Keller thought for a moment. Then he got up and went to the bars again. He looked down the hall to where the metal door blocked his access to the rest of the world. Come on, Castle. Come on. Do the right thing.
RAY CASTLE sat at the desk and rubbed his eyes. Keller was right. What he’d been ordered to do didn’t make any sense. But then, it wasn’t the first time he’d been ordered to do things he didn’t completely understand. And now he was back to thinking about Fallujah, and that was something he tried to avoid thinking about as much as he could.
Orders. Right. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the Sheriff.
Cosgrove answered on the first ring. “You get ‘em, Ray?”
“Yes, sir,” Castle said. “They’re locked up in the substation. I caught them outside the perimeter of the Church of Elohim farm.”
“Were they trying to break in?” Cosgrove said.
“No, sir. They didn’t have a chance. They were checking it out, though. And I took some weapons off them. Two pistols, a shotgun, and, get this, an assault rifle with a grenade launcher on it.”
“No shit,” Cosgrove said.
“No, sir,” Castle replied. “The rifle looked military. I’m getting ready to run them all through NCIC, see if any of them come up stolen.”
“No,” Cosgrove said hastily. “Don’t do that.”
“Sir?”
“Don’t do anything until I get there. And keep this completely quiet. Completely. Understand?”
“No, sir,” Castle said. “I really don’t.”
“Just do it, son,” Cosgrove said. “I’ll explain everything when I get there.” He hung up.
Castle stared at the cell phone, then put it down on the desktop. He looked around the deserted substation, thinking. Then he booted up the computer.
“I HAVE them,” Cosgrove told Walker.
“Both?”
“Both. They’re locked up in the substation.”
“Who picked them up?”
“Castle,” the Sheriff said. “The new kid.”
“The black?” Cosgrove could almost see the General’s sneer.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “He’ll do what he’s told.”
“None of those people can be trusted,” the General said. “He’s a potential weak link. You’ll have to get rid of him.”
“Get rid of—”
“Make it look like Keller tried to escape and shot him. Then you kill Keller. My sources have been filling me in on him. He’s a lunatic with a history of violence. He should have been locked up years ago. You’ll be the man of the hour, having stopped a dangerous and unstable killer threatening your town.”
“No,” Cosgrove said. “No way. I’m not shooting one of my own men.”
“He’s not a man,” Walker said, “and he already knows too much. Especially if the prisoners are talking to him. Telling him about what’s happening. Do you think he’ll just go along with that?”
Cosgrove was beginning to sweat. “No,” he said finally. “Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
“See that you do,” Walker said. “Save the wetback for me. I’ll be there in a bit to pick him up.”
“What are you going to do?”
“He came here to find his sons. I’m going to give them the family reunion they want.” He paused. “Then I’m going to hang all three of them.”
RAMON ORTEGA was sitting on a bench on the street, eating his lunch, when the call he’d been dreading for years came. The cell phone in his shirt pocket buzzed. He put down the sandwich he’d been eating and pulled the phone out. When he saw the number, the food turned to a lump in his gut. The phone buzzed again. He answered. His hand was shaking as he put the phone to his ear.
“Bueno,” he said. His voice came out as a dry croak. He took a sip of the bottled water on the bench beside him and answered again, more strongly. “Beuno?”
“Ramon,” a voice said. “It’s time to pay the debt you owe.” The voice spoke in Spanish, the words distorted by some sort of filter so that he couldn’t tell who was speaking.
“I’m ready,” he said.
“There are two women who have been taken into the consulate. They are probably in the guest quarters. One is wounded. They must not leave there alive. They must certainly not be allowed to reach the United States.”
“I…I don’t know if I can get into the guest quarters. I’m only a file clerk—”
“You will find a way. Or your debt will have to be paid in some other fashion. Perhaps your sisters can pay it for you. Or your wife. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “I understand.”
“Do you still have the object we gave you?”
“Yes,” he said. He thought of the gun in his bottom desk drawer, buried under a pile of old magazines and meaningless junk paper. He had never fired it, and had hoped he never would.
“Good,” the voice said. “Do not fail us. We will know if you do. But if you succeed, your debt will be wiped clean. If you can get to the street, we will protect you. And your family. We will know you can do important work. And Ramon?”
“Yes?”
“This must be done immediately. As soon as you get back. So finish your lunch.”
It was only then that he saw the black SUV across the street. The windows were so darkly tinted he couldn’t see inside but he could feel the eyes on him and knew they were watching.
“I won’t fail you,” he said, looking at the vehicle as he spoke. He closed the connection and put down the phone. His hands were shaking worse now.
He’d worked at the consulate for five years, filing and occasionally translating documents. He made a good living, but there was no honest living he could make that could keep up with even the interest on the money he owed Andreas Zavalo. One day a man had come to him with a gun and a proposition. They would defer the debt until such time as Ramon could do a job for them. They hadn’t specified what the job might be, but the gun they had given him had made it clear that it wasn’t going to be anything small. It had rested in the bottom drawer for three years now, and Ramon had dared to wonder if maybe they’d forgotten him. He saw now how foolish that idea was. These people did not forget. Nor did they forgive. He was trapped. He’d never killed anyone before, but now it was kill or be killed. Or worse. He stood up and shoved his lunch bag and empty water bottle into a nearby trash can. A thought occurred to him. He reached into the trash can and pulled the bag back out. The bag was brightly colored, emblazoned with the name of a local chicken restaurant. He looked down the street to where the consulate rose, gray and forbidding, above the surrounding buildings. Trudging like a man with a heavy load on his shoulders, he began his walk back, holding the empty bag in one hand. Lunch was over, and so was life as he knew it.
