Pipeline

by Brenda Adcock

  Pipeline

  Brenda Adcock

  Chapter One

  AS I SWUNG my Blazer onto State Highway 783 toward San Antonio, I could still hear Cate's voice.

  "Kyle's been shot."

  Her words had jarred the serenity of a life I had finally begun to adjust to and dredged up memories I thought were safely tucked away in the deepest recesses of my mind.

  It had begun as a perfect day. Jack, my seventeen-hand bay gelding, had been a perfect gentleman, wading into gently flowing low-water crossings, pausing for a drink while I let the heat from the sun pour over my face as I watched red-tailed hawks soar lazily over the cliffs rising from the banks of the Guadalupe River. I needed this calm...this peace. In my own mind, I hadn't changed over the years. But when I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, the face reflected there clearly showed that thirty years as a photojournalism traveling endlessly to capture the tragedies human beings inflicted on one another, had taken their toll on me. Thank God for the genes I inherited from my parents. Without them I could have easily looked like the sad, defeated women I had photographed hundreds of times in Kosovo, Mexico, and Rwanda —their youth and their lives shattered by the events swirling around them over which they had no control. I knew I was older, a little past my mid-fifties, but my short, brunette hair was relatively free of gray, and I had managed to remain physically fit. There were times when I saw my reflection in a window and thought, not bad for a woman my age. Of course, there had been other times when I hardly recognized myself, expecting to see that much younger woman who still resided in my mind.

  My philosophy on living had never changed. When something is over, it's just over. I had never looked back to think about what I had left behind. My approach had always been to simply walk away, accepting the finality of each situation once I had made my decision. When I was in my twenties, I couldn't wait to leave this peaceful place, so I turned my back on it all and walked away. No regrets. Regrets for what I left behind served no purpose. What I didn't know when I was twenty-five was that there would always be regrets, no matter how far or how fast you tried to walk away.

  Halfway back to my house I could feel Jack's muscles beginning to bunch, and it took all the strength I had to hold him in check until we reached the edge of the long green meadow that stretched for nearly a mile before my house came into view. Still holding back the reins as Jack pranced in anticipation, I leaned forward and stroked his neck as I whispered in his ear, "Run like the wind, Jack." I loosened the reins and felt his powerful rear leg muscles propel him forward. He ran flat out, rejoicing in the sheer exhilaration of running free.

  His long stride was smooth as he covered yards at a time. The wind blew through my short hair, and I laughed out loud, enjoying my freedom as much as Jack. As we topped the last rise leading back to home, I caught a glimpse of a car I didn't recognize parked next to my housekeeper's car on the lawn in front of the house. Even as far away as we were, I could make out Lena pointing in my direction but couldn't tell anything about the person standing on the porch with her.

  Jack slowed as we reached the corral next to the barn. He was lathered up and breathing heavily as I turned him toward the house. The visitor on the porch stepped into the sunlight as we approached, and I felt my heart rate increase when I saw her. Almost fifteen years had passed since I'd last seen her, but from a distance it didn't seem that she had changed at all.

  I reined Jack to a stop as she came down the porch steps toward us. The sun highlighted her shoulder-length light brown hair, and when her eyes met mine they were the same deep blue I remembered. She was still a trim five foot seven and looked damn good for a woman of fifty. I allowed myself the luxury of visually scanning her from head to toe. Hidden beneath her slacks and loose-fitting, man-tailored shirt was a body that had never failed to drive me crazy with desire. The corners of my mouth began to form a smile, and I looked away from her as I realized my nipples were hardening with an arousal I hadn't felt in a very long time. She was stunning.

  "Nice car," I said casually as I swung my right leg over the saddle horn and slid off the saddle.

  "It's good to see you again too, Joanna." She never used my full name unless she was pissed. As soon as she set her jaw and shot me that cold look, I was instantly reminded of all the reasons I had walked away from her in spite of my physical desire to feel her smooth and sensuous body pressed against mine one more time. So much for a perfect fucking day.

  Pulling Jack's reins over his head, I said, "Been a long time, Cate."

