by Bill Crider
“No need for that,” Rhodes said. “They’ll be long gone from there by now. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were halfway to El Paso.”
“All the same,” Hack said.
“Don’t worry,” Rhodes told him. “There won’t be any problem.” He hoped he was right.
He was wrong, but he didn’t know it at first. The sun was setting when he arrived at Gottschalk’s and drove over the cattle guard, but there was still enough daylight left for Rhodes to see that the tent was gone, and that no motorcycles were parked anywhere around. He drove his pickup down to where the tent had been and parked it.
The ground was a good deal scuffed up where the tent had been, but there hadn’t been much rain here and things weren’t in a really disturbed state. Rapper had probably been in a hurry, but not such a hurry as to leave things behind. Only in such a hurry as to move things quickly.
Rhodes scoured the ground and found nothing. He tried to trace the tracks of the bikes, but the ground was too torn up for that. As it began to get darker, he stopped looking and went to stand under the oak tree and look out at the water.
There was something about a tank at dusk that Rhodes really liked. Maybe it was the stillness of the water, or the quiet. Or maybe it was the way he could see a fish strike at a water bug every now and then, causing the water to pop and swirl for just a second or two. He thought briefly about getting his fishing rod out from behind the truck seat and making a few casts, but he told himself that would be too unprofessional. Still, it was a strong temptation.
He rested his sore back against the rough bark of the tree and soaked up the tranquility for a while. Then, just as the first dark was settling in, he thought that he heard something.
It could have been just a trick of the quiet, but he didn’t think so. He strained his ears and listened. After what seemed like quite a while, he heard something again. Voices.
Out in the country, in the late, late afternoon, when things are so still you’d think movement almost didn’t exist, voices carry a long way. Even voices pitched low.
Rhodes wondered who could be in the pasture, but he figured he knew. Who else could it be? He should have looked for those tracks more carefully, he thought. He should have made a few circles, widening each one, around the campsite. Then he might have found out sooner. As it was, he’d almost missed it.
Rapper was smart, all right. Rather than risk finding another place to stay, he’d simply moved deeper into Gottschalk’s property. He’d thought that anyone looking for him would accept the obvious fact that he was gone and then go look somewhere else. And he’d almost been right.
Rhodes eased up on top of the tank dam. It was mostly clay, softened a little by the rain, with a few bushes and weeds on top, just enough to offer a little cover if he kept low.
There wasn’t much to see. Certainly there wasn’t a tent, and there were no motorcycles. There was, however, a little copse of trees about four hundred yards away. In the gathering darkness, it was impossible to tell if there was a tent in there, but Rhodes would have bet there was.
Rhodes had absolutely no desire to slither on his stomach for four hundred yards. Instead, he went into a crouching run, from one bunch of milkweeds to the next, feeling he looked a little like Wile E. Coyote running along after a boulder had fallen on him.
He got to the edge of the woods, and he could hear the voices clearly by then, though they were slightly muffled and he still couldn’t make out what was being said. He slipped his pistol out of its holster, stood up, and stepped behind the nearest tree. When he looked around it, he could see the dark outlines of the tent.
The rain had softened things up, and Rhodes thought he could make it to the tent without rustling the leaves. He just hoped that he didn’t hang his pants leg on a thorny vine or step on a dead branch. He eased around the tree and crept forward, his pistol pointed at the tent.
He reached the tent easily. When he was near enough, he said, “All right, Rapper. You and Nellie come on out.”
There was a brief shuffling around in the tent, and Rhodes began to wonder if they were armed. In a second, however, Rapper and Nellie came out the front of the tent. They were crawling, since the tent was a small one. It was dark now, especially in the trees, but Rhodes could see no sign of a weapon in their hands.
“Well, you found us, Rhodes,” Rapper said as he stood up. “I have to give you credit. You’re smarter than I thought you were.”
“Not smarter,” Rhodes said. “Just luckier. Now if you two would just step apart a little. . . .” He motioned with the pistol, and the two men moved slightly apart. “A little farther . . . fine.”
