they took off, lights flashing and siren wailing, with Andrea following close behind. Ruby broke off a couple more leaves of aloe vera and slathered another thick layer of the jellied sap on my burns. She fetched a clean Mickey Mouse T-shirt out of her suitcase in our cabin and helped me pull it over my head. I was braless and jiggly. But at least I wasn’t facing the volunteer fire department—not to mention Pete, Jerry, Jason, and Chet—naked from the waist up.

  Ruby looked at me closely. “Does your head hurt?” she asked worriedly.

  I had been more than ready to lie to the paramedic, but I hate to lie to Ruby. “Well, maybe a little,” I said, rubbing the goose egg over my ear.