An American Outlaw (22 page)

I tried to visualize the yellow E-series. Picture it, coming up the road. They had at least one shotgun with 'em. Both times, I'd seen it. First with Michael. Then with Tennille. Mossberg 500. Lethal at close quarters. Maybe they had other weapons, concealed.

I pushed open the door of the farmhouse. Walked inside.

A front hall. An old staircase. Marked up walls. It's like the bones, somebody's life. It ain't them, but what's left. Everything they was. And tried for.

A mirror, blown, misted. Outlines where pictures used to hang.

I stepped on through to a parlor room.

Out the window, the line of trees stretched all the way down the drive, to the road, across the fields. The old drapes still hanging. Shredded, stained by rain. But the room was stripped. Stripped to dust and rubble. A trash fire blackening the grate.

Through a broken door, I walked in the kitchen. Only things left were screwed onto the walls. Cupboards, all open, doors gone on some of 'em. Space where a stove used to be.

Through the back window I could see Tennille. Sitting in the Dakota. Smoking on a cigarette. Tight-looking, with not long left.

I crossed the peeled-up flooring. Staring at the feathers of a dead bird in the middle of the room. I thought of Orla Childress.

First time I seen her, she was eight years old. A school yard in Lafayette. Hair the color of chestnuts. Green eyes, too big for her face. Like Tennille's girl, Maria. Or like her own daughter; Bonnie.

Orla moved from Texas at seven. Her old man left Jackson Fork, he never wanted the family farm. He got a job in Lafayette; Southwestern, the engineering department. From then on she was part of all our lives.

But Michael and me were just a sideshow. Nate was the one. Right from the start. Head of curls on him like a gun dog shaking in a bar ditch. The same as his son, now, little Josh.

Last time I'd seen them all was three weeks back. Together. At the side of an open grave.

Christoval.

A loop off the highway, a town less than five hundred strong. Whicher sits in his truck, staring down the main drag. A handful of one room stores and empty grass lots. Houses scattered among the Mexican blue oak.

Twenty miles south of San Angelo. The message from Tom Green County;
Possible sighting. Christoval
. 

Vehicle last seen exiting off a side road. Officer unable to re-establish visual contact.

Maybe. Maybe them. Maybe nothing.

The Dakota was a long shot—Joe Tree's truck. But his place, so close to the Labrea ranch—somebody broke in the house there; James'd been in the area. They found his F150 in a horse barn. 

If Michael Tyler was with him, he was injured, no doubt on that. Blood all over the cab of the pick-up outside Alpine. 

Tyler hurt that bad—would they even be looking at something?

Christoval. Nothing about the place was right.

Twenty miles to the north, the city of San Angelo. Any number of places to rob. He could call Lt. Rodgers. Have him put in a request to USMC. Get everything the Corps had, on all three of 'em. Maybe San Angelo was in there, somewhere. The way Alpine had been.

He lifts the radio receiver. Puts in a call to the local dispatcher.

“Tom Green County sheriff's department. Go ahead.”

“Deputy Marshal John Whicher here. I'm off of Highway 277, in Christoval. Following up a sighting on a Dodge Dakota?”

A moment's silence while the officer locates the log. “Yes, sir.”

“Suspects in an armed robbery...”

“Logged this morning, got it, sir.”

“I'm out here checking on possible targets. Anything they might be interested hitting. I called in a couple of places; the garage, the store, the post office. But I'm not seeing it. Too small, way small.”

“I couldn't say, sir.”

“I advised the locals to remain vigilant. Especially the post master. I'm thinking, maybe San Angelo.”

“We can put out a general alert to San Angelo police department?”

“Do that,” says Whicher. “There's something else you boys could do...”

“Go ahead, Marshal.”

“Have somebody pull out a phone book, search on-line
—
look for anything else this vicinity. Businesses registered close by.”

“Alright, sir.”

“It can't hurt. I'm going to take a ride around.”

“I'll get right back. Stay on this channel...”

Jackson Fork.

I slipped the 250 SIG out from inside my jacket. Dropped the box magazine from the pistol. Staring at the ceiling in the farmhouse; cracked, a brown stain of water in its center. 