THE GUEST quarters were on the third floor, down a long carpeted hallway that reminded Angela of a college dormitory. Huston led her toward one of the rooms on the end. As she passed one room with an open door, she looked inside and saw Esmeralda. The girl was lying on the bed, her eyes closed, breathing shallowly. There was an IV bag on a stand beside the bed, filled with what looked like blood. The red-haired medic she’d seen earlier was seated in the chair next to the bed. He held Esmeralda’s wrist in one hand, and he was looking at the watch on his other wrist. There was a cart next to him, piled high with bandages, syringes, and vials of unidentified medications.
“How is she?” Angela said, stepping into the room.
“She needs a real hospital,” the medic replied. “She’s a tough little gal, but she’s lost a lot of blood, and she’s gonna lose more. I can’t just keep pumping it into her.” He looked at Huston. “This ain’t my usual gig, sir,” he said. “I need that medevac. ASAP.”
“Working on it, Bentley,” Huston said.
“So work harder. Sir.”
Angela looked at Huston, who only grinned. “Understood, Sergeant.”
Bentley just grunted, then bent over to check his patient’s dressing.
&nb
sp; “Come on,” Huston said. He led Angela back into the hallway and opened the door to a room across the hall. Angela stepped inside. It was small, but clean, with a bed, dresser, chairs, and a small desk. There was one window, with bars on it.
“Rest here,” Huston said. He indicated a door across the room. “Private bathroom, with a shower if you want it.”
She wanted one desperately, but she stopped Huston as he started to step out. “That Marine seems to think you’re a lot more than a cultural attaché,” she said. “He seems to know you pretty well, in fact.”
Huston gave her that inscrutable smile again. “Sergeant Bentley has an active imagination.”
“And a big mouth,” she said.
“He’s good at his job,” Huston said, “Several jobs, actually. So I indulge him.”
“So tell me. What’s really going on here?”
“Mrs. Sanchez,” Huston said, “I would like to be able to tell you. But I truly can’t.”
“Can you still at least find out if my husband’s alive?” she said. “And my friend?”
“I have people working on that right now,” he said. “I hope to be back to you within the hour. Now, just rest easy. You’re on American soil. You’re completely safe.”
“Thanks, Mr. Huston,” she said. “But I guess that’s not your real name.”
That smile again. “It’ll do as well as any other. See you in a bit.”
RAY CASTLE shook his head in disgust as he closed the web browser. He’d taken the time he’d normally have spent checking NCIC for the stolen weapons to do as Keller had suggested and check out this Church of Elohim. What he’d seen had amused him at first, then angered him, then made him almost physically ill. He recalled a quote his Uncle Leonard used to use, something from one of Unc’s favorite movies, “White folks get stranger all the time.”
The sound of a vehicle pulling up outside startled him out of his reverie. He got up and went to the door. The Sheriff’s white Escalade was parked at the curb. Castle frowned as he saw another, unfamiliar vehicle pull in and park behind. The frown deepened as he saw a man in what looked like military fatigues without insignia and a soft flat-topped patrol cap. He’d just been looking at the man’s picture online. It was Walker, the man who called himself “The Sword Arm of the Lord.” There were two men with him—both dressed in khaki pants and black T-shirts. One was long haired, with a bushy beard. The other was a blond man who wore his hair slicked back and gelled. Both men’s arms were dark with tattoos. They were carrying assault rifles. Castle felt tightness in the muscles of his back, along with a tingling along his spine. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt since he’d left the Army. He’d experienced it more times than he could count in Iraq. He called it the “creepy crawlies,” and it had never failed him as an indicator that serious shit was about to go down. The other guys in his squad had kidded him about it, but they’d learned to respect it on patrol.
Castle eased his sidearm out of the holster and racked the slide. In the quiet town of Hearken, where the most violent thing he usually encountered was a noisy drunk, he didn’t often carry the weapon cocked and locked. But he was having a really bad feeling about this. He gently slid the weapon back into the holster, leaving the holster unsnapped, and stepped back from the door. He saw the Sheriff stop and confer with Walker for a moment. There was a brief discussion, apparently some disagreement, but eventually, Walker nodded. The Sheriff entered alone. Castle was standing at attention by the desk.
“Afternoon, sir,” he said.
“Afternoon, son,” the Sheriff said. The look on his face made Castle even more nervous. He looked ten years older than the last time they’d met. He was dressed in his brown uniform pants and Smokey Bear hat. Despite the heat, he wore his brown uniform jacket. Cosgrove stopped, looked around, spotted the metal door. “They back there?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Separate cells?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Give me the keys.”