  It had been too long, and small talk had never been my strong suit. Cate glanced over her shoulder at Lena, who was smoking what I guessed was probably her twentieth cigarette of the day as she leaned against the porch railing.

  "Is there some place we can speak privately?" Cate asked.

  "Sure." I shrugged. "Give me a few minutes to get this saddle off Jack."

  "Lena," I called. "Show Ms. Hammond into my office, will you?"

  Lena nodded and flicked her cigarette into a flowerbed under the porch as I led Jack toward the barn, wondering why Cate had suddenly made a reappearance in my now calm life.

  Nearly twenty minutes later I brushed hay from my clothes and entered my house. Stopping in the kitchen to grab a drink, I asked Lena, "How long has she been here?"

  "Maybe twenty, thirty minutes b'fore you get here." Lena shrugged. "She a bill collector or sumpthin'?"

  "I wish," I muttered as I went toward my office.

  When I entered the office, Cate was looking out the window, her arms crossed in front of her. She turned as I walked behind my desk and plopped down in the office chair.

  "What can I do for you, Cate?" I asked as I sipped on a glass of sweet tea.

  Still standing, she looked at me and said, "Kyle's been shot."

  "What?" I set my glass down before my hand began shaking.

  "It happened early yesterday evening..." her voice cracked.

  I got up and moved toward her, unsure what to do next. "Is he..." I started weakly.

  "He's alive," Cate answered as a tear escaped her eye and traveled down her cheek.

  "Thank God!" I breathed. "Do the police know who shot him or why?"

  "They've apprehended someone but have no idea why."

  "I appreciate you coming here, Cate. But you could have called."

  "I didn't think this was something I should tell you about our son over the phone," she said as her eyes shot up to mine and hardened slightly. I knew I should have taken her in my arms to comfort her, but somehow I wouldn't allow myself to get that close to her again.

  "Is there anything I can do?"

  Cate crossed the office and sat down on a rocker in front of my desk. "I drove to San Antonio last night as soon as I was notified. Kyle has a girlfriend, Sarita Ramirez. She said something odd while we were waiting for him to come out of surgery."

  Returning to my chair, I leaned my elbows on the desk. "What did she say?"

  "She was rambling quite a bit and was obviously upset, but she kept insisting his shooting was her fault," Cate said.

  "What exactly did she say?"

  "That she knew this would happen. I have no idea what she meant. When I asked her about it she would only say it was about a story he was researching."

  "Which was?" I pressed, beginning to tire of having to drag every iota of information out of her.

  "I don't know, and she wouldn't talk about it anymore. When I was alone with Kyle this morning I asked him what story he was working on, but he just said it wasn't related to his shooting. Then he told me not to worry."

  "A little too late for that," I said with a slight chuckle.

  Leaning forward in the rocker, Cate asked, "Would there be any chance you could come to San Antonio to see what you can
find out?"

  "Sounds to me like he doesn't want any help. And he sure as shit wouldn't want any from me."

  "He was hurt when you left, Jo," Cate said.

  "The way I recall it," I frowned, "I was asked not to return."

  Cate pushed herself out of the rocker and looked at the floor for a moment before looking at me again. "Well, I wanted to let you know about Kyle. I'd better get back to San Antonio before it gets any later."

  As she turned to leave, I rose from my chair to escort her back to her car. She slipped her sunglasses on as we approached her car. I reached around her and opened the car door for her. "Have a safe trip," I said.

  Although I couldn't see her eyes as she stepped into the car and looked up at me, I knew I had disappointed her the way I had so many times in the past.

  "It was good to see you again, Jo."

  I nodded and closed the door as she started the ignition. I stood with my hands in my jeans pockets as she backed away and turned to drive down the gravel road and out of my life...again. Regret. What a bitch that can be.

  Lena was leaning against the doorframe, a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth as I trudged slowly up the front steps.

  "That you ex?" she asked.

  "Yeah," I answered as I glanced over my shoulder and watched the dust kicked up by Cate's car dissipate.