My boots crunched across broken plaster on the floor. The sound of it sharp, the air dry and still, too long unchanged.

Everything was different. Harder. Maybe the hardness was in me.

I ran a thumb over the first round in the magazine. Fed it back in again, felt the weight on the trigger—standard reach, double-action only. I stepped over a broken floorboard, walked back to the landing. Down the stairs, to the hallway, to the front door.

Along the tree-lined drive the wind was stirring. I tried to imagine what it used to be like. All of us leaving, or we already left.

I came down the porch boards, jumped off, turned the corner by a border of dead shrubs. Tennille waiting in the cab of the Dakota. 

She swung the door open, stepped out. “We ought to get moving...”

“Let me have the shotgun.”

She flicked her cigarette butt on the floor. Twisted it out under her heel. “What for?”

“Last checks,” I says. “Habit I ain't broke.”

She reached in the cab of the Dakota. Slid the 870 Remington out off the seat.

I took it from her, took out the cartridges. Two and three quarter inch, double-zero buckshell. Nine to ten pellets, per cartridge. Like a bunch of .38 special slugs coming right at you. In the barrel end, the choke's a point-zero-three. Maybe zero-three-five. Full-ass, anyhow. 

I loaded the cartridges back in. Chambered one up.

“Are we moving?” she says.

“We're moving.”

We got in the Dakota. I fired her up.

We ran out slow, down the grit track.

Stones snapping under the tires.

Highway 277, South of San Angelo
.

There's a burst of static on the radio receiver hanging from the roof of the Silverado.

“Whicher. Yeah.”

“Tom Green County sheriff's department, Marshal.”

The Chevy barrels down a gun straight highway, headed north. “Go ahead.”

“Can you confirm your locale?”

Whicher looks out the window, at the low trees, spinning by. Blur of grass at the side of the road. 

“Eight to ten north of Christoval. On 277. Coming by a ranch. Something. There's a turn up ahead a ways. Road left.”

“To the airport? To Mathis Field?”

“Son, I don't know.”

“It sounds like you're near Jackson Fork.”

“The hell's that?”

“We've just been taking a look. It's one of three businesses registered that area.”

Another static burst. The signal drops, then comes back in.

“Sir?”

“I hear you.”

“You could take a look at this place, you want to.”

“What is this thing?”

“Jackson Fork. Auction sale business.”

“What kind?”

“Livestock.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir. You're around three to four miles off of there. We called, they had a sale day today. Big sale, moved a lot of stock.”

“They tell you that?”

The yellow-paint on the road doubles into a central reserve. Whicher sees the turn off for the road approaching ahead. “I'm at the turn, son. Left. Do I take it?”

“There should be a right turn, also. Small road—a farm road, headed right?”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Make the right, sir.”

Whicher slows. Steers the Silverado off the highway. Up a road heading out into fields.“Y'all got a number for this place?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hold, up—I'm on pull over and write it down.”

“Copy that, Marshal.”

Whicher pulls over by a wild hedge of feverbush. He hoists his hip, pulls out a note pad from his pants pocket. Grabs a pen off the seat. “Go ahead.”

“485—8291.”

“Got it. Right.”

“It's straight ahead, sir. Down that farm road you're on.”

“I'll get back to you.” Whicher clicks it off. Reaches for his cell.

He punches in the numbers, pulls the Silverado back onto the road. No sense not taking a look. 

He steers with one hand—the cell clamped against his ear. It picks up.

“Jackson Fork—livestock auctioneers.”

“Afternoon. This is Deputy Marshal John Whicher...”

A silence. “I just had the sheriff's department on here.”

“Yes, sir, that was my doing.”

There's a pause at the end of the line. “They all call up asking about some ol' truck. Ol' Dodge Dakota.”

“Yes, sir. Series one, blue pick-up. We're interested finding it.” Whicher's eyes drift across a field of dull white cotton. “I don't imagine y'all have seen it?”

“I ain't, but I got a stock-hand done seen it, right enough...”

Whicher's eyes snap back, straight ahead, on the road. “Say what?”

“We just got through talkin' on it.”

“Sir, somebody there's
seen it
?”

