Adobe Flats (15 page)

twenty-eight

The world was full
of pain and fire. Again. Everything ached. Some parts felt like hot needles were being shoved into his joints. Fever cranked up the heat until he thought he was being boiled alive. The furnace bubbled and sparked in Grant's mind. His eyes remained glued shut no matter how hard he tried to open them. The fact that he couldn't see made his head spin even more. He was on his back, that much he could tell, but it felt like he was lying on a spinning top that was tilting and swerving so much his stomach felt seasick.

Fight it.

Stay awake.

Do not sleep under any circumstances.

Sleep equals death.

Grant forced his mind to evaluate the situation. Retrace his steps to the point where the movie went blank. He remembered the long drive out on Iron Mountain Road. Doc Cruz warning him to delay his insurgency until after dark. The climb down to the factory and the industrial accident.

For a moment Grant wasn't sure if it was him or the man in overalls rubbing his hands who had been hit by the forklift truck. Was that why his body was racked with pain—because somebody had run him over when they'd caught him in the factory? His hand twitched and tried to reach in his pocket. What was he trying to get? A gun? No. Grant hated guns. That was a deep-rooted memory that no amount of pain could erase. A gold coin. That was it.

The movie restarted. The accident. The opportunity. Grant checking the wooden crate and the glittering reflection in the light from the furnace. Disabling the worker coming out of the restroom and his mad scramble along the riverbed. Even at that point the world was beginning to spin. The gunshots and the fireball were the last things he remembered. That and the vehicle skidding to a stop as its doors flew open and rough hands dragged him inside.

Grant's eyes blinked open.

It wasn't Doc Cruz's car.

His eyelids felt heavy. They had been gummed shut so long it was a force of will to unstick them. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. He didn't know where he was. All he knew was that he couldn't see any more with his eyes open than he'd been able to see with them shut. At least the spinning stopped, or most of it.

The room was dark; no light whatsoever. In his experience, lying in a darkened room either meant the curtains were drawn or it was night. Even with blackout curtains there was no way to keep all the daylight out, so he reckoned it must be after dark. He checked the movie in his head. It had been just before sunset when he'd climbed down the hillside. The last shafts of sunlight had illuminated the security guard and the drivers. He didn't feel like he'd been unconscious for days, although he wasn't sure how you could tell, so that would make it the night of the same day.

That still didn't explain where he was or who had brought him here. His eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he realized it wasn't pitch black after all. There was a sliver of light coming under the door to his right. He focused on that until the light spread into the room. It picked out the doorframe and a wooden chair and something that could have been a desk or a table. Everything else was too far from the light source to be of much help.

The strip of light blinked. No, it didn't blink—a shadow moved across the gap beneath the door, from one side to the other, then disappeared. There was a murmuring of voices in the other room. The shadow crossed the light in the opposite direction, then came back. It was joined by another. The door handle rattled.

Grant held his breath. The world stopped spinning. Light glinted off the handle as it turned and the latch clicked free. The sliver of light across the bottom was joined by a longer slit up the side as the door opened a crack. The voices stopped. The door opened all the way, and light flooded the room.

Then the Mexican wife beater stepped through the door.

“Hey, amigo. You remember
me?”

Grant tried to sit up, but his ribs were a band of fire across his chest. He couldn't summon the energy to push up on his elbows. The Mexican was a giant silhouette in the doorway. Behind him, two more shadows stood in the background. His friends from the Kosmic Kowgirl Kafe. The wife beater leaned against the doorframe and crossed one leg, aiming for cool and succeeding. He was in control of the situation.

“You a hard man to find.”

Grant tried to reply, but his voice was harsh and silent. His vision drifted in and out of focus. The queasy feeling in his stomach threatened to crawl up his throat. He croaked it back down. His mouth opened and shut like a beached goldfish. The wife beater put his own interpretation on that.

“Agua?” He lifted one hand to his mouth and jiggled it as if holding a glass of water. “Thirsty?”

The interpretation was correct. Grant's throat was dry and painful. He gave a cautious nod. The Mexican seemed unimpressed.

“You should have thought of that before messing in another man's business.”