  Chapter Two

  THE MORNING AFTER Cate's unexpected visit, and a night of fitful sleep filled with nightmares and pleasant memories that merged incoherently, I carried a cup of coffee into my office and dug through the drawers in my desk until I found my address book. It was as old and beaten up as I was, but I hoped the numbers were still good. Thumbing through the pages I found the name I was looking for, punched in the number, and leaned back in my chair, holding the receiver against my ear with my shoulder. A few rings later a woman's voice answered.

  "San Antonio Express."

  "Frank Escobedo, please."

  "One moment and I'll connect you."

  The Express was one of those companies that had adopted Muzak for its phone system to entertain customers on hold. Streisand cooed one of her bigger hits into the headset. I liked the song, and it made the wait tolerable. At least it was better than that crap that passed for music these days. In the middle of a line, the music stopped abruptly.

  "Escobedo," a familiar voice said.

  "Frank," I said. "Joanna Carlisle."

  "Jo!" he said with surprise in his voice. "I heard you was dead."

  "Yeah, I heard that rumor, too." I smiled.

  "Where the hell are you?"

  "I'm back at the ranch outside Kerrville. Listen, Frank, I need a favor."

  "So what else is new?" He laughed. "What'cha need this time?"

  "My kid is a reporter in San Antonio, and apparently he's gotten himself into a little trouble. I need to find out what he's working on."

  My kid. The words sounded funny to me now. He hadn't been my kid for a long time. I had given all that up by making a decision. Whether it had been right or wrong didn't really matter now. It had seemed like the only decision at the time.

  "He a reporter for the Express?" Frank asked.

  "The Light."

  "You let your kid work for that rag?" He snorted.

  "We're not exactly close. Someone shot him, and his mother asked me to look into it. See what you can find out, will you?"

  "What's your kid's name?"

  "Kyle Hammond."

  "Think I saw a news flash come across the desk about that shootin'. What hospital is he at?"

  "Hell, I don't know. You're a fuckin' reporter, find out."

  "You want me to call when and if I find somethin'?"

  "No, I'm coming to the city tomorrow. I'll swing by your office."

  "I bought the last time, Jo."

  "I remember. This one's on me, and if you find out anything useful, so's the next one."

  He laughed. "Damn, it's good to hear your voice again, gal. See ya tomorrow."

  IT WAS SHORTLY after noon, two days after Cate's visit, when I pulled into the visitor's section of the San Antonio Express parking lot. Early in my career I had sold a few pictures to the Express. Mostly guts and gore traffic stuff. The more gore and guts the better back then.

  The receptionist at the front desk gave me directions to Frank's desk, and by the time the elevator door opened into the second floor newsroom, I was feeling at home in familiar surroundings. Frank Escobedo was a made-for-the-movies news reporter, craggy-faced with white shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his arms and tie hanging loosely around his neck. All the veteran reporters I have ever known had the same hairstyle, combed by running fingers through it while they talked on the phone chasing down tips and ferreting out information.

  Frank saw me before I saw him and half stood to motion me toward his desk. He was on the phone, scribbling notes, as I reached his desk. I sat down, resting my feet on an open lower desk drawer. The ashtray on Frank's desk was overflowing. It looked like a four-pack day already, and it was only lunchtime. He held out the pack of cigarettes to me as he jammed another one between his lips and lit it with the remains of his last cigarette. I shook my head, and he dropped the pack back on his desk. He stopped writing and rubbed his eyes.

  "That's not very helpful, Tutti. What do you mean by 'some guys'? How many? Who are they? Everybody's got a name, stupid."

  He listened for another second or two before interrupting whoever Tutti was.

  "No! Now you wait just one good goddamn minute, you fuckin' hairball. You know the deal. No info, no dough. I don't give a shit what you think. I pay you for facts, and I ain't hearin' any. So unless you're plannin' to kick whatever it is you're usin' these days cold turkey, you better get your ass movin' and come up with somethin' more than 'these guys said.' Call me when you can do that. Otherwise don't waste my time."

  Frank slammed the receiver down and rubbed his face again.

  "Fuckin' junkies," he mumbled.

