The package lunged from the rear seat and grabbed for the radio.
Piper shoved her back.
Eva shook her head, a bewildered look on her face. She grasped my shoulder. “Please.”
“He’s putting on the hard sell.” Piper looked at her. “Wonder what you’d bring on the open market?”
Eva didn’t speak.
Costco was my former partner, a man to whom I’d trusted my life on numerous occasions. But now he appeared to be working with a drug-addled, crooked DEA contractor named Keith McCluskey.
And then there was the package herself, Eva, the poster child for damaged goods, not all that different from Piper. My favorite flavor, a balm for the rough spot in the corner of my soul. Volatile, enigmatic, more than a little dangerous.
When did life get so complicated? Oh, yeah. Right after the doctor slapped my ass in the delivery room.
“We could hand her over to Costco,” Piper said. “And just take a hike.”
“WHAT?” Eva leaned forward.
“What about the two dead guys in Dallas?” I said. “The DA’s gonna charge us with murder.”
“We hit the road for wherever.” Piper shrugged. “Can’t be as bad as the last twenty-four hours.”
“You think Costco will really pay us?” I said.
The image of my father sitting in his recliner filled my mind. Riddled with dementia, needing a biopsy I couldn’t afford.
Silence inside the Porsche. Nothing but the hum of the air-conditioning.
I spoke into the radio. “Tell me your location.”
“What’s yours?” he said. “We’ll come to you.”
I started to respond but didn’t. A new thought in my mind. I put down the walkie-talkie and looked at Piper. “Why would McCluskey be airborne right now?”
“That doesn’t make sense.” She raised an eyebrow. “He’s in charge. Why leave the scene?”
“And wouldn’t they need the chopper to transport everything away from the middle of nowhere?”
Piper nodded.
“You had a plan,” Eva said. “Remember? Take me to Marfa and collect the bounty.”
I tried to piece everything together.
“McCluskey’s running thin.” Piper smiled. “He would have sent more than four people to take us down if he could have.”
“And they wouldn’t have been stoners.” I lowered the window, tossed out the pipe.
Piper pointed to the gate. “Let’s make a run for Marfa.”
I thought about it for another moment and nodded. Pressed the gas. All four tires spun in the dust.
We were going about forty when we came to the gate, a thin wooden pole reaching from one end of the fence-line to the other.
“Hold on.” I slowed a little and cranked the wheel.
The SUV busted through the barrier and rocked to one side, righting itself. The highway to the west was empty. The speedometer ratcheted up. Fifty, sixty, seventy; the Porsche ran like a spotted-ass ape.
At an even one hundred miles per hour, I engaged the cruise control and relaxed a little, taking a drink of water and settling into the plush leather seat.
A few seconds later, we topped a rise.
A gray speck shimmered on the horizon, barely visible in the middle of the road. Whatever it was, it didn’t appear to be moving.
I clicked off the cruise control. Piper opened the console and found a pair of binoculars. She pressed them to her eyes and stared out the front window.
“Looks like another Porsche,” she said. “And two people standing next to it.”
I slowed some more.
“This Costco guy,” she said. “Is he a fat-ass?”
I took my foot off the gas and let the Porsche’s speed dwindle to a crawl. Then I stopped and took the binoculars. The built-in range finder indicated we were about seven hundred meters away.
Costco 1.0—the old version, fat and drunk-looking—stood next to the rear of a Porsche identical to ours, parked sideways across the center line of the highway. He appeared unarmed. A guy in his twenties holding a rifle, obviously ex-military, stood next to him.
I surveyed the area around the stopped SUV. The surrounding terrain looked like the surface of the moon but not as hospitable. Flat sandy soil, no trees, no hills, only a sprinkling of cactus. No place for anybody to hide, like a location chosen to show there was no ambush in the wings.
“Could we go around whoever that is?” Eva said.
Something glimmered on the asphalt just beyond the SUV.
“Afraid not.” I adjusted the binoculars. “They spiked the road.”
