Todd and Teddy Barrow enjoyed basking in the somewhat dubious glow of being related to Clyde Barrow, the notorious Texan outlaw who had hooked up with Bonnie Parker to begin a reign of terror in the early 1930s. The sheriff knew the supposed relationship to be a complete myth, but the twins had been both dumb and trouble from an early age, and were no less so now that they were men in their late twenties. There was a Y in the day, so they would have been drunk when they argued with Joe Kane, and experience suggested they would have had no problem hurling racist insults at him. Neither man was known for their sensitivity in such matters. The Native American was a giant of a man, but the Barrow boys were more than a match in terms of physique. Equally, whilst Kane would undoubtedly have retaliated in no small measure, his supposed threat might well have been exaggerated.
Yet Kane was here. It was a few minutes shy of midday. The Barrows were in the saloon. An intervention was necessary.
‘You know what happened, sheriff,’ Kane said, his tone remaining flat and even. ‘We exchanged insults – which, by the way, those two peckerheads started – but then they kicked in with the racist bullshit. I will turn a blind eye to most things, but not that. Not from any man. No idea why anyone would expect me to, either.’
Sensing a challenge in those final few words, Crozier flexed on the balls of his feet and said, ‘I ain’t got nothing against you defending yourself, Joe. You know me to be a squared away police officer in that respect. Leastways, I hope so. But, when I hear hooves I think horses, not zebras. So when cutting is mentioned, I think knives and not fists. I need to know what your intentions are inside that saloon bar, Joe.’
The big man stretched his lips into a thin smile. The leathery face crinkled and his wide flat nose sniffed the warm air. Crozier had no idea how old Kane was. Legend had it that this part of New Mexico had never known a time when Kane was not around, but that was as much a made-up tale as the Barrow boys being related to the legendary bank robber.
‘I said something along those lines, sheriff. But only in reaction to one of those twins riling me with talk about scalping. Anger fuelled those threats, nothing more. I do not intend using a weapon of any sort in there.’ He nodded at the bar entrance.
‘You carrying a weapon, Joe?’
‘Nope. If it comes to it, I aim to use my head, my elbows, fists and feet. Don’t need no knife. Or tomahawk for that matter.’
Crozier scratched the back of his neck. It was hardly burning up under such an insignificant February midday sun, but he felt a thin film of perspiration there nonetheless. ‘You know I can’t let you in there, Joe. Can’t allow you enter the bar if you intend on fighting.’
‘No reason for me to go in otherwise.’
‘So don’t go in.’
‘But I drove all the way out here. Seems like a huge waste of time and gas if I don’t finish what I started.’
‘Still can’t allow it, Joe.’
Kane’s face clouded over, his eyes squinting now. ‘They will think I am a coward if I do not show my face. It will shame me, and my people.’
‘Oh, now don’t give me all that nonsense. Shame you, maybe, but not your entire race. And look, if it means that much to you, I’ll gladly step inside and tell them two morons that I put a halt to it, fearing for their lives.’
The two were silent for a few seconds. Nothing passed by on the deserted road beside them. Dwight felt the heavy weight of the Native American’s cold, hard scrutiny. But then Kane nodded a couple of times and without a word, started to turn. Crozier called out to him to wait. The big man moved back to face him.
‘You want to tell me why you went into the bar in the first place, Joe? This is not your typical hangout, that I do know.’
‘Looking for someone.’
‘You want to tell me who and why?’
‘Nope.’
Crozier took a breath and blew it out his nostrils. ‘Well, now come on, fellah. That’s not playing the game. A man’s gotta wonder. Especially a man who’s also the local county sheriff. When you go looking for someone, that tells me that whoever it is will soon be in trouble. With you or your employer. Either way, that makes me a little uneasy.’
Kane heaved his massive shoulders. ‘Looking for someone is not a crime.’
‘Well, you’re right about that, of course.’ Dwight rested his hands on his belt. ‘But what you do with them when you find them just might be.’
‘Just want to talk.’
