"English," McGrath said.
"Yes, I am sorry. I was telling him to do as you said." For now. Only for now.
The redneck took Anthony's 9-millimeter, then searched Hector and found the .38 in the shoulder hoister and the Beretta on his ankle. Hector didn't care about the revolver, but he hated to lose the little Beretta. It had memories.
"Let's go." McGrath turned them back in the direction they had come. "We're going to take a walk." At the point of his pistol, they moved west again,
"What do you want?" Anthony said, glancing over his shoulder. "If we disappear, don't you think someone will look for us?"
"Just walk."
"How did you find us?" Hector asked, curious to know what mistake they had made. Had they also seen the divers?
"We got lucky, Pedro," said Rusty Beck. "I saw your car." He guarded them from the side, easily sliding past the sharp points of the palmettos.
Presently they came out of the woods and stepped under the barbed wire fence. The field was vast and empty, scraped clean of everything but the biggest pine trees. It was not so dark here. As they walked, Hector thought about the men who held them. Rusty Beck was explosive. He would act without thinking. McGrath was intelligent, but slower. Hector longed for his knife, which he could visualize folded at the small of his back, waiting in his belt. The blade could slice through shoe leather.
Someone would die soon. Possibly himself Anthony would go to the old man, and say, "Abuelo, Hector saved my life. He died as a man." But then Hector thought he would prefer to live, if that were possible. He might not be able to kill both, but surely one. He began to think which one.
A minute later they stood near the sinkhole, a gaping black mouth with ugly, weedy water. Rusty Beck backed them up to the edge and held the shotgun while McGrath went to look at his machines, the backhoe and bulldozer. He was careful and took his time, as if he thought they might have taped explosives to the engines. He found nothing.
Rusty Beck was smiling, impatient for them to make a move so he could kill them right away. He had ugly skin, marked with little round scars. Hector saw the bullwhip hanging on his left shoulder, circling under his arm. There was a knife on his right hip. Anthony's pistol in his waist. The smaller guns in his pockets.
Anthony's eyes had gone to the same place—the pistol. Very softly Hector made a long sound through his teeth. S-s-sssss. Not yet. Wait. Wait.
McGrath came back and pointed his gun at Anthony. "I know you were here. What were you doing?"
"Looking at home sites. But I have to tell you, the landscaping could be improved."
"Don't fuck around with me, Quintana. I asked you a question."
Anthony shrugged. "We were paying our respects to the dead."
"Bullshit," said Rusty Beck.
"And now we are going to leave before someone makes a mistake."
"You're not going nowhere." Beck raised the shotgun and pumped a shell into the chamber.
"That kind of mistake," Anthony said to McGrath.
Hector understood: Rusty Beck wanted them dead. McGrath had not decided what to do, but if Beck killed them, he would say nothing. He would protect Rusty Beck, as he had done before. Their bodies would disappear. Not here, but somewhere in these vast acres. He would say, Maybe they went back to Cuba.
McGrath's eyes shifted from Anthony to Hector and back again. "You and your bodyguard come onto my property, armed. Why?"
"I told you."
"And you're lying."
Rusty Beck uncoiled his whip and shifted his shotgun to his left hand. He moved his arm and leather whistled, then cracked. "Answer when you're asked a question. What were you doing here?"
Anthony glanced at him with contempt, then looked again at McGrath. "He has already caused you enough problems, no? How will you explain two more deaths on the four he has already cost you?"
The metal end of the whip slashed across the front of his jacket, sparking on the zipper, cutting open the fabric. Anthony flinched but didn't move. Hector saw how he shifted his weight, getting himself ready to grab the whip. Foolish. The metal could take off his fingers. Whit McGrath waited to see what would happen. He held his .44 carelessly, his elbow at his waist.
"You better get your mouth moving, buddy." The whip sliced across Anthony's upper arm, and he gritted his teeth and put his hand over the sleeve. Blood oozed through his fingers.
"Put down the whip. You don't have the guts to take me on without it."
"You're a stubborn son of a bitch." Rusty Beck laughed and whirled the whip over his head.
Hector decided Beck would die. First or second, it didn't matter.