A chain embedded with nails stretched across the highway, reaching well onto the shoulder on either side.
Costco seemed to realize I was checking out the situation. He stepped away from the Porsche, pointed to the spikes, and then pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket. He held it at arm’s length and waved.
Piper squinted. “Is he surrendering?”
“Doubt it.” I placed the binoculars on the console, slipped the transmission into drive.
Piper rolled down the passenger window and stuck the muzzle of her rifle outside.
Eva groaned in the backseat, head in her hands.
When we were about a hundred yards away, I stopped, opened the door.
“Wait here.”
“Any problems, give me a signal.” Piper cracked her door and used the window gap as a rest for the Reaper. “I’ll smoke the guy with the weapon first.”
I nodded and got out. Then, I approached my old partner, the assault rifle taken from the dead contractor held at the ready. When I was about ten yards away, Costco lowered the white flag, and I stopped.
“Doggone, Jon. What happened to you?” He frowned. “Looks like you been dry-humping old Leatherface from Texas Chain Saw Massacre.”
“And you look fat and drunk,” I said.
The man with the rifle didn’t speak. He stood by the rear of the SUV, his hand on the grip of the weapon but the barrel pointed down.
“Paynelowe’s buying out our company.” Costco sighed. “Sorry I ever got you into this contractor gig.”
“Who’s doing what?”
“McCluskey’s outfit, Paynelowe. They’re buying us, Blue Dagger. You and me.” He pulled a bottle of whiskey from his pocket. “You’re a daily operator so you didn’t see the newsletter.”
“How much muscle you got in the Porsche?” I nodded at the SUV.
“Just us.” He gestured to the second guy with the neck of the bottle. “We don’t want to hurt you.” He took a long drink, smacked his lips. “You’re not gonna take the money, are you?”
I pointed to the chain. “Move the spikes.”
“Don’t make me open door number two.” He took another swig.
“The witness is McCluskey’s girlfriend,” I said. “And he’s operating off the reservation now. We’re taking her to the court.”
“We flew here in an army chopper,” Costco said. “If McCluskey’s gone rogue and has that many resources, I’d hate to see how he rolls when he’s playing by the rules.”
“Don’t make me shoot you.” I wiped sweat off of my face, gripped the weapon tighter.
The guy with the rifle tensed but didn’t raise his gun.
Costco sighed, face drooping. Sixty-odd years of the hard life seemed to press down upon his shoulders all at once. He touched the rear door of the SUV, hesitated, and then turned back to face me.
“I found him,” he said.
“Who?”
“The little boy from the storeroom at the Pussycat Lounge. The one with the burned legs.”
I didn’t speak.
“The mother was a drunk. She lost him, remember?” Costco leaned against the side of the SUV. “Well, I found him.”
I remembered all too clearly, every detail. I thought about possible replies. Nothing came to mind.
“Give me the witness,” he said, “and I’ll give you the kid.”
- CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE -
“Are you nuts?” I tried not to laugh.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” Costco said.
“That kid’s dead, Costco. Long dead.”
The child from the storeroom at the Pussycat Lounge would be in middle school by now at the least. He certainly would have turned up if he was still alive.
“He’s in the backseat.” Costco shook his head. “If you don’t play ball, he gets hurt.”
“Move the spikes off the road.” I pointed to the chain. “Quit with the imaginary threats.”
The guy with the rifle at the rear of the SUV flexed his fingers but didn’t move.
Costco drained the bottle, tossed it to the side of the road. He crossed his arms and hugged himself, pacing back and forth, agitated.
“Jon, I’m only gonna ask one more time,” he said. “Please don’t make me do this.”
“How far down the hole are you?” I said. “You’re bluffing with a pair of twos. Thought you were smarter than that.”
“Mister Mastercard and the second ex-wife have got my balls in a big old vise.” He stopped pacing, paused. “Jesus, Jon, don’t let happen what’s coming next. Give up the witness.”
“Or what?” I said. “You’ll play me for a sucker with a dead kid?”