“Yeah.”

“Today?”

“No. Yesterday. I weren't here. I got off of the phone just now, the sheriff's department. I tell my stock-hand, and he starts in how he's seen the durn thing...”

A truck's coming toward Whicher on the farm road. He has to put two wheels on the grass and swerve to give him room. 

“Sir? What'd he say?”

“Some feller was looking over one of the vans we got. Raff—that's the hand, Rafferty—he don't like the look on him. Seeing him do it. Like he's up to checkin' on it some. He seen him go on back to his truck, after. Blue Dodge Dakota. Him 'n some gal.”

“A girl?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What'd she look like?”

“The heck should I know...”

“What's this van? What is it?”

“It's just a' old Ford we up to runnin' the money out to the bank in.”

Whicher feels his pulse against his collar. 

“I take a look at it? This van? I'm on my way up to y'all.”

“Ain't here. They done left, five minutes gone...”

A spark snaps in Whicher's belly, like a flare. “They headed out? To the bank?”

A moment's silence at the other end of the line.

“They sure did.” Another silence. “Is everything alright? Marshal?”

CHAPTER 24

Jackson Fork.

I'm in behind the tree-line, engine running, hid from the road. Tennille's standing out on the shoulder of the freight car, the blind corner—forty yards out.

She's wearing the hunter's jacket, like the first time I saw her. Jeans, boots, long hair pulled back from her face.

I checked the clock in the dash of the Dakota. 

Through the trees, through the low branches, the road's empty. It's got to be fast. Clean and done. And gone. 

There's just the fields. The long horizon.

In the blink of an eye, the van. A grille—a yellow hood.

It's coming on, straight towards us. 

Tennille puts the shotgun to her shoulder.

“Don't go early...”

I watched the van, trying to gauge the speed, right foot hovering. 

Another second. Another.
And go
.

I slammed down on the gas, tires biting, the Dakota shooting forward—bursting out from the tree line. 

I blocked the road, hit the brakes. 

The van nose-dived on its front end—wheels locking, skidding past the freight car. 

Tennille ran out behind it. 

I could see the driver in a denim shirt—beside him, the guard, in a leather waistcoat. 

I leveled the SIG at the windshield, high and center—and fired. 

The windshield exploded, a shower of glass spilling down the hood, tires locking solid. I fired twice more, on the engine bay. The van's at a dead stop.

I jumped from the Dakota, SIG on the guard—there's a deafening shot, Tennille, against the van side, at the rear tire. 

I ran for the passenger door, the guard reaching for the Mossberg—a second crash; Tennille at the next tire. 

They're stunned, a split second, in the noise. I'm feet away, pistol locked on the guard. 

He swings sideways, points the barrel of the Moss straight at me.

I squinted at him down the iron-sights of the SIG. “Drop it...”

He hesitates, face drained, full of shock.

But I'm in deep, too slow, it's too slow.

Tennille's at the side of the van, the driver's window. 

She points her shotgun inside. “I pull on this—the both of you are gone.”

“M'on Fletch,” the driver shouts, “throw the damn thing on out.”

His eyes are fixed on the barrel of my pistol.

“Fuck it, man, Fletch. Give 'em the gun.”

He tilts the barrel down, one hand on the stock, pushing it out the shattered windshield. It tips down the hood, hits the ground like a dud. A shell in a fox hole.

I snatched it up—put the stock to my shoulder. “Throw the money out.”

I aimed the Moss at the near wheel, shot out the front tire. Racked a second slug. 

“
Throw it out
.” Glancing at Tennille; “Move back out of there.” 

I aimed at the last good tire. Squeezed the trigger, the shotgun kicking and booming, barrel heat spreading in my fingers.

Tennille took a step further from the van. She was staring down the road south—mouth open; about to say something.

I moved to where I could see. 

A Chevrolet pick-up was screaming up the road. Silverado. Headed straight for us.

I yelled; “
Get the money
.” 

I racked the Moss, ran forward, knelt on one knee.

The truck braked, it turned three-quarter profile. 

I aimed high, over the cab, a warning shot. It caught the top corner of the windshield. I pumped another slug.