There was a chain bus and they marched him to it, double-time, and deposited him in the middle row by the emergency exit, in front of two other cons chained together in a seat. Another row behind them a lone inmate with skin the color of wet cement and sickly yellow eyes shivered with his face pressed against the window. The two deputies took the seats at the back of the bus and cradled their Remington 870 shotguns. Martell slid into the front seat behind the driver, Transportation Officer Guedel, a genial, curly-haired man.
“Okay,” Martell drawled. “Let’s get these doggies rolling.” He paused theatrically and then bawled, “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out!”
Guedel turned the engine over and brought the bus to life, released the air brakes, put it in gear, and rolled out through the barbed-wire, heading for El Paso, one hundred and twenty miles away. There was no air conditioning on the bus. The ride promised to be long and dull and hot.
Station Nineteen
4:20 P.M.
Lieutenant Love pulled his car into the parking lot and shut off the engine. He sat for a moment in silence and stared at the front of the station, shimmering in the heat waves. It was a large two-story Art Deco structure with short palm trees in the yard and yucca plants flanking the stone steps leading to the entrance. A vacant lot dotted with junked cars and piles of scattered trash adjoined the building on the north side, separated from the parking lot by a rusty chain-link fence, beyond which sat an abandoned neighborhood with its clapboard houses shuttered and forlorn. Situated near the south side of the station adjoining the parking lot was a sally port entrance, fenced off and topped with barbed-wire. Beyond that was another condemned neighborhood stretching away in the distance, a jumble of crumbling brick houses, their windows nailed shut with plywood.
He heard a Whistling Pete going off miles away and the snap of a string of firecrackers. People were already starting to celebrate.
When he walked in through the front door, there was no activity to greet him. A hallway to his left led to a staircase at the end of it going up to the second floor. Wooden crates and cardboard boxes lined one wall. Another hallway branched around the corner to the right, leading to the back rooms. In the front vestibule loomed the admittance desk. A bored sergeant, gray at the temples, belly hanging over his belt, stood at the counter, filling out forms. He didn’t look up when Love walked to him, but barked, “Yeah?” in his general direction.
“Hello,” Love said, clearing his throat. “I’m Lieutenant Love.”
The man looked up from his forms. “Yes, Sir.” He tossed his pencil down. “I’ll go inform the Captain you are here.”
When he walked away Love could see into the office area behind the counter. A petite blonde woman in her late twenties with big blue eyes sat at a corner desk, talking into a headset connected to a rather complicated-looking switchboard studded with buttons and dials.
He overheard her saying, “No, I am sorry. The precinct has moved to a new location. Hold on one moment and I’ll give you the new number.”
Another woman with thick black hair falling in rich curls to her shoulders and wide almond eyes over a classically pretty face rose from her desk and gave him a smile that almost put out his eyes. “Hello, Lieutenant.”
“Hi.”
She came forward and rested her arms on the counter. “I’m Juanita.” She indicated the blonde with a nod of her chin. “That is Tiffany.”
“Hello, Tiffany.” He smiled at the blonde when she turned and waved at him.
“Hello,” she answered and then she muttered, “The telephone company should be handling this.” She pointed to her phone. “They were supposed to take over at 4pm.” She turned in her chair and dialed another number. Love heard her say, “Hello. Is supervisor 32-64 there?” and then Juanita caught his attention by asking, “Would you like a cup of coffee, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, thanks.”
She came around from the counter and he followed her to the hallway and into a small room down the hall from the captain’s office crammed with empty desks and stacks of chairs.
“Pretty quiet,” Love remarked, indicating the empty vestibule leading to the booking area.
“For a change,” she sighed. “You’re taking over at the right time.”
“I guess so.” He didn’t sound convinced. Damn it, there it was again. That plaintive tone. To cover it up, he asked quickly, “When are you closing for good?”
