An American Outlaw (24 page)

Tennille reached and grabbed the gun belt—the barrel of her 870 never leaving him.

“What's your name?”

He put his hands back in the air. “Officer McBride.”

“Know who I am?”

“Mr. James?”

“How long you been sitting back there, behind us?”

“I guess—fifteen minutes.”

“Time enough to call it in.”

He gives me a look.

“Not enough time to help your ass.”

He swallowed.

“You carry cuffs? In the car?”

He didn't answer.

I pointed to a Hackberry at the side of the track. “I'm either going to shoot you down—or cuff you to that tree.”

“Right in the front there, inside the car...”

Tennille drapes the gun belt and holster over her shoulder, like a Mexican bandit. She leans in the cruiser, pulls out a pair of silvered cuffs.

I walked him over to the tree. 

“Alright, McBride. Get a hold of that.”

He leaned against the trunk, reached his arms around, till his hands met. Tennille snapped the cuffs to his wrists.

“You know these hills?” I says. “Think it's set to rain?”

“I don't rightly know.”

I stepped across the track to the Crown Vic, put the Moss up by the open driver window. I drew a line on the radio. Pulled the trigger.

I waited for the noise to clear. “What's up the end of this here trail?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“Don't know, or you ain't saying?” I racked the shotgun.

“There's nothing out here. Nothing I know of...”

“There a name to it?”

He squints back over his shoulder at me. “Not that I know.”

I ran to the Dakota, jumped in the driver's seat. Tennille already scrambling into the far side.

I started the engine.

“He radioed in,” she says.

I didn't answer.

She looks at me. “I say we still head south.”

I drove the truck back out on the mud track. Put her to a fast climb beneath a solitary desert ash. 

I watched McBride disappear in the rear-view.

The ground worsened as it gained in height. There were boulders rolled on flash floods—the soil thin; bare limestone, clumps of poverty weed.

“We find a way off the hill...” I glanced at her, “maybe we could make it down to Kerrville.”

She shakes her head. “We're not going in there...”

If we could get down, get close, we could ditch the truck. On foot, we'd be harder to spot. 

I steered the Dakota on past a lechuguilla that screeched down the truck sides, like a banshee.

“This place—Kerrville. What kind of size is it?”

She sparked up a cigarette.

“Like Alpine?”

“Twice that. But we're not going there.”

It was due east. We'd ran south, so far, up the hill. If we ran east, we could find it. I reckoned it at fifteen miles.

Nothing between us and it. We'd see light a long ways out, come nightfall.

I steered ahead, Tennille smoking in silence.

Up a mountain track; no name, to nowhere.

East.

Town.

Last thing they'd expect.

CHAPTER 25

Jackson Fork.

Half of Tom Green County sheriff's department is parked up by the auction site pens, a grass field, the middle of no place. Whicher sits in the shot-up Silverado. Watching more cars arriving. Every other vehicle is painted metallic gold; a black and bronze stripe along its side.

The cattle still left on site set to bawling at the disturbance. 

Still no word.

Three hours back, Whicher'd stood and watched the blue Dakota disappearing up the road north.

By the time he'd made it back to his truck, the two guys in the E-series had already called for help.

San Angelo police took the call. Dispatched two cruisers. Plus crime-scene techs; the white cars boxed in now by the sheriff's trucks. The Silverado was part of a crime scene—techs had to finish before it got released. The time they got done measuring, picking up empty slug cases, James and Labrea were long gone.

KLST sent a TV crew.

Whicher declined comment.

He sat in his truck while the news crew filmed close-ups of bullet holes in the van for the early evening report. 

He'd called Lieutenant Rodgers, back in Alpine. Warned him, in case they could be headed his way. 

Rodgers told him he'd spoken to the county sheriff's office—found out Tennille Labrea had applied for a protective order against the husband. But not completed her end of the paperwork. Or if she did, she never returned the application.

The lieutenant said he'd call Border Patrol—put out everything they could find.

Whicher thought of the girl, at the roadblock; Tuesday, the day he'd first arrived. Was she in it then? She must've been. 

He thought of her standing by the yellow van. Not many in the '15-most-wanted' like her.

The radio on the dash lit up. A call coming in. Whicher grabbed at it. Marshal Reuben Scruggs.

He grit his teeth. “That was fast...”

“Hey, John?”

“Evenin', sir.”

“I got a state commissioner wants to know how come we got a rural crime wave happening in west Texas. And what the hell Division Marshal's planning on doing about it?”

“It was them—Gilman James and the girl. Tennille Labrea. I walked in on it.”

“What I heard. Y'all still in one piece?”

“Last time I looked.”

“How about that other feller—Tyler?”

“No Michael Tyler.”