Castle hesitated. “Are you okay, sir?”
Cosgrove’s face hardened with irritation. “I’m fine. Give me the keys.”
He didn’t want to do it. Everything was telling him that it was a bad idea. But it was a reasonable and lawful order. Castle took the keys from his belt and handed them over. Cosgrove went to the front door and opened it. The two gunmen came in, followed by Walker. The gunmen were grinning. Walker’s face looked as if it were made of stone. Cosgrove handed the keys to Walker, who went to the cellblock door and opened it.
“What’s going on, sir?” Castle asked.
“Mr. Sanchez is going with some friends of ours. We’ll be taking Keller.”
“Where, sir?”
“To the county courthouse for arraignment.”
Castle could hear yelling from inside the cellblock. He started toward the door. “That won’t be necessary,” Cosgrove said, but the nervousness in his face belied his calm words.
“All due respect, sir,” Castle said, “I can see transporting the prisoners separately. But why use these guys? Why not call another deputy?”
“Everyone else is tied up. I’ve…deputized these men as an emergency measure.”
The gunmen came out, leading the Latino prisoner, Sanchez, to the door. As they passed, the little guy looked at him. Castle would remember the calmness and dignity in that face for the rest of his days. “You know this is not right,” Sanchez said to him.
The blond gunman with his hair slicked back smacked him in the back of the head. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled. The other one laughed. Their smiles were the ugliest things he’d seen since Iraq.
Walker came out. “Enough,” he said to the blond. He ignored Castle.
“Sir…” Castle said helplessly. He knew he should be doing something, but it was three on one, and two of them had high caliber long guns. He watched as the three of them took Sanchez out the door. When they were out of Castle’s view, the Sheriff turned around.
“Now,” he said, “let’s go get Keller. But I’m going to need you to give me your sidearm before you go in.”
It was actually protocol. The officer who had actual physical contact with the prisoner didn’t carry his pistol, to discourage attempts to grab it from him. But after what he’d just seen, there was no way in hell Castle was going to turn his weapon over. He felt strangely lightheaded, but calm, the way he’d always felt when the apprehension of waiting for combat had given way to the adrenaline clarity of the real thing.
“No, sir,” he said as he drew his pistol and pointed it at the Sheriff.
THE RED-HAIRED medic, Bentley, stood up and stretched. Angela heard a strange whirring and clicking sound as he did. She’d though she’d noticed it in the driveway, but hadn’t been able to figure what it was, and events had distracted her from considering it further.
“I need more blood,” Bentley said. “Can you watch her while I get it?”
Angela nodded. “Please,” she said, “help her. She saved my life.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bentley said. “I’ll do everything I can.”
“You said this wasn’t your regular job,” she said. “What do you usually do?”
He stopped and smiled at her. It was the first time she’d seen him smile, and it made him look slightly off-kilter. “I blow stuff up, ma’am.” He walked out, that strange sound following him. With a start, Angela realized that Bentley was walking on two artificial legs. She wondered where he’d lost them, and wondered how he’d managed to stay on active duty. Not your average Marine. She thought of Huston, then to the confrontation at the gate. Talk to Mr. Huston, he’d said. He’ll back me up. Maybe not a Marine at all, she thought. She really wished she knew what was going on here. She reached out and took Esmeralda’s small hand in hers.
“Hang on, Esme,” she said, “we’re safe.”
RAMON WALKED down the hall, hoping no one would see him and notice his shaking. He came to the door of the guest quarters, at the foot of a short fl
ight of stairs. A Marine in fatigues stood by the door. Ramon recognized him. He was an easygoing Californian named Barbour who liked baseball. He and Ramon had had a few conversations about it.
“Hey, Ramon,” Barbour said. “What’s up?”
Ramon held up the bag. “I got lunch. They told me to bring some back for those two that just came in.”
Barbour looked dubious. “No one told me about this.”
Ramon shrugged. “Nobody tells us anything, huh?”
Barbour laughed. “Roger that. Go on up. But hurry.”
Ramon quickly mounted the stairs, his heart pounding with more than the exertion. The gun inside the bag seemed to weigh a ton. At the top of the stairs, he ran into another Marine, this one a short, pugnacious-looking redhead.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.
“My name’s Ramon. I work here. They asked me to bring the ladies something to eat.”
“It’s okay, Sergeant,” Barbour called from below. “I know Ramon. He’s good people.”
The redhead grunted. “Okay, but don’t be all fuckin’ day.”
“No, sir,” Ramon said. “This won’t take long.”
COSGROVE’S FACE darkened with anger. “Have you lost your mind, son?” he barked. “Give me that weapon. That’s an order.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Castle said. “Something is way fucked-up here, and I ain’t doing a goddamn thing until I figure out what it is.”
“Deputy,” Cosgrove said, “you are buying yourself more trouble than—”
Castle interrupted him. “I’ll need your weapon, sir. Reach down, pull it out with two fingers, and put it on the ground. You know the drill.”
Cosgrove looked about ready to explode. “Come and take it, you son of a bitch. Or are you going to shoot me? Right here, when I haven’t got a weapon in my hand?”
Devils and Dust Page 19