He moved over to Rapper to put the cuffs on him, all the time watching Nellie out of the corner of his eye. He had no idea that anyone could be behind him, but when he heard the slight rustle of the leaves he tried to turn. He was too late. The end of the tree limb hit him squarely on the side of the head.
Chapter 13
Rhodes was not out for long, but when he came to he was in no position to do much. He was lying face down on the ground, his face pressed into the tangy-smelling leaf mold. He couldn’t move his arms, which were locked behind his back, held in place, he was sure, with his own handcuffs. It was embarrassing. His sore back was hurting more than ever, and the side of his head felt as if it had been caved in.
“I say we kill him right here.” That was Nellie’s voice. “Just shoot him in the back of the head with his own pistol and toss him in the tank. They’ll find him if it ever dries up, if the turtles don’t eat him first.” Rhodes was beginning to develop a real dislike for Nellie.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Rapper said. “Someone knows he came here, and why he came here. If we kill a lawman, even one as sorry as this one, they’ll hunt us forever. We’d never get a minute’s rest.”
Nellie laughed. “What we’ve done already ain’t enough? Who’s the idiot now? Look at him, trussed up like a pig.”
“I hate to admit it, Nellie, but you may have a point,” Rapper said in the voice of a man who really did hate to admit that someone else might have a better thought than his own. “Well, let’s let him look at us when we do it. May as well get a little fun out of it.”
Rhodes tensed himself. He didn’t think he had a chance, because he didn’t think he could move, but he wasn’t going to lie there and let Rapper shoot him, that was for sure.
As Rapper’s steps approached, Rhodes lurched to his knees, then threw himself forward at what he hoped would be Rapper’s softly bulging midsection. He was off, but not too far, and he had managed to take Rapper by surprise. His head hit Rapper in the side and staggered him backward.
Rhodes tried to gain his feet, but Nellie landed in the middle of his back. Rhodes rolled over, but that didn’t help. Now Nellie was beneath him, but he had a strong grip around Rhodes’s chest and was squeezing.
Rhodes rolled over again. Now Nellie was on top. No advantage there, either, except that Rapper, who was now on his feet, couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting Nellie.
“Get off him, Nellie!” Rapper screamed, the thin edge of dementia in his voice. “Get off, or I’ll shoot you too!”
Nellie tried to get up and Rhodes followed along, running backward with Nellie, who was trying to get away. Rhodes dug his feet into the ground, driving backward as hard as he could. Nellie, caught up in the rush, went along.
Things came to a sudden stop when they hit a tree. All the air went out of Nellie, and Rhodes tried to keep his balance.
Rapper fired the pistol, but the shot went wild in the darkness. So did the second one.
Rhodes tried to find cover. He got behind a tree trunk that wasn’t quite thick enough and tried to think of what to do next. Pain was shooting up and down his arms and pulsing in his head.
A shot thudded into the tree trunk. Rapper was getting better in the dark, or luckier.
Then suddenly, as if it were right on him, Rhodes heard the wail of a siren. Headlights flooded through the tree
s, and there was the flashing of a light bar.
“Freeze, sucker!” It was Ruth Grady.
Quite a few things happened then, and Rhodes never remembered if they happened in any particular order or if they all happened at once.
No one froze. Rapper whirled around and fired two shots at the lights. Rhodes heard glass shatter. Ruth Grady began firing at the muzzle flashes. Nellie got up. Rhodes hit the dirt. There were more shots. Rhodes heard the motorcycles start and speed away.
Then Ruth was kneeling by him. “Got the keys to these cuffs, Sheriff?”
“Right pocket,” Rhodes said, rolling into a position where she could reach them. She took them off, and Rhodes rubbed his wrists as he sat up.
“Too many trees,” Ruth said. “I don’t think I hit anybody. Should we go after them?”
“Not much chance of catching them,” Rhodes said. “How many were there?”