‘Talk. Is that right?’
‘Yep.’
‘And what if your… talk doesn’t go well. Doesn’t go to plan. What then, Joe?’
‘Maybe something, maybe nothing. Have to have the talk first to know.’
Crozier knew he would get nowhere with the man on this subject. He had to ask, had to do what he could, but Kane was about as tight-lipped as a person could be without actually having their mouth sewn shut.
‘I hope I don’t have to come looking for you,’ he said, eyeing Kane closely.
‘I hope not either, sheriff.’
Crozier waved him away with a flick of his fingers and a dip of the head. He watched the Apache from the Mescalero tribe walk away with that untroubled gait of his, then shook his head, removed his hat and stepped inside the bar.
5
The wheels of our Lear touched down at Roswell International Air Center at precisely 12.46 New Mexico time on Tuesday afternoon, the day after Terry and I had flown into LAX. It was a relatively short hop by comparison to our journey over the Atlantic, but still I was feeling as if I was caught up in a cyclone, and my head was trying hard to acclimatise to more than the jump back and forth in time differences.
Seeing both Donna and Wendy again, spending some time with them, was a positive move my heart grasped and would not let go of quickly. That our time shared together had taken place in the home of another man, a man capable of providing the two women in my life with their every need, hooked spikes into that same heart and scrubbed it raw from the inside out. I begrudged neither of them a thing, and wanted only the very best for both of them. I had wasted my opportunity with Donna, and subsequently the chance to spend Wendy’s formative years alongside her had also disappeared in a pall of smoke caused by the fire I lit beneath my marriage. Because I understood the process and the practicalities, and had come to accept them, did not mean it no longer hurt. The past few days had been a confusion of movement and discovery, and I had to admit that it had knocked me off my game.
I was in the moment now, though. A young man was missing, a young man who was part of my daughter’s wider new family. I did not doubt that he was in some kind of trouble. All we could do now was hope to find him before it became the worst kind of trouble. If we managed to do that, my money was on us getting him back safely.
As promised, a Jeep Grand Cherokee was waiting for us at the airport in New Mexico. During the short flight in the Lear, Terry and I had discussed the best way forward, so by the time we stowed our kit away in the back of the Jeep and climbed aboard, our strategy was already formed. Despite knowing that by now Vern’s minivan would have been towed to an FBI storage area and would probably be minutely examined by experts later that same day, I wanted to see where it had been found. Terry agreed that should be our starting point.
You think of New Mexico and you imagine baking heat, scorched earth, and fierce sunshine that beat down relentlessly until you were frazzled and cooked. I do, at least. None of that was in evidence as we headed east out of Roswell. The sky was low and a grey-blue colour that amounted to nothing much, though you could tell the sun was trying its best to burn through the cloud cover. It wasn’t exactly cold, not for those of us used to UK weather, but there was dampness in the air that chilled through to the bone when the wind blew.
I thought the Fenlands back home could be flat and uninspiring countryside, but it had nothing on this place. The tawny plains were basically dirt pans with tufts of flora peppering the bleak landscape. At some point on the short drive we crossed t
he Pecos River, not that you’d know it without the sign to tell you; it looked more like an arroyo that had been arid for many years, with pockets of vegetation climbing their way out of the bed. If you blinked you would miss the miniscule town of Acme. We blew by a building called the Old Frazier Schoolhouse. It looked as if it might be important, though of course its history meant nothing to either of us. Highway 70 took us though Chaves County. We followed it in virtual silence. I felt a little laggy and out of sorts, and it’s always hard to tell how Terry is feeling. His eyes were busy reading a position on his GPS device into which he had programmed coordinates, and eventually he pointed to our right.
‘Just there by the telegraph poles,’ he said, allowing me plenty of time to adjust.