“They shut off the phones and the power tomorrow at noon.” She poured a cup from a pot warming on the burner of an ancient coffee machine and offered it to him. “There’s no cream or sugar, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay.” He took a sip. It was like motor oil. He tried not to wince. “How long have you worked here?”
“Too long,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“That bad?”
“You know what they call this place?’
He nodded and said, “The Alamo.”
She laughed. “I can see your department has been filling you in on the local color.”
“It’s true. I’ve heard of this place,” he admitted.
“Well don’t worry. Tonight shouldn’t be too bad.”
The sergeant appeared in the doorway. “The captain would like to see you now, Lieutenant.”
“Be right there,” Love called, setting his coffee down gratefully. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said to Juanita. He was a good liar when it was polite to be untruthful.
The captain, an elaborately mustachioed man of forty-seven who fancied himself a true good ol’ boy, was on the phone when Love walked into the cramped office. There was a strongbox on the desk, with the lid open. Love wandered over and peered inside and saw two short-barreled riot shotguns.
“Don’t call me every time another division gets their nuts in a bunch! I’ve got enough to deal with over here!” the captain snarled into the phone. He listened a moment to the reply and then snapped, “Fine. You do that!” and slammed down the receiver.
He looked up at Love and sighed deeply, “Damned Fourth of July! We’ve had twelve stolen cars, twenty-six assaults, seventeen drunk and disorderly—and it’s not even dark yet!” He leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “Goddamned holidays.” He gave Love the once over and added, “And something is playing hell with the radios tonight too.”
After a moment of silence, Love felt he was obligated to say something, so he ventured, “Could be the meteor showers we’ve been having…”
The captain looked at him like he wanted to scrape the lieutenant from the bottom of his shoe. Love could see it in his eyes. He was wondering what kind of idiot Central Division had sent him.
“At five o’clock,” the captain said slowly, standing up and going to the strongbox. “I am going over to the new station.”
He picked up the shotgun, a Remington 870 riot gun, and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. He set the safety and then placed the weapon back in the box. He did the same to the other shotgun and then flipped the lid shut and padlocked it.
“You take over here until Hartman comes in at four a.m.” The tone in his voice made it clear he didn’t think Love could screw it up too much when he added, “All you do is answer the phone and send over any wanderers. I really doubt you’ll get any. Devil’s Triangle has been like a ghost town all summer.”
“Are there any facilities left over here?”
“A few holding cells and a bathroom,” grunted the captain.
“Why is this place still open?”
“This is a transitional period or some horseshit. We just do what we’re told, right, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“This place is usually busier than a whorehouse on dollar day,” the captain drawled. “But tonight you should be able to take it easy.” He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Just don’t drink any of Juanita’s coffee. It’s terrible.”
Texas State Highway 6
6:30 P.M.
The bus ride was taking forever. It s
topped at every county jail and state prison facility between Smithville and El Paso to pick up more prisoners. The bus was now half-filled with sick inmates on their way to the central hospital unit.
Torres still had a seat to himself and he was grateful; there were certain advantages to being considered a toxic, eat-your-face, mad dog killer. He sat and watched the passing scenery through the wire-grilled window. Every once in a while he’d catch a whispered snatch of conversation between the other cons. They were talking about him. A few inmates tried to catch his attention but that never lasted long. His eyes, chilly and lethal, said Don’t Fuck with Me and that was enough to make most people leave him alone. That was just fine with Rattlesnake Torres.
Now the fat U.S. Marshal was coming down the aisle, taking a seat opposite, gazing at Torres with his little gimlet eyes. He kept staring until finally the convict asked, “What do you want?”
“I gotta want something?”
“You’re a cop. Cops always want something.”
“I am honestly curious as to why you switched sides.”
“That’s a dumb question.” Torres had a surprisingly soft voice, almost a whisper. “You know what they say about curiosity.”
“Yeah,” agreed Martell. “It killed the cat. Except I ain’t no pussy.”
Torres raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
“You’ve got a smart mouth.”
“I rate real high in that department.”