“Three. One in the tent.”
“Thought there had to be another one.” Rhodes winced as the blood began to flow freely in his arms and hands once again, sending needles into his skin. “I’d like to say I had ‘em where I wanted ‘em, but you’d probably see right through that, wouldn’t you.”
Ruth laughed. “Probably.”
“How’d you happen to show up here, anyway?”
“Hack called me, said you might need some backup.”
“Hack’s beginning to exceed his authority,” Rhodes said. “All the same, I don’t think I’ll call him down for it this time.” He stood up. “How much damage to the car?”
“Smashed a headlight, I think.”
“I hope that’s all,” Rhodes said. “I’m beginning to feel like a one-man disaster area. Let’s get on back to town while I can still walk.”
As they walked to the car, Rhodes saw that one of the low-beam lights was out. There didn’t seem to be much damage, otherwise. He got in and called Hack, telling him to send Buddy out to go over the tent and surrounding area. He didn’t think there’d be anything to find, but he didn’t want to pass up the chance.
The next morning Rhodes was very stiff and very sore. Muscles that he hadn’t been aware of in the past now ached and throbbed. Muscles that he had been aware of hurt even more. He sat in his kitchen, drinking a Dr Pepper and thinking dark thoughts. Then he fed Speedo. He hadn’t stopped and bought any dog food the night before, so he opened a can of Vienna sausages.
Speedo didn’t look too happy about it. “Look, dog, if it’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for you,” Rhodes said. Speedo nosed the lump of sausages around, then gave in and took the whole mass in one bite. He chewed around on it for a minute, swallowed, and then looked expectantly at Rhodes. “That’s it,” Rhodes said. “Behave yourself and I’ll get you something later. Go lie down somewhere.”
Speedo didn’t move, so Rhodes went back into the house and got dressed.
On the way to the jail, he stopped at Wal-Mart and bought a fifty-pound sack of Ol’ Roy dog food. “It’s the dry stuff from now on,” he said aloud as he dumped the sack into the back of the pickup with a dull thud. “No more gourmet meals.”
Hack was waiting eagerly as Rhodes walked into the jail, with a look on his face not unlike the one Speedo had worn earlier.
Rhodes didn’t say a word. We’ll see how he likes having to drag it out of me, Rhodes thought. Then he immediately relented.
“What do you want to hear?” he asked.
“About how you had ‘em buffaloed,” Hack said.
“About how you had ‘em where you wanted ‘em.”
“You’ve been talking to Ruth already,” Rhodes said.
Hack laughed. “Ain’t that girl a scutter? How many shots she get off?”
“I didn’t count,” Rhodes said honestly.
“She’s a scutter,” Hack repeated, shaking his head in appreciation. “Why, I bet if she didn’t have to stop and help you up, she’d of rounded up the whole bunch.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Rhodes said. He laughed too, but not for the same reason as Hack. He was laughing because he figured Ruth’s role as “the new deputy” was over. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact there is,” Hack said. “Two guys want to talk to you. They went over to the motel to have breakfast, but they’ll be back pretty quick.”
“What two guys?”
“Well, they’re wearin’ navy blue suits and burgundy ties. They got on thin gold watches with gold bands. And they got white shirts and black shoes that lace up and tie.”
“We all know what that means,” Rhodes said.
“That’s right,” Hack said. “Either you got business with two bankers from Houston or the federal boys are in town.”
“How much would you bet that they’re not bankers from Houston?” Rhodes asked.
“Not a whole hell of a lot,” Hack said.
“Me either. I guess they didn’t happen to mention what they wanted?”
“Sure they did. They wanted to talk to you.”
“They probably need financial advice,” Rhodes said.
“Probably,” Hack said. “You goin’ to talk to them?”
Rhodes went over and sat in his chair that no longer squeaked. “I don’t expect I’ll have too much choice. How long have they been gone?”
“Long enough to go through the Breakfast Special. They ought to be back before long.”