McGrath watched, enjoying it too much to end it quickly. He liked to see blood, Hector thought. Good. He would see his own. Hector said quietly, "¿Estas listo?" Are you ready?
Anthony made a slight nod.
Whimpering, Hector fell to his knees and held his hands out to McGrath. "Please, señor, tell him to stop."
The whip lifted the edge of his suit coat. Hector felt the air move past his ear. The crack echoed back from the trees.
Hector yelped, then said, "Señor McGrath, I will tell you everything. Don't let him hurt me. Please." Cowering sideways, making himself small, he walked on his knees like a beggar toward McGrath.
"Look at the little spic." Rusty laughed and pointed.
The barrel of McGrath's gun, aiming at Hector, dropped slightly as he approached. Hector shifted to plant one foot firmly on the ground. He turned his head up to McGrath, looking over his hands, which he flattened and pressed together. A prayer. The hole at the end of the barrel was six inches from his nose.
"Talk," McGrath said.
A big man. Big men were slow. They had soft bellies. Hector thought he might not die after all.
At the end of Pines Road, Jackie slowed and tires slid on gravel. She stopped just short of the gate, which was locked. There were no other cars anywhere.
"They aren't here," Gail cried.
"I'll have a look." Jackie automatically took her Glock from her purse as she got out of her car. The holster had a Velcro strap, which she quickly fastened around her belt as she walked to the gate. She put a foot on the cross bar and vaulted over. Gail in her skirt and sandals was slower, but she caught up.
They walked around the tangled bushes at the gravel tracks, then past some trees. The field stretched out ahead of them. There was still enough light for Jackie to make out four figures some two hundred yards away. Four men. One of them seemed to be holding a gun on a man kneeling in front of him. She couldn't tell anything more.
Jackie kept her voice calm. "Gail, go back to the truck and call 911. Tell them 'officer in distress, send paramedics.' "
Gail's eyes widened. "What—"
"Do it now" Not waiting to see if Gail did what she was told, Jackie ran. Arms pumping, she headed for the sinkhole. Dodging the bigger rocks, her legs ate up the distance. The features of the men became clearer. Whit McGrath holding the gun on Hector Mesa. Rusty Beck guarding Anthony.
She saw it happening in front of her.
Hector Mesa lunging forward, driving his fingers into McGrath's stomach. The gun went off, a flash of light. McGrath going down, Hector standing, bringing back his foot. A kick in the head. Another.
Rusty Beck moving toward Hector, then remembering Anthony, but too late. Anthony on top of him, dragging him down. Beck reaching for his knife, not fast enough. The two of them rolled toward the weeds that marked the edge of the sinkhole.
Jackie's sneakers pounded over the hard earth. She took her gun out of its holster.
Rusty looped something over Anthony's head and pulled tight. A rope? As Jackie came closer she could see it: his bullwhip. He was choking him.
Anthony lay facedown at the edge of the sinkhole, Rusty with a knee between his shoulder blades. Anthony twisted, clawing to get his fingers under the leather. Rusty's muscles stood out as he pulled tighter. His teeth were bared.
Hector moved toward them. He r
eached behind his waist, under his jacket, and from fifty yards away Jackie saw the flash of steel. She screamed out, "Hector! Drop the knife! Stop!"
She wanted Rusty Beck alive.
In one motion Hector pulled back on Rusty's pony-tail, reached around, and slid the knife across his throat.
Rusty fell to one side. His cowboy boots kicked out twice before he went limp. Anthony rolled over, coughing, dragging in air.
Jackie dropped beside the body. Rusty's eyes stared blankly at the sky. The blood looked dark purple in the gathering dusk. It flowed toward the water. "Dammit, Hector! I told you to stop!"
He wiped off his blade and clicked it shut. "I didn't hear you, señorita. "
"Yes, you did."
"Why are you here?"
Ignoring Hector, Jackie reholstered her gun. She went over to McGrath, who lay moaning on the ground, holding his head. His eyes rolled, then focused on her. "Jackie. Christ, I'm glad to see you. Where's Quintana? They were going to kill us—"
She picked him up by the front of his knit golf shirt and shook him. "Did you send Rusty Beck to murder my mother?"