“Seems like being a wise-ass and killing folks is all you’re good at.”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Another wise remark.”
“No one seemed to mind when I was slitting throats for Uncle Sam,” Torres sighed. “But you get all bent out of shape when I do it for those with a darker complexion.”
Martell shrugged and said, “You were a good soldier in a bad war.”
Torres looked out the window. “War is a racket. It always has been.” His voice was velvet wrapped in razor-wire. “A racket is something that is not what it seems to the majority of the people.” He cocked his head and the corners of his mouth curled up. “A racket is conducted for the benefit of the very few, at the expense of the very many.” He looked Martell in the eye. “Out of war a few people make huge fortunes.”
“I was in ‘Nam too,” Martell suddenly blurted, as if confessing some dark secret. “25th Infantry. We had some tunnel rats. Most of ‘em died.”
Torres nodded, his eyes even further away than usual. He had lost all of his friends in Vietnam. With them went his last connection to the human race. Now there was no one left alive on the face of the planet who knew Torres as a real human being. There was only his myth, his reputation, his legend.
Rattlesnake Torres.
It wasn’t much.
It wasn’t anything.
He would have gladly traded his infamy for anonymity if it would bring his dead comrades back to life. Billy, Shooter, Snowball, and Fatback. Billy got blown up by a booby-trap, Shooter had a tunnel collapse on top of him and bury him alive, Snowball was stabbed in the groin and died screaming, and Fatback just straight up disappeared. He went into a tunnel five kilometers outside of Chu Lai and never came out. They never found his body. No blood, nothing. It was as if the earth itself had swallowed him up. Spooky. Very spooky. There were others, too, friends, and not friends, men he hadn’t even liked on a personal level, fighting and dying in those godforsaken tunnels. Good men, gone too soon. And for what?
Martell was about to open his mouth again when he was interrupted by a commotion near the back of the bus. Inmates were hollering and carrying on, making sounds of disgust and alarm. When Martell went to investigate he found the yellow-eyed prisoner collapsed in his seat, covered in blood.
“What the hell is going on?” the marshal roared.
“He puked all over himself,” said a young black kid doing two years for car theft sitting across the aisle. “He’s barfin’ blood!”
As if to prove the kid right, the pasty prisoner opened his mouth and gargled up a stream of dark red liquid into his lap. It made a wet plopping sound.
“What the hell is wrong with this guy?” Martell barked, addressing the entire bus.
“His liver is giving out,” said a blonde inmate in his early thirties named Eric Mootz who was sitting in the seat two rows behind Torres. “At least that’s what the doctors said back in Smithville. He’s a junkie and his liver is giving up the ghost from too much partying.”
“Takes one to know one, eh, Mootz?” sneered Martell. Mootz was a recidivist, a repeat offender. He liked his drugs too; heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine. Martell had dealt with him before.
A thin, dark-haired armed robber named Butch McKagan, chained next to Mootz, nodded in agreement. “This dude has been screwed up for a long time. He had a colostomy bag for a while. We nicknamed him Shit-bag.”
“Nice,” Martell muttered. Shit-bag started to groan. His bloody vomit dripped from his lap and leaked over the edge of the seat and began to puddle on the floor. Martell stepped back. “Everyone stay back. Don’t touch him. Don’t touch nothin’. This freak could have the AIDS or who knows what.” He marched up to stand at the driver’s elbow. “How long till we hit the C.H.U.?”
Guedel glanced at his wristwatch, then at the odometer. “At least two hours, probably longer. We’ve got another stop to make over on Jackson before we hit the Central Hospital Unit. It depends on how they have the streets downtown blocked off for the Fourth of July parade.”
“Shit,” Martell muttered. “I am not sure if that guy back there can make it.”
“What’s going on?”
“He’s chucking up blood. And I am talking a lot of blood.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Got a bad liver, I guess. Serves the fucker right, sharing needles with the scum of the earth. What does he expect? I don’t know why they saddle us with these guys when they’re already on death’s door.” His forehead creased. “What’s the nearest precinct?”