The wife beater didn't move from the door. He clicked his fingers, and one of the other shadows came into the room and disappeared behind Grant. There was a clink of glass. A faucet was turned on. Moments later, a glass of cold water was held to Grant's lips. He drank slowly. Too much too fast wasn't good. The water cooled the fire in his throat and moistened his lips.

“Where am I?”

“Somewhere you don't got no right to be.”

Grant remembered the wife beater's use of double negatives at Terlingua. He didn't think this was the time to educate him.

“We're not in Mexico, are we?”

The big man pushed away from the doorframe and flexed his shoulders.

“The place that's full of small greasy ratfuck Mexicans? That's what you called us, isn't it?”

The glass was taken away. Grant finally managed to push himself up onto his elbows.

“I was trying to distract you.”

“That so? Well, now it's you who got distracted. All the way here.”

The wife beater stepped towards Grant. “And guess what? I'm one angry, distracted muthafucka.”

Grant gauged angles and distances. Even though he was leaning up on his elbows, his legs were pointing roughly towards the big man. Three feet off the ground, probably on a table or a bed. His police training back in Yorkshire had included what to do if you were on the ground in a public order situation. Always keep your feet towards the danger. Kicking was the first line of defense. He prepared to swivel on his back and use the leverage to kick out. His personal mantra was to delay offensive action as long as possible. Best way to do that was to keep talking and try to diffuse the situation.

“You know who you sound like?”

The wife beater tilted his head to one side, a default pose to aid his concentration.

Grant took that as permission to carry on.

“Samuel L. Jackson. If he was playing a Mexican.”

He smiled to show he wasn't being offensive and continued. “I didn't know Mexicans said mother fucker.”

The Mexican got into the swing of things. “After Bruce Willis in
Die Hard,
everybody says muthafucka.”

“That right? I thought it'd be more like Sam J in
Pulp Fiction
.”

“That too. Point is, muthafucka crosses all borders.”

“Glad we got that cleared up. You still feeling angry?”

The Mexican looked surprised. “No, I'm not.”

Grant kept his tone light. His usual tactic. “Point I'm making is, I wasn't racially stereotyping.”

“No. You was just stereotyping me.”

“As a wife beater. Yes. That wasn't hard. Since your wife was being seen by the doctor for burns and bruises at the time.”

The Mexican knotted his eyebrows in a frown. “The same doctor that treated you for cuts and bruises and three broken ribs. Does that mean you were the victim of spousal abuse?”

Grant felt a tickle of gooseflesh run down his spine. He wasn't sure if it was from wondering how the Mexican knew about being seen by Doc Cruz or the surprising use of good English. He prepared for things to get ugly and flexed his sore knees, ready to defend once the Mexican took the bait. An angry lunge was preferable to a considered attack.

“You saying you didn't grab her? Push her against the stove? Is that it?”

The Mexican took a deep breath while he chose his next words.

“Imagine this. A child leans against a hot radiator. Burns himself. A man grabs his arms to pull him away. How you gonna tell if the bruises and the burns are from him being pushed against the fire or pulled off it?”

“Is that what you're saying? You pulled her away from the stove?”

“I'm saying you should be careful who you listen to.”

“Your wife?”

“The doctor.”

Again that tickle of gooseflesh.

“So why'd you try to run me off the road?”

“This is Texas. You don't choke a guy out in front of his wife and son.”

Grant could feel the temperature rising. Same tactic as before. Get the man angry, then defend against the thoughtless lunge.

“Technically they were outside.”

The Mexican's voice grew louder. “They were there. Near enough.”

Grant turned his legs slightly towards the threat. “Okay, I get that. In Texas. But are you a Texan or a Mexican?”

The big man moved towards the light switch. “I'm a Mexican in Texas. What you got to understand is Mexicans in Texas stick together.”

He flicked the switch and the overhead fluorescent flickered into life. The room was lit by harsh yellow light. The same room that Grant had been treated in before. Remember the Alamo. Not the real Alamo but Fort Pena Colorado Park. Staff quarters, not the derelict cabins. The other two shadows stepped aside, and another man came into the room. Grant's eyes blurred as he tried to fight off the fever. The man shrugged his shoulders.