Neither of us spoke for a few moments.
“You’re right. I was bluffing.” He sighed heavily. “The kid’s not in the back. No idea what happened to him.”
“Tell your goon to stand down.” I pointed to the armed man at the rear of the SUV. “And move the spikes.”
“I am sorry, Jon. So sorry.” Costco took one last look at me and opened the rear door of the Porsche.
A man in his late sixties wearing a dirty khaki uniform and a tarnished badge got out, an automatic rifle in his hand.
My father, Frank Cantrell.
Time seemed to stop, my existence split into two separate pieces—before this moment and after. Rescue and escape scenarios ran through my head in a blur, none of them remotely viable given my father’s mental condition.
Breath caught in my throat, emotions welled in my chest. I dropped the rifle and sat on the asphalt.
The road surface was hot, but I didn’t care. So was hell.
“Frank Cantrell is now a contractor for Paynelowe.” Costco walked over and looked down at me. “At least that’s what we told him.”
“Screw you, Costco.” I swallowed my rage. “To hell and back.”
“He’s a nice old guy,” Costco said. “I sure don’t want to hurt him. But I will.”
I choked down the bile in my throat. My skin was clammy, vision blurry.
“I hoped we weren’t gonna get to this stage.” He grimaced. “Give me the witness, Jon. And this can all go away.”
I didn’t say anything. My father clutched the rifle to his chest, an empty look in his eyes. He stared at me, a hard, unknowing gaze. He aimed the gun in my general direction.
“Do the right thing and everybody has a really nice payday. Then you and your dad can go home.” Costco handed me a walkie-talkie. “Now call your partner.”
I took the radio and glanced at my weapon lying on the pavement.
“Make the call.” Costco stood, kicked the rifle away. “I don’t want to crank this up another notch.”
The guy with the rifle crouched behind the rear of the Porsche. He aimed at our vehicle in the distance. My father continued to stand by the back door of the SUV, weapon in hand.
The walkie-talkie was identical to the one Piper had. Ultra-modern, sleek metal and plastic. A short stubby antenna about three inches long, encased in brushed aluminum.
I held it to my mouth and hesitated.
Costco knelt back down. He placed the muzzle of a pistol on my knee. “Make the damn call.”
I pressed the Talk button. “Piper. We’re gonna do the transfer here. Bring the witness.”
Costco smiled, relaxed a little. The stench of whiskey filled the air between us.
“That was the smart thing to do.” He let the muzzle slip from my knee.
I nodded, smiled sheepishly, going for a hangdog expression. Then I jammed the antenna in his eye.
Costco jerked his head to one side, screaming like anybody would when a half-inch-diameter metal rod had been stuck into their eye socket. He dropped the pistol. His eyeball had plopped out and now dangled on one side of his face, a plump, bloody grape attached to a piece of twine.
My father let the gun fall from his grasp and looked from side to side, disoriented, face pale and terrified, the full weight of his dementia kicking in.
The guy behind the SUV jerked his head up to see what was going on. He fired once at me as I rolled away.
The silenced bullet hit Costco in the gut with a big, wet squoosh, like a pumpkin had been split open.
Piper, having figured it all out from a hundred yards away, fired a three-shot burst and smoked the guy who’d been behind the Porsche.
Silence. The faint smell of cordite and blood drifted across the road as the empty casing from the dead guy’s rifle gleamed in the sun.
I leaned over my former partner.
Costco looked at me with his one remaining eye. Blood bubbled from the massive hole in his stomach. His eye closed, and he died.
I stood, limbs shaky from the adrenaline spurt.
My father had picked up his rifle. He aimed it at me.
“Dad.” I held my arms out, palms up. “It’s me, Jonathan. Your son.”
“H-hands on top of your head.” My father pressed the buttstock against his shoulder.
Our SUV, Piper at the wheel, skidded to a stop a few yards behind me.
“You’re sick,” I said. “You need your medicine. Let me help.”