  "I see you still have a way with people, Frank."

  "Get your damn feet off my desk, Jo. Does this look like your living room?"

  "Have you found out anything for me yet?" I asked as I sat up in the chair and got down to business.

  "Yeah, a little," he said, exhaling loudly. "That asshole on the phone was an informant of mine. He knows some nasty folks and might find out something, depending on whether or not he can get money for his next fix from anyone else but me. The kid's in a private room over at Santa Rosa Medical Center. Got shot twice, but nothing vital was hit. He'll still be able to walk, talk, eat, fuck his girlfriend, but he'll be out of commission a week or two, dependin' on how tough he is. The cops arrested some kid, ten or eleven years old, who was the shooter, but undoubtedly, it wasn't his idea. They found a couple hundred bucks on him, so somebody probably hired him to do it. Nobody ever suspects a kid like that, and if his hands hadn't been shakin' so damn bad, your kid would be lyin' on a slab in the morgue instead of a hospital bed."

  "Anything about a story he's supposed to be working on?"

  "I tried to get in to see him last night. You know, mano a mano, but no go. I slipped a nurse a twenty to find out what she could, but it wasn't much. According to the nurse, he was pretty dopey from painkillers and sedatives but did say something about illegals."

  "So what, Frank? Stories about illegals are a dime a dozen around this state."

  The border between Texas and Mexico has never been your basic secure area. An illegal with the IQ of an armadillo could get across the border.

  Texas lawmakers didn't have the guts to put a stop to the flow of illegals. Growers in the Valley needed workers to care for and harvest their crops, and illegals were a hell of a lot cheaper than legal workers. The state could impose hefty monetary penalties on the growers for hiring illegals, but that meant a rise in the prices of Valley produce, and consumers would be pissed if the price of their morning grapefruit doubled or tripled. Consumers didn't give a damn if the illegals earned twenty
-five cents a day and lived in shitholes or if they worked twenty hours a day. They just wanted cheap produce.

  "Maybe somewhere along the way he tripped onto something bigger." Frank shrugged. "Hell, maybe whatever he's doin' ain't even related to illegals. Could be anything, Jo."

  I looked at the ceiling and took a deep breath. "Anything else?"

  Frank flipped through his notepad and scanned each page.

  "The only other thing the nurse told me was that the kid has only had two visitors since he's been in the hospital. One, I presume, is his mother, who the nurse described as...let me see...yeah, here, 'classy and probably rich.' She had him moved out of the ward and into a private room yesterday."

  "Who's the other visitor?"

  "Uh...a younger woman who she thinks is his girlfriend. Sarita Ramirez. The nurse tried to talk to her, too, but didn't get much except 'I warned him this would happen.' And that, my friend, is all I got."

  "Sounds like this Sarita might know something."

  "Well, you know how pillow talk is, Jo. After you're through rockin' the mattress, you can either fall asleep, raid the refrigerator, smoke a cigarette, or talk," Frank grinned.

  "Or sometimes a combination of those choices." I smiled. "Well, come on. I'm buying." I stood up and rearranged my jeans.

  He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. "I already called, and there'll be enchiladas and Corona Lights with a twist of lime waitin' by the time we get there."

  Chapter Three

  SANTA ROSA MEDICAL Center is a large teaching hospital located between the interstate and downtown San Antonio, and it took me a while to find a parking place within reasonable walking distance. From the look of the people wandering in and out of the main entrance, the bulk of their customers appeared to be either indigent or heavily dependent on the Medicaid/Medicare program.

  According to Frank, Kyle was in Room 515, a private suite. I hate hospitals, having spent my fair share of time in a variety of foreign and military field hospitals during my career, with the requisite scars to prove it. Whether it's a modern facility like this one or some olive drab tent in the middle of the desert, they all smell the same. The only difference is air conditioning or lack of it, but nothing can overwhelm the antiseptic smell. I followed an arrow that pointed toward Rooms 500-525 and, midway down the corridor, found a nurses' station where a young Hispanic woman who looked like a volunteer manned the desk. She smiled as I approached.