“I told you the climb was not good for your condition.”

twenty-nine

Grant felt deflated and
betrayed by the father of the woman he'd come to Texas to honor. A shiver that had nothing to do with portent shook his body. The fever was taking hold again. His stomach cramped but there was nothing to bring up. His elbows slipped, and he lay back down. He rested his eyes and heard the rustle of clothes as someone approached the bed. Cool hands checked the temperature of his forehead.

“Relax. Pilar chose you for a reason. I respect her choice.”

Grant's eyes flickered open. Eduardo Cruz was leaning over him, making soothing noises. Grant tried to glare at him, but his vision was swimming in and out of focus.

“Then why…”

His voice faded.

Cruz raised Grant's head and tipped the glass of water to his lips. Cool liquid eased his throat and moistened his lips, but his voice didn't return. The room began to spin again.

The doctor spoke quietly.

“Jim Grant. You have nothing to fear here.”

The spinning grew faster.

“You are among friends.”

Grant's mind couldn't grasp that. The staff quarters of Fort Pena Colorado Park became a dark smudge as his vision dimmed. The doctor deployed his best bedside manner. Soothing voice and gentle words.

“Let me explain.”

So he did.

What happened was this.
Cruz was getting in the car at the bottom of the hill. Iron Mountain Road stretched out in the distance, all the way back to Absolution. The factory had no view of it, but Cruz could see the cloud of dust racing towards him in the evening sun. He checked his watch. Grant had been gone twenty minutes. It was time to get in position for the pickup.

The cloud grew closer. Its shadow was long and low across the desert floor. Cruz couldn't make out the car hidden in the dust. Sun glinted off the windshield. That was all he could see. It couldn't be Macready's men. The trucks had headed north towards Fort Stockton. Grant had said so, and Cruz had no reason to think he was mistaken. So who would be speeding along the desert road at this time of day?

Cruz stood in the open door of his car. He couldn't wait. Grant would be needing him soon, around the mountain where the gully came out. He threw one more glance at the approaching cloud and realized it wasn't one vehicle but two. He thought he recognized one of them, but it was only a glimpse.

Why would Hunter Athey be driving the hearse towards the factory?

Then he saw the second vehicle. A battered pickup with a repaired radiator. Doc Cruz got in the car and slammed the door. He started the engine and reversed out of the cutting. Too late. The cloud engulfed him as both vehicles turned off the road into the cutting and skidded to a halt, blocking him in. Tony Sabata got out of the pickup, his wife beater vest covered by a flapping shirt. Hunter Athey got out of the hearse, waving for Cruz not to panic.

Cruz wasn't convinced. “What you mean, don't panic?”

Sabata spoke for Athey. “He means I hate Tripp Macready more than I want Jim Grant.”

Athey approached his friend. “They came looking for Mr. Jim.”

Cruz raised his eyebrows. “Why come to you?”

Sabata stepped forward. “Because he's the only one around here who drives a hearse.”

The cloud dissipated and the hearse came into view. The bullet holes and broken window were rimmed with dust. Even the pickup's new radiator looked like it had been on the road for years. That's the thing about driving in desert country: everything looks old. Cruz felt old as he sagged against the side of his car.

“And why have you come here?”

Sabata glowered at the doctor. “Because I want to know what Macready is bringing across the border.”

He nodded towards the mountain. “Is he inside now?”

Cruz let out a sigh. “He should be coming out the front anytime now.”

“Out front?”

“Along the gully.”

“Then he'll be able to answer a few questions. Won't he?”

A gentle breeze whistled across the plains, blowing the rest of the dust cloud away. It wasn't as hot now, and the engines ticked as they cooled. The sun was low in the west. The three men stood in silence for a moment, then Sabata jerked a thumb towards the factory.

“Let's give him a—”

The factory siren cut off his words. It echoed around the cutting. Everybody dived into their vehicles and started the engines. The pickup turned around quickest. It was speeding back to join the road before Cruz and Athey got their handbrakes off. It disappeared around the corner just as an enormous blast thumped the air. The second explosion was even bigger.

Dawn filtered through the
curtains, but the fog in Grant's mind didn't clear. The world had stopped spinning, but pain still invaded his body. He felt weak and shivery. He wasn't sure how much of what he'd taken in was Cruz's story and how much was simply fever dreams. It sounded plausible enough. His brain wasn't sharp enough to tell right now.

