Adobe Flats (24 page)

forty-five

They didn't talk on
the drive back to Absolution. Grant concentrated on keeping the pickup on the road with only one hand. Sarah concentrated on resting her throat, still sore from the hanging that almost cost the waitress her life. That's what they told themselves, but the silence spoke volumes. Tense and spiky and full of hidden meaning.

The sun rode high in a hard blue sky. The storm was past. The fallout was still evident. For practically the first time since Grant had arrived on the
Sunset Limited,
the Texas wastelands showed color other than desert sand and pale blue sky. Green blossomed everywhere. Not exactly the garden of England greenery, but considering the scorched earth he'd experienced the last few days it was a riot of color. Strange plants had sprung up along the roadside. Flowers bloomed. Even the cacti looked bright and green instead of sad and lonely.

The river level had dropped as quickly as it had risen, the water already soaking into the parched landscape. The pickup negotiated the watercourse with ease. The tires had no problem climbing out of the other side. Grant was surprised to find that the dust trail was back in his wake. Not another car following him this time but simply the shadow that followed everything in the desert wastes. It felt good. Like an old friend coming back to join him.

Absolution lay ahead. Grant wasn't sure if he deserved it. The town was just a row of uneven rooftops breaking the smooth lines of the horizon. Smoke hung over portions of the town—straggly wisps that pinpointed the aftermath of the gun battle and Macready's compound. The entire street would be a crime scene. Sheriff Al Purwin would have his hands full sorting that mess out. He'd need lots of help from outside agencies. No doubt Avenue D was a hive of activity. Cornejo's MPs would be able to provide initial scene preservation, but the investigation would need a leg up from nearby towns. There would be lots of questions and lots of paperwork. Grant wasn't feeling up to that just yet.

He crossed the railroad tracks and paused at the junction with First Street. Left towards town or right towards Sixto's. He glanced at the fuel gauge. Nearly empty. He couldn't return Sabata's pickup with a dry tank. He turned right, away from the inevitable questioning, and headed towards the gas station and the diner.

Grant's dust trail hadn't gone unnoticed. By the time he pulled onto the forecourt, the reception committee was waiting.

The bullet-riddled sign at
the roadside still read

ABSOLUTION, TEXAS Est. 1882
Pop. 203—Elev. 4040
Welcome/Bienvenidos

But the welcome was friendlier than last time. John Cornejo and Doc Cruz stood in Sixto's doorway. Old Pedro wagged his tail in the fenced scrap yard, apparently recovered from his drug-induced rest. An insect zapped itself on the bug catcher, sparking purple light above the door. Dust swirled around the pickup. Grant turned the engine off and got out. He nodded at Cornejo.

“Can you debug the windshield while you're at it?”

The ex-marine crossed the forecourt and stood beside the gas pump.

“I thought you'd show up here.”

Grant indicated the filler cap.

“Running on empty.”

Cornejo looked at Grant's battered face and the makeshift dressing that was oozing blood down his arm.

“You certainly are.”

“Know where I can find a good doctor?”

The tone was light to cover the seriousness of the situation. Typical cop-speak that transferred to all the emergency services and the military. Gallows humor. Bury your feelings deep. Doc Cruz wasn't in the military. He wasn't a cop. He was a country doctor who had just treated injuries no man should ever have to see. Combat was a brutal activity. A cut arm and scarred face were small potatoes.

Cruz walked straight past Grant and helped Sarah out of the pickup.

“Oh, my child.”

He examined her neck but she waved him away. The doctor looked hurt by the rebuff, so Sarah put her arms around him and squeezed. He hugged her in return. Sarah fought back the tears and smiled.

“I'm okay.”

Doc Cruz shook his head. “No, you're not. But you will be.”

He gave her another hug, then turned towards Grant. “You saved the girl.”

Grant couldn't hide the gravity of his thoughts. They were written all over his face. Hard eyes fought to overcome the emotion.

“This time.”

Doc Cruz rested a hand on Grant's injured arm. “Both times. Consider yourself absolved.”

Grant let out a sigh. “There is no absolution. Only acceptance. Then you move on.”

“Then move on in peace.”

Cornejo joined them but kept quiet. He understood that this was a private moment, but there were things that needed resolving. Grant shrugged it off and glanced at the ex-marine. Cornejo raised his eyebrows.

“Macready?”

Grant's face hardened. He looked across the pickup at Sarah, and she stared back. Neither hard nor soft; nonjudgmental. Almost. She gave the gentlest of nods. Grant jerked his head towards the cargo bed. Cornejo walked to the back of the pickup and dropped the flap. A crumpled tarpaulin was humped up in one corner. Cornejo gripped the edge and pulled it to one side.

Tripp Macready blinked into the sunlight. His neck was unbroken, but his nose was not. One eye was swollen shut. Summary justice in the field. Grant flicked open his badge wallet. Cornejo barely glanced at the Boston PD shield.