I indicated, eased my foot off the accelerator, and bumped off the tarmac onto a dusty, dirt trail. Moments later we rattled over a single set of railway tracks that ran parallel to the highway. Ahead of us the dirt track seemed to peter out to nothing, leading nowhere in particular, to nothing we could see. To our left there was a small, flattened and bald dirt patch, upon which we could see a multitude of tyre imprints and swirls of footprints. I stopped the Jeep on the opposite side, and we stepped out. You could taste the desert dust in your mouth immediately, and the air smelled like baked soil. It was quiet. Other than the occasional hiss of tyres back on the highway, the afternoon was still and silent.
‘Looks like the kind of place where you’d see tumbleweed rolling across the land,’ Terry observed, squinting as he peered into the distance.
I nodded. ‘And Wile E Coyote chasing that smug bastard Roadrunner.’
‘Well, we did drive by Acme back there.’
I turned my head and gave him a hard stare.
‘What?’ He smiled and spread his hands.
‘I can’t believe you just made a pop culture reference.’
‘That was pop culture about a hundred years ago, Mike.’
That made me laugh. He wasn’t far wrong.
‘So what do you make of this as a location?’ I asked him.
Terry shook his head. ‘Why would I stop here? Maybe to pull over after a long drive. Grab some rest or perhaps even some sleep. Take a piss? I doubt it, not unless it was an emergency. You can’t exactly hide, and this close to the highway you’re going to get noticed.’
‘I can vouch for how dangerous that can be,’ I said. All my troubles of the previous summer stemmed from my doing exactly as Terry had described.
‘Yeah, but it doesn’t look as if anyone came along and started shooting.’ Terry’s eyes met mine and an understanding passed between us. The bond of a shared history.
‘Car trouble?’ I suggested.
‘Good point. We need to find that out. I wonder if the local cops or FBI agents even bothered to turn the engine over, check the gauges.’
‘Other than that, maybe whoever was driving pulled off the road to meet with somebody.’
‘You still thinking that maybe it wasn’t Vern who drove down here from Vegas?’ Terry asked.
‘It’s possible. There’s a lot we still don’t know, and we need to get into it fast.’
‘I don’t like what I’m seeing or hearing so far.’
‘What d’you mean?’ I asked him.
Terry shook his head, a look of frustration on his face. ‘There’s no sign or sight of him since he was in Vegas. Actually, since he left LA. Only use of his credit card. You put that together with his vehicle being dumped here, it doesn’t look good for the kid.’
‘So you don’t think Vern drove out here, either?’
Terry was about to respond when he looked behind me and jerked his head. ‘We’ve got company.’
The dusty Chevrolet with green paintwork faded by the sun followed our tracks as it bounced its way over the uneven surface towards us, pulling up opposite the Jeep. Two men climbed out, door hinges groaning and the Chevy’s suspension complaining as it bobbed and settled. One of the men was short and wide, with a goatee whose colour did not match the apparent age of the man sporting it.
His companion was a Latino, taller, skinnier and younger, with sharp narrowed eyes and a gleaming bald dome. He was dressed all in black, and wore snakeskin boots.
‘Have you got an anvil handy?’ I whispered to Terry.
‘Afternoon,’ Goatee said, his gaze darting between us. ‘I’m Detective Randall and this is my partner, Detective Garcia. What exactly are you two gentlemen doing out here today?’
Before I could respond, Terry said, ‘Why, is this private property?’
Goatee fixed Terry with a hard stare for a second or two before responding. ‘No, it’s not. I still want to know why you two gentlemen are parked here.’
‘And I want to see your badges before I answer.’
I glanced across at my friend, who stood a foot or so behind me, square on to the dynamic duo. Terry was not usually the kind of person to goad someone in such obvious fashion. I had to assume there was a good reason for his calm belligerence.
Goatee, a man with no discernible neck, slid a sidelong look at his partner, whose steady focus remained split between me and Terry. We were going to have to watch ourselves with that one.
‘I take my badge out, I also take out my cuffs and gun,’ Goatee said. He was ruffled, but he made a game attempt at keeping his voice neutral. His eyes darted back and forth, and he licked his lips a couple of times.