He stared at her. "What?"
"I said, did you send Rusty Beck to kill my mother? Did you? You used her, you bastard. You seduced her. You made her sign that deed, and you wanted her dead when she asked too many questions."
"No. Jackie, honey, she had an accident—"
"Liar!" She slugged him so hard she felt it all the way up her arm. "Was it you or was it Rusty?"
He touched his mouth and spat blood. "Shit. Jackie, have you gone crazy?" He struggled to sit up. "I loved Louise. I wouldn't have—"
The crack of a gunshot tore into his words.
Startled, Jackie stumbled back. Standing behind her, Anthony had fired over their heads. He lowered his pistol, aiming at McGrath.
McGrath scooted backward and collided with the trunk of a pine tree. He held out his palms, warding off the next bullet. "It was Rusty! He told me she was dead. I didn't know! I swear to God I didn't know."
Jackie stared at Anthony. His face had twisted into something she could barely recognize as his. He wasn't listening to McGrath. He hadn't come over to hear about Louise Bryce. His left arm hung limp, and blood dripped from the fingers.
"Hijo de puta." His voice rasped from his throat, as though the whip had cut into his vocal cords. "You murdered Kenny Clark. The Mendozas."
"I didn't—"
The gun shifted slightly upward. A bullet tore a chunk out of the tree and ricocheted. "Say it."
"Jesus, what are you—"
"Say it." The gun fired again, closer.
McGrath covered his face. "Yes, yes, yes, I did it, whatever the fuck you want, I did it!"
Anthony would kill him. McGrath knew it. Jackie knew it, and she didn't care. She wanted him dead.
No. She didn't. This was insane.
"Anthony, stop it. Put it down."
A movement in the field caught her attention. It was Gail, running, her skirt whirling around her legs. She shouted, and Jackie made out some words. Coming. They're coming. Then she screamed Anthony's name, but it didn't register.
The gun moved to point directly at McGrath's chest.
"I said put it down! Don't kill him. You'll be arrested for murder. I can't lie for you! Stop!" Jackie fumbled her pistol out of the holster and held it with both hands. They were shaking, and the barrel jumped wildly. She stood at right angles to Anthony, less than six feet away. She screamed, "Drop your weapon! Now! I'll shoot. Don't make me do it!"
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Finally Gail was there, gasping, horrified, her eyes fixed on Anthony. "Oh, my God."
Jackie's voice cracked. "Tell him to stop."
McGrath was on the ground crying.
Gail walked closer and looked into Anthony's face. He made no sign that he knew she was there. She softly touched his shoulder. "It's me. It's Gail. Please, Anthony, you can't do this. He isn't worth it. They'd take you away from me, and I need you so much. Anthony, I love you. Please don't leave me."
As though it hurt to move, he finally dragged his eyes off McGrath and looked at Gail. He let his arm fall, and the gun dangled from his hand. Jackie took it away from him.
Gail collapsed onto his chest and held him tightly. Anthony let out a breath and closed his eyes.
Along the road, in the gathering darkness, patrol cars sent flashes of light across the field. Jackie holstered her gun. It would take a long time to explain all of this, and maybe it would never be fully explained. She watched Hector take his guns from Rusty Beck's pockets. It was her duty to secure every firearm at the scene. "Screw it," she said.
Anthony walked past her and went over to Rusty's body and looked down at him. Rusty lay sprawled on the rocks at the edge of the sinkhole. Anthony put a foot on his chest and glanced around at Jackie. She knew what he wanted to do. She didn't stop him. He shoved, and Rusty Beck slid off the rocks and into the water. He floated for a second, then went down.
CHAPTER 30
Friday morning, April 13
Finally, the sun cleared the trees, sending some light down on the sinkhole. The divers hadn't wanted to start on the car till visibility improved. Garlan Bryce was weary in every bone of his body. He'd been at this all night. But they hadn't needed a warrant, not with a fresh body to retrieve.
A perimeter kept onlookers back by the road, but a chopper from Channel 12 had been up there since daybreak, its rotors ceaselessly beating the air. How these things got out to the media, he could never understand. Maybe it was the crane that had been trucked in on a flatbed at 5:00 a.m. That must have aroused some curiosity.