“Did you read him his rights?”

Grant smiled.

“I haven't quite got my head around the Miranda warning, so I gave him the Yorkshire version. I think he understands his rights.”

Doc Cruz stretched Macready out on the load bed and began to do what he did best. Look after people. It was what Pilar Cruz had done too. Now that the stethoscope had been returned, Grant felt he could move on. Cornejo brought him down to earth.

“When you've finished galloping around the country, you going to do some real police work back in Boston?”

Sarah turned away and took a deep breath. Grant saw the movement and knew what it meant. Rolling stones gather no moss. He cradled his arm and looked at Cornejo.

“I'm not fit to travel. Need to rest up a bit first.”

Cornejo nodded and turned away. Grant went to Sarah and grimaced in pain. Looking for the sympathy vote. He lowered his voice.

“I could do with a coffee, though.”

Sarah didn't smile. “Diner's closed.”

Grant held her gaze with his. “But I know the owner.”

Resistance crumbled. The faintest of smiles feathered her lips. “Latte?”

Grant nodded. “Two sugars. No lid.”

the end

Acknowledgments

Once again I find myself thanking the people who helped make this book possible. They didn't write the words, but they helped guide them towards publication. My agent, Donna Bagdasarian, as always. Nothing more needs to be said. Terri Bischoff and Midnight Ink, thanks for believing in me. And my editor, Rebecca Zins, for a bang-up polish job. My final thanks go to the readers. Without you there would be no books. I count myself among that number. Without reading there would be no writing.

The following excerpt is from

Snake Pass

The forthcoming book from Colin Campbell.
Available April 2015 from Midnight Ink.

21:50 hours

Jim Grant was pissed
off long before he got to Snake Pass on Thursday night. Before the snow began to fall and the entire world decided to shoot it out at the Woodlands Truck Stop and Diner. He was already pissed off three hours earlier when he parked his patrol car across the mouth of Edgebank Close and turned the engine off. Ravenscliffe Avenue stretched out behind him like a nighttime runway with half the lights missing. Ravenscliffe woods bulked up against the night sky beyond the houses in the cul-de-sac. He was four hours into his ten-hour shift, a half-night tour of duty that started at six in the evening.

Being pissed off meant he wasn't going to make it until four.

PC Grant adjusted the stab vest under his uniform jacket and drummed the fingers of his right hand on the steering wheel. He stared at the house at the end of the short, stubby street. He looked calm and relaxed and completely un-pissed off on the outside. That was one of his strengths. It was why Sergeant Ballhaus had made him a tutor constable and why the fresh-faced young constable in the passenger seat didn't know to keep quiet.

“But isn't that unethical?”

“What?”

Constable Hope was carrying on the conversation they'd been having for most of the shift. Being eighteen years old and in the first six months of his service meant he didn't know when the subject was closed.

“Ignoring a crime just because you're off-duty?”

“I'm not saying you should ignore it. Just don't go charging in waving your warrant card with no radio and no backup.”

“But your warrant card gives you authority as a police officer throughout England and Wales.”

“Doesn't give you shit-all in a pub fight with no baton and stab vest.”

“But—”

Grant held up a hand for Hope to be quiet.

“Case in point. Young copper I knew goes for Chinese down at Mean Wood junction. Pubs are shutting. Lot of drunks ordering takeaway. Trouble brews. A fight ensues. Young copper whips out his warrant card and orders them all to cease and desist. What do you think happened?”

Hope tried to keep the hero worship off his face. Listening to a legend of the West Yorkshire Police recounting tales of derring-do was like manna from heaven for the young probationer constable. He answered with a question.

“They didn't cease and desist?”

“They did not. He got the shit kicked out of him and spent three days in the hospital. The riot he provoked wrecked the Chinese and two shops on either side of it and put everybody on double shifts for a week. Point is, drunks fighting each other are par for the course. Serves 'em right if they've got sore heads and a few bruises the following morning. It's no big deal.”

“What about theft?”

“What about it?”

“Should you ignore a theft?”

Grant let out a sigh. This kid never gave up. It was one of the things Grant liked about him. He could be exasperating at times, though.

“Judgment call. Another example. Inspector Speedhoff was down at the supermarket with his kids, aged two and four. Spots some dickhead nicking citric acid for his drug habit. Wades in to make an off-duty arrest. What do you think happened?”

Hope smiled.

“He got the shit kicked out of him?”

“In front of his kids. They had nightmares for weeks. Citric acid isn't exactly the great train robbery. Let it slide. Or if you feel strongly, tell the store detective. But don't go wading in without communication or backup. Off-duty is off-duty.”

The engine purred. Exhaust fumes plumed into the cold Yorkshire air. The cul-de-sac was quiet. The house at the end of the street was mostly in darkness, apart from a light in the upstairs landing. Hope displayed why he was a prospect for the future and had been paired with Grant.

“Don't you think we should communicate for backup before we go in?”