Officer Guedel reached for a clipboard next to his radio and searched the list of names. “Precinct twelve. Looks like station nineteen is the closest to the off ramp.”
“Get on the radio, see if you can reach dispatch.”
Guedel shook his head. “Tried calling a few minutes ago. Nothing but static. Don’t ask me what’s wrong. I got no clue, partner.”
“When you reach the exit, take it,” said Martell, rubbing his chin. “We’ll stop and use the phone. I might just call an ambulance for this guy. Maybe leave Jones to keep an eye on him. Christ, what a mess.” He patted Guedel on the shoulder. “Just get us there as quick as you can, okay? I don’t wanna have to fill out the paperwork if he dies on us.”
Guedel chuckled, “You’re a real humanitarian, Phil.”
Franklin Mountains, West of El Paso
7 P.M.
Blood was life.
Blood was food.
Blood was necessary and required.
But the sunlight was still too strong. Too bright. Patience. Soon the sun would set. The darkness would come. And then there would be blood. Plenty of blood. Enough to feed them all.
Station Nineteen
8:15 P.M.
The sun was slowly sinking to the west, streaking the sky with ribbons of pink and purple as Lieutenant Love stood in front of the station, posting a sign that said “Precinct Moved to New Location: 1776 Chaparral Blvd” in bold letters. He straightened up when the chain bus pulled in and parked near the sally port entrance.
Love ambled over as Martell disembarked and strode to him with his hand out. They shook briskly and Martell barked, “Philip Martell, U.S. Marshal. I’ve got a very sick prisoner, Lieutenant. I think he needs immediate medical attention. I’d like to put him in one of your holding cells until I can call for a doctor.”
“I guess you didn’t see the sign,” Love commented, pointing to the front of the building. Martell simply scowled at him, so the Lieutenant added, “The sta
tion has been relocated.”
“Whatever,” Martell fumed. “You’re here, aren’t you? I just need to put him in a cell and use the phone. He’s puking blood all over the friggin’ bus.”
“What makes you think I want him puking blood all over this place?”
“Are you kidding me?” Martell brushed past him and returned to the bus. He called through the open door. “Get Shit-bag and bring him down here.”
A moment later, Jones stepped out, half-carrying, half-dragging the limp inmate. The other inmates pressed their noses to the window, watching intently.
The fat U.S. Marshal turned to Love and lifted his hands. “Well?”
“Okay,” Love relented. “This way.”
He stepped off to the sally port and slid the gate open. Jones moved through with the prisoner. They had just cleared the sally port gateway when the inmate doubled over at the waist and vomited a thick torrent of blood onto the pavement, splashing Jones’s shoes. The deputy jumped back, cursing.
Martell grimaced at the sight, then turned and poked his head through the bus door and called to Officer Guedel and Deputy Smith. “Stay here. I won’t be more than a few minutes. I am going to see if we can’t dump Shit-bag off here and let an ambulance come get him.”
He glared at the rest of the inmates as they began to bitch and moan about the delay. “I have never seen a bunch of guys in a bigger hurry to get to prison,” he cracked. “Don’t move up outta your seats.”
“Aw, come on, man,” said Mootz. “Can’t we get out and stretch our legs?”
“You wanna stretch?” Martell snarled. “Bend over and see if you can stuff your head up your own ass.” Then to Smith he growled, “Don’t take any shit from these guys. Keep ‘em in line. I’ll be back.”
He’d been gone five minutes when Officer Guedel noticed the car heading toward them, much too fast, with one of its headlights out. It was an orange 1974 Chevy Nova, and something clung to the roof, something green and vaguely human-shaped. It had two glowing eyes. The car tore down the street, swerving from side to side and as it drew closer, everyone on the bus, with the exception of Torres, moved to one side to peer out the windows.
Siege of Station 19 Page 2