He ungummed his eyes long enough to see it was daytime, but he couldn't keep them open. The next time he opened them, the light was stronger and higher. Midday? It was hard to tell. The only thing he was certain of was that the Mexicans weren't in the room. Grant was alone. Then everything went dark. In the darkness, visions of his past played like home movies. A specific past that included gunfire and machetes and bloodshed. He had no control over which images he saw. He couldn't help the injured or the dying.

By the time he opened his eyes again, Grant had lost an entire day. The sun was low in the sky, but his world felt more stable. A hand checked his forehead. The touch startled him. Soothing noises and a gentle hand on his shoulder put him at ease. The fever had reduced to mild sweats. The shivering had stopped. He still felt weak, but the pain that held his body prisoner was reduced to a dull ache. The ache was all-pervading but at least it was bearable.

Spicy cooking smells drifted in from the other room. Grant remembered them from a Mexican restaurant he'd once visited. The aromas made his mouth water but triggered his defenses. Mexican food meant Mexicans. Grant could only remember the gist of Doc Cruz's explanation, but he did know that the wife beater disliked Grant only slightly less than he hated Tripp Macready. That wasn't a glowing endorsement. It would behoove him to be careful.

A figure stepped into his field of vision carrying a glass of water. Grant looked up at the doctor and prepared for more bad news. Doc Cruz placated him with gentle hands and soothing words.

“Sshhh. Take it easy. Drink.”

Grant sat up on the makeshift cot that had been his bed for the last twenty-four hours. He swung his feet off the mattress and felt solid ground that didn't sway underfoot for the first time since he'd climbed Iron Mountain's hillside. He took the proffered glass and nodded his thanks. This time he gulped down the water. His mouth was as dry as the desert that had almost claimed his life. His throat felt as rough as the riverbed that had tripped him up.

Cruz refilled the glass. Grant drank it all again. He passed it back to the doctor, then surveyed the room. It was the back room of the Fort Pena Colorado Park staff quarters. No doubt the place where Hunter Athey rested his head when taking a break from Macready town. The furnishings were faded but clean. The main office was through the door, where the food smells were coming from. Grant took a deep breath, then looked at the doctor.

“How long?”

Doc Cruz glanced at his watch out of habit. “A day. We brought you here last night.”

Grant checked his wrist, then remembered his watch had come off during his tumble from the high road. That dangerous escape felt like a lifetime ago. The same as some other memories that he preferred to keep hidden.

“You were right.”

Doc Cruz put the glass on the bedside cabinet. “About what?”

“I should have waited until dark.”

“Enemy action is always better after dark. Pilar told me that once.”

The mention of her name reminded Grant why he was here in the first place—the promise he had made and the price she had paid. It reminded him that she too had been a soldier, even if her chosen field had been medical, like her father. Grant looked at his feet to avoid Doc Cruz's eyes. He remembered boarding the Chinook in the predawn darkness.

“Doesn't always work out that way.”

Doc Cruz reversed the wooden chair from the desk and sat opposite Grant with his arms folded across the top. He stared at Grant until Grant was forced to look up from the floor. Sadness creased the doctor's face.

“You were talking in your sleep.”

Grant braced himself but didn't speak.

“You shouted my daughter's name.”

Grant blinked instead of nodding. He still didn't speak.

“When you gave me her stethoscope, you told me she was killed in action. Not by mechanical failure.”

Doc Cruz paused, plucking up courage to ask what he shouldn't really ask. “How did she die?”

Grant let out a sigh. “Does it matter?”

Grant had never held with the grieving-relatives-needing-closure theory. He didn't understand the urge to leave flowers at the scene of an accident or to go visit where their son or daughter had been killed. As far as he was concerned, you simply grieved and then moved on. The fact that he didn't agree with it didn't make it any less important for some people, Doc Cruz included.

“It matters to me.”

He removed his arms from the top of the chair and sat up straight.

“How did Pilar die?”

Grant thought long and hard about how much to tell the grieving father. How much Grant needed to unburden himself. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, took a deep breath, then decided to tell it all. He looked Doc Cruz in the eye.

“I killed her.”