The divers had pulled Rusty Beck out of there about midnight. They'd also seen a car, a mid-1970s Plymouth. Garlan had turned around to Whit McGrath and said they had to pull it up. McGrath had done a pretty fair job of acting surprised. A car?
At the moment McGrath was standing over by one of the patrol cars, drinking a cup of coffee. Waiting, like everybody else. His face was bruised where Hector Mesa had kicked him. He'd been talking about suing Mesa. Quintana too.
The crane operator cranked up the engine, and smoke belched out of the exhaust. The big cable played out, making ripples on the water. The police divers were ready. They would hook the cable around the axle.
Garlan had told the paramedics to send two vans out, although he expected nothing but bones, after thirteen years.
The news copter was hovering closer. Whap-whap-whap.
Whit McGrath came over with his coffee. "Sheriff, I want you to know that I'll cooperate in any way. I've known Rusty Beck a long time, but most of what Quintana was saying last night came as a complete shock." McGrath shook his head. "You think you know someone."
Garlan kept his eyes on the sinkhole. "Your lawyers don't mind you talking to me?"
McGrath laughed, and he talked too fast for a man with nothing to hide. "I want to help, sheriff, trust me. I'm on your side. You've got to know about Anthony Quintana. He's out to get me. Jesus, that guy. Maybe he snapped, defending that convict. It's all very strange. What he said about Rusty and those people, the Mendozas, maybe I can buy it. But to turn around and accuse me as well? What's the matter with him? The way he threatened me at my office. I was willing to let it go, but Jesus. I should make a report, don't you think so?"
"It's up to you."
Garlan let him talk. He hated to admit it, but Whit McGrath would probably walk. He would waltz himself right out of this. He could put on an act, all right. Innocence, confusion. Garlan could predict how it would go. The state attorney would explain why charges wouldn't be filed: no way to win this one. Even so, it was satisfying to stand here on McGrath's property and think about what was going to come up out of that sinkhole.
McGrath was saying he didn't know what Rusty Beck had done, but if he did anything, it should be brought to light. Too bad Rusty wasn't still around so they could ask him. Maybe Quintana and Mesa had killed him to keep him quiet. Then M
cGrath started apologizing again about getting involved with Louise. "Just one of those things. Shouldn't have done it, such a great woman." And he was dismayed—another of McGrath's favorite words, dismayed—that Jackie would think he'd ever wanted anything to happen to Louise. "Jackie's a great girl, a credit to you, Garlan, but a little overwrought about Kenny Clark, but I can understand it, all the stories that Quintana was feeding her—"
"Mr. McGrath? I'm going to ask you to step back over there out of the way. I don't want to hear anything you have to say right now. Is that clear?"
One of the divers came up out of the water and signaled an okay with thumb and forefinger before paddling to solid ground. The diesel engine on the crane belched smoke, and the drum holding the steel cable began to turn. Nobody said anything. All eyes were on the cable coming up out of the sinkhole.
The car came out tail-first, pouring brown water through a cracked windshield and open windows. The crane operator waited till most of it stopped, then swung the boom toward dry land. It took some time to get the car positioned so it would drop onto its tires, which immediately flattened. A little more time to get the trunk open because Garlan insisted on raising a tarp first. The helicopter was hovering overhead with its zoom lens, and he wanted to give these people a little dignity—if they were in there.
They were. All that remained were bones and some scraps of hair and clothing. Shoes. A rusted watch around an arm bone. For the most part, the bones had turned black, covered with the crud that sticks to things so long underwater.
Ron Kemp was in charge of the scene, and Garlan stepped away so he could get the photos done. After making sure his face wouldn't give his emotions away, Garlan looked around at McGrath, who exuded shock and concern. One of the crime scene techs, standing by the front passenger window, called out, "Sheriff? Come take a look at this."
Garlan went to see. What he thought might have been a tree limb became, on second glance, an old shotgun. He said to Kemp, "Bring it out after they take some pictures." Kemp told somebody to bring some plastic sheeting. The door was impossible to open, so they fished out the shotgun by the trigger guard. A tech with his hands in latex laid it on the plastic.
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