“I can wait,” Rhodes said. “Did Buddy come up with anything last night?”
“Got the tent and a couple of sleepin’ rolls. Not much else. Said he’d go back out today when he could see and take another look.”
Rhodes didn’t think there would be anything. Rapper and Nellie probably traveled light. He thought about what had happened and what it meant. He didn’t have much doubt about who the third person was. It had to be Wyneva. And it had to have been the third person who hit him in the head. Wyneva again.
Knowing who, or at least thinking that he knew who, didn’t help Rhodes much with the why. There was obviously something going on, and he even thought that he knew a little about it, but he was missing too much. Maybe when he questioned Jayse and the other man, he’d find out something that would fill in the missing spaces in his thinking. Or maybe the two men in the navy blue suits would help him out. He wasn’t betting too heavily on either pair, however.
Two men were dead, and Rhodes himself had taken a considerable beating. He didn’t mind the latter too much, or he wouldn’t have minded if it had led to anything on the murders, but he wasn’t making enough progress. He began to get impatient for the blue suits to show up.
He didn’t have to wait long. They came in the door of the jail, one behind the other, dressed exactly as Hack had described them. One was tall, nearly six feet, and the other was slightly taller, maybe six-two. They had short hair, and their eyes were alert. They said hello to Hack and shook hands with Rhodes.
“How about that Breakfast Special?” Hack asked, as they sat in the hard wooden chairs.
“I don’t think I ever saw so much eggs and sausage in one place,” the taller of the men said. His voice was deep and pleasant. He reached inside his jacket and took out his identification. “Roger Malvin,” he said. “DEA. The gentleman with me is Robert Cox.” His accent, obviously acquired in New York, sounded foreign in the jail.
Cox showed his own ID. “Pleased to meet you, Sheriff,” he said. His accent was softer, nearer to Virginia than Malvin’s.
“What can I do for you fellas?” Rhodes asked. He always felt his Texas drawl get broader and twangier when he talked to anyone from north of Oklahoma.
“We understand that you have two prisoners in the hospital,” Malvin said. He was obviously the spokesman. “We would like for you to allow us to question them.”
Rhodes looked over at Hack, who busied himself with some papers, probably blank, on the radio table. Sometimes Hack talked too much to strangers, even if he was sure they were federal agents. “What is it you want to talk to them about?”
Rhodes thought for a second. He was willing to help the men out, but he wasn’t going to do it for nothing.
“We could question them without your permission,” Malvin said. “We’re just trying to be cooperative.”
Rhodes thought Malvin was being a little pushy. “I might have a guard on them,” he said. “He might not let you in.”
“I could get a court order,” Malvin said, his voice no longer very pleasant.
“Maybe,” Rhodes said. “Or maybe I know the judge better than you do.”
“Just a minute,” Cox said mildly. “We don’t have to argue about this. Surely you realize the importance of a federal investigation, Sheriff.”
“I surely do,” Rhodes said. “But I have my own priorities. These two men are involved in a murder. Maybe in two murders. I haven’t questioned them yet myself.”
“Of course we would want you to be present during any interrogation,” Cox said.
Then Rhodes caught on. I must be getting old, he thought, to let them pull the old Mutt and Jeff on me. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll let you go over to the hospital with me and be present at my interrogation. How’s that?”
The men looked at one another.
“There’s a catch, though,” Rhodes said before they could answer.
“What’s the catch?” Malvin asked.
“You tell me what you know about these men, why you want to talk to them, and what you know about Buster Cullens. All of it. Otherwise, you can forget it. Go back to Washington, or wherever it is you come from, and leave the small-town crimes to the small-town boys.”
Cox laughed. “We didn’t mean to get you so upset, Sheriff. Maybe we’d better start over and see if we can’t get off on a better footing.”
“That’s all right with me,” Rhodes said.
“Good,” said Malvin, his voice pleasant once more. “You’re probably not going to like everything we have to say, however.”