‘I’m simply asking you to identify yourself, Detective Randall. As you are required to do if I make the request.’
‘And I’m wondering why you’re refusing to answer a simple question, buddy. That makes me suspicious. Making me suspicious is not good for either of you. So I will ask again: what are you two gents doing out here? At this precise location. At this precise moment.’
‘Not answering your dumb fucking questions,’ Terry replied with no noticeable change in the cadence of his voice.
‘That’s a sure way to get your ass arrested, my friend.’
‘I’m not your friend.’
‘Well, then that makes you my enemy. And my enemies don’t tend to do well around here.’
Terry did not respond this time. A couple of seconds passed. By now we were all aiming glares at each other; our ocular version of a Mexican stand-off.
‘Did our man with the tools send you guys?’ Goatee asked, flapping his arms in the air. ‘Did we get doubled up on a job here? The punk in the old abattoir gave up where the kid was headed, but it’s our job, man.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Terry replied. ‘And nor do I care.’
Goatee moved his right hand towards the inside of his jacket.
‘Don’t!’ Terry said, a harsh edge to his voice now. His own hands hung loosely by his side. He had sensed what these two men were long before I did. And they were no detectives.
The man with no neck froze. His companion did not. Terry’s reaction was swift and mesmeric. He took two rapid steps forward, and as the Latino’s hand came up clasping an ugly-looking switchblade, Terry chopped his left arm down to block the strike, stepped inside as his opponent followed through with the blade cutting only thin air, before delivering a thunderous blow with the inside of his fist to the man’s temple. Snakeskin made a brief sound like a sigh, then crumpled to the ground in a heap, the impact sending up a cloud of dust. I had seen Terry use the side of his meaty fist before, often with devastating results for the recipient. My friend was a great believer in not risking broken knuckles if he could possibly help it.
Goatee reacted slowly. Too slowly. By the time he pulled his gun, I had moved in for my own strike. There was no finesse or martial art skill involved. I simply planted my left foot and used the other to kick him squarely in the balls. The sound he made was part cough, part scream. Neither emerged as even remotely human. He sank to his knees, all kinds of pain etched into the warped flesh of his face. He retched and vomited a little. Then he toppled forward, cupping his groin and moaning in a high-pitched keen.
> Terry’s man was out cold, a thin trail of blood leaking from his ear. I suspected its drum had been perforated by the club-like blow my friend had landed. Terry reached down, flipped open Snakeskin’s jacket, and searched inside his pocket. He then checked the others, and the man’s chino-style trousers. The knife appeared to be his only weapon. He carried no badge, and his wallet identified him as Ricardo Garcia, aged twenty-eight, from Reno, Nevada.
Goatee had not only lied about being a cop, he had also provided a false name. According to his driver’s licence he was David Barclay, fifty, also from Reno. His Sig P226 lay on the floor inches from the man now writhing in agony. I scooped up the weapon, stuffed it into the waistband of my trousers, then flipped the guy over.
‘What do you want with us?’ I asked him. I shot a glance at Terry, who stood over Snakeskin, inspecting him like an entomologist might examine a new breed of bug.
‘Fuck you!’ Goatee spat through tight lips.
‘Come on now, play fair.’ I wagged a finger in front of his narrow piggy eyes. ‘I could’ve shot you.’
Actually, our guns were still in a bag in the back of the Jeep, so that was not strictly true. But he wasn’t to know that.
Goatee groaned and winced, hands still cupped around his groin. ‘I fucking wish you had.’
I had to chuckle at that. ‘What do you think, partner?’ I said, looking over my shoulder at Terry.
‘Kill them both. Leave them out here for the buzzards to pick at.’
‘What do you say to that, Mr Barclay?’ I said, turning my attention back to Goatee. ‘You want to be buzzard food?’
I had no idea whether there was a buzzard within a hundred miles of us, and I doubted Terry did, either. But it sounded good.
Goatee said nothing, just stared at me with hate-filled eyes.
Cold Winter Sun Page 4