“I am a federal agent.” He blinked repeatedly, skin flushed. “With the DEA. Obey my command or I will shoot.”
“Dad, this is Jonathan. Remember me?” I spoke slowly. Forced a smile on my face. “Remember when you came to my graduation from the police academy?”
Nobody said anything for a few seconds. My father began to tremble, arms shaking.
“Please.” I took a step closer, hand out. “Put the gun down.”
“I’m a federal agent.” His voice was shrill. “I’M A COP. DAMMIT. Now put your hands on top of your head.”
“It’s okay.” I took another step. “I’m Jonathan, your son.”
“W-w-where am I?” He lowered the gun a little. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Put the rifle down.”
“Do you know my son, Jonathan?” He backed toward the Porsche, gun wavering. “He didn’t think I could still be a good cop.”
I stopped moving. Stared at this strange, sad man who was my father.
He kept the gun aimed at me and got in the driver’s seat of the Porsche.
“Dad, stop.” I inched forward. “Come with us. We’ll get you to a doctor.”
He fired. A silenced round zinged off the pavement in front of me. I jumped back.
The door to the Porsche slammed shut, the ignition cranked. The vehicle accelerated away, headed toward the crater in the highway. Toward the nothingness of West Texas.
Piper walked up beside me.
“That was my father.” I was shaking. Fear, rage. Hopelessness. “C-costco had my dad.”
“I know.” She nodded.
“We have to go after him.” I pointed down the road. “He’s not well.”
“We only have one vehicle.”
I turned and looked at her. Specks of blood that hadn’t washed off had dried to her skin, rust-colored freckles on her face.
“McCluskey’s gonna come back with reinforcements,” she said. “And we have to get the witness to Marfa before he does.”
“But my dad.” I squinted in the direction he’d gone.
Nothing was visible.
My heart seemed to shred inside my chest. A thousand childhood memories flitted through my mind, barbecues and baseball games, learning to ride a bike, fishing tri
ps.
“You’re a cop and you have a duty,” Piper said. “What do you think he’d want you to do?”
A few moments passed.
I nodded.
She touched my arm and then got into the driver’s seat.
I pulled the nail-spiked chain off of the road, got in the passenger side, and pointed west. “Don’t stop for anything.”
- CHAPTER SIXTY -
The arid flatness of the Chihuahuan Desert slowly gave way to a more elevated area, the beginning of the Davis Mountains, the craggy stepping-stones of the Rockies. The heat dissipated slightly, replaced by a cool, dry air that made the sun appear brighter and the tires hum louder.
We passed through Marathon, a tiny railroad stop that didn’t appear to be more than a half dozen blocks long. Nothing but dust-covered adobe and brick homes clustered on either side of an old three-story building called the Gage Hotel.
The next metropolis was Alpine, the biggest city in the region, a college town, maybe six or eight thousand people total. We drove the speed limit, stopped for the signs, yielded where appropriate and didn’t see any law enforcement there either.
A roadside marker said Marfa was twenty-five miles to the west. We were less than a half hour away from the courthouse.
“Call the prosecutor.” I handed Eva my cell phone. “Tell him we’re close but don’t say where.” I had programmed the number earlier that day.
Eva dialed. She asked to speak to the US attorney.
I tried not to think about my father or where he was at the moment, what he had done when he’d encountered the crater in the road. A full tank of gas in a four-wheel drive vehicle, it was possible that he could have made it to another road somehow. The dementia ebbed and flowed like a tide. He could have hit a lucid period and figured out a way to get back to a town and a doctor. At least this is what I told myself.
Piper locked the cruise control at eighty.
A few miles later Eva said, “Yes, this is Eva Ramirez.” She nodded several times, then answered some questions. “Yes… yes… no.” A long pause. “Hold on.” She handed the phone to me.
I pressed the device to my ear but didn’t speak.
“Hello? This the US attorney.” A pause. “To whom am I speaking?”
“This is the taxi driver,” I said. “Where do I drop my passenger?”
The Contractors Page 29