“We're not off-duty.”

Grant smiled at his protégé.

“And it's only an address check. We won't need backup.”

Grant turned the engine off and looked at the house through the windscreen. Hot metal ticked and popped under the bonnet as the engine cooled. The veteran had been here many times before, but he examined the front of the house again anyway. Standard procedure before going into action, address check or not.

The house was a run-down three-bedroom semi, the left-hand half of the pair across the end of the cul-de-sac. The front aspect had a wide living room window and a narrow front door. Above them were the main bedroom window and the smaller spare room. Round the side of the house there was only a kitchen window and the upstairs landing window. The one with the light on. Kitchen door was in the rear aspect, hidden from view, but Grant knew what it looked like. Upstairs was the rear bedroom and the bathroom at the top of the stairs.

Lee Adkins could be hiding in any one of those rooms.

Grant stopped drumming his fingers and got out of the car. Hope got out of his side too. Both closed their doors quietly, making barely a click. The boy had smarts. Steam bloomed around his head in the cold night air as he waited for Grant's instructions. Standard deployment for a house search was one covering the back in case the suspect tried to escape. An address check was much more low-key. It didn't matter if someone jumped out of the back window. Except this wasn't really an address check.

“Go cover the back. You remember what I said?”

Hope nodded.

“Stand at least six feet away from the house at the corner so I can see two aspects at the same time—the back and the side. But I thought this was just an address check?”

Grant pulled his black leather gloves on.

“Always best to be on the safe side.”

“Everyone knows Lee Adkins lives here.”

“Intelligence is only as good as the last time it was checked. You have to constantly update it. I'm updating it tonight. Now, get round the back.”

Hope's shoulders sagged.

Grant was sorry he'd sounded so harsh. It was nothing personal. He just didn't want the young lad with him when he went in. Some things you don't need witnesses for. Some things you don't want to burden your probationer with. He watched Police Constable Jamie Hope walk down the side of the house and disappear into the gloom, then took the bloodstained bus pass out of his pocket. The shaved head and surly eyes of Lee Adkins stared out from the plastic wallet. The blood smeared across the plastic wasn't his.

The slap across the
face knocked Sharon Davis off her feet in the foyer of the Rugby Club on Harrogate Road. The second slap wasn't a slap at all, it was a punch, and it was probably the blow that broke her nose and closed one eye. She kicked out in vain. Lee Adkins stepped in and thumped her three more times while she was on the floor. She stopped crying out after the second punch.

The club reception miraculously emptied. The few customers waiting to pass through into the lounge bar vanished. The old-age pensioner manning the signing-in book behind the counter went into the office. Nobody witnessed the assault. That's what the old man told Jim Grant when he responded to the report of a disturbance twenty minutes later.

Grant crouched beside the shivering mass of blood and flesh that had once been the prettiest teenager on the estate. Nineteen years old going on ninety. Grant comforted her as best he could until the ambulance arrived. She feigned memory loss but Grant knew she wouldn't point the finger at the biggest thug on Ravenscliffe. The burgling, drug-dealing scumbucket Lee Adkins. Everyone was afraid of him. Everybody knew he was Sharon Davis's boyfriend.

After she'd been taken away, Grant let Hope take the report from the old man. A barebones affair that would be needed to write off the IBIS log back at the control room. There was enough evidence of an assault to record a crime, but with nobody willing to come forward as a witness and a complainant who was refusing to name her assailant, the statistics boys on the third floor would want to downgrade this from a Section 47 assault to a noisy disturbance. Meet the target figures for reducing violent crime.

Grant made enquiries in the office. The CCTV cameras that covered the club inside and out weren't recording tonight. There'd been plenty of recordings the night the club got burgled three weeks ago. That didn't surprise Grant. He'd been trying to nail Adkins for eighteen months, but you couldn't get a conviction without evidence or witnesses. Holding the estate in a grip of fear was the best protection the thieving bastard could have got. Except tonight he'd made a mistake.

The plastic wallet had been lying under Sharon Davis's crumpled body. Grant had picked it up when she was being carried to the ambulance. He flicked it open now while Hope finished taking the report. The cardboard bus pass was sealed inside the plastic. The shaved head and surly eyes stared up at him from the photograph. Lee Adkins' face was covered in blood, the fresh redness smeared across his image. Grant slipped the wallet into his pocket and smiled. He could sense a tactical address check coming on.

Grant closed the plastic
wallet and put it back in his pocket. Hope was now safely out of the way. The house was still in darkness apart from the light from the landing window. Grant flexed the fingers inside his leather gloves and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, the cloud of vapor hiding his face for a moment, then strode down the garden path towards the front door.

He threw one last glance to make sure that Hope hadn't snuck down the side of the house. Some things you don't need witnesses for. It was an adage that Lee Adkins lived by. Grant was simply using the villain's strength against him. He raised his heavily booted foot and kicked the front door open.