“Monday it's a bank. Wednesday it's a gas station. Friday, it's a God damn cattle auction.”

“I'm not seeing any pattern.”

“Bunch of folk up in Austin want this squared away.”

“Me and them both.”

“All available resource...”

“We don't know where they all went.”

“Wait there till you hear,” says Scruggs. “Then bring 'em the hell in. Y'all need anything?”

“My truck could use a week in a body shop...”

The light starts to fade across the auction site.

More vehicles arriving, more officers—in tan shirts and olive pants.

An entire county, plus the seven adjacent counties, on full alert. Whicher sitting in the Silverado. Picking glass splinters out of the seat.

He sees the door of the trailer office pop open.

A sheriff's deputy, a black guy in his early-fifties, running over.

Whicher pushes wide the door.

“We've got a confirmed sight, Marshal. Kerr County police.”

“Kerr County—that's a hundred miles south east...” The marshal reaches for his hat.

“Patrol officer radioed in,” says the deputy, “Highway 83. But now they've lost him. They're sending all available units...” 

Kerrville.

Red lights splintered in the rain on the windshield. Tennille drumming her fingers on the steering wheel of the Dakota.

“Either this is smart,” she says, “or the dumbest thing we can do.”

“They ain't going to look for us in here.”

Traffic lights swayed on an overhead cable. And changed to green. 

The car in front came off its brakes.

She says, “You better be right.”

We crossed the bridge over the Guadalupe River. Into Kerrville, the heart of it, on Main. Four hours since they last had eyes on us. Four hours, inching through the hills, across the grasslands. Lights of town off east, through the worsening rain.

“We get in here,” I says, “ditch the truck, get a room.”

We passed two-story brick builts, old-style from the thirties, and fifties. A hospital, car lots. Squinting at the road panels, bouncing on the wind.

“Keep going,” I says, “straight up there—Fredericksburg.”

The traffic wasn't much, but there were people moving, trucks and cars. Street lights shining on the wet road. 

We drove north-east away from the river.

“Hey...” she says.

Up ahead was the Kerrville police department. Flat-roofed block of concrete. Black and white cruiser out front.

“Just roll by,” I said. “Nobody's out there.” Feeling on the seat for Michael's SIG.

I threw a glance at the station house. On a pole out front, the flag of Texas hung heavy in the rain. 

We crossed an intersection. By closed up restaurants. Past a rental lot, a Walgreens. A brown stone church. Auto parts store.

“Last place they're looking for us is here.”

Tennille shook her head.

“Keep going,” I says, “there'll be someplace. Up near the interstate.”

“You're going to get us killed.”

Already, half a mile on, the town's starting to thin. We passed a gunsmith. A Dairy Queen. A high school football field.

“Up by the interstate, there's bound to be a couple of motels.”

“You don't know that,” she said.

“We can get a room.”

“There's going to be cops near the interstate...”

We kept on, past the strip malls and furniture stores. Starting to climb again, the road already lifting out of the valley floor. Hardly any vehicles, now, we're maybe a mile from the river, the center of town.

Up ahead, to the left, there's a bunch of lit-up signs, names of motels. Cars parked up in front of the rooms.

“How about there?” There was a yellow sign on a motel—a light still showing from its front office. “Looks like they're still taking business.”

Tennille pulled in. 

It was a two-story motel, maybe forty to fifty rooms. Steel balcony, running along the top floor. Not more than a dozen cars in the lot.

“Park where it's dark, away from the lights.”

She found a space behind a line of bushes, hidden from the road. “You want me to get the room?”

“I'll do it,” I says.

“What if they recognize you?”

“Leave the engine running.”

I slipped the SIG in my jacket. Took out a roll of money from the topmost flight case.

“I'm not out that office in five, you go. Get the hell out.”

She gave me a look.

I stepped out of the Dakota. Ran across the parking lot, dodging rain. There was a light showing in the office window, it was definitely open. I pushed at the door.

Inside, there's a guy sitting behind a counter, the room dim.

“Evening.”

He looks up over a pair of thick glasses. He's in his sixties, long white hair, a beard, check-cloth shirt. Tattooed arms.

“Like a room. For the night?”

He grunts. “One night?”

“Yes, sir.”

He reaches on the counter. Spins a printed price card around, so I can see it.

“Them's the room rates. Cash up front. I'm on need you to fill out a registration card.”

“I'll take a double.”

I pulled out some money, laid it on the counter. Scribbled some made up lines on the piece of card.

He took a key from the board behind him on the wall. “Ten o'clock, going to need y'all out of there. There's breakfast. In the lobby, from six-thirty.”

“Obliged to you.”

“Ground floor, down at the end. On the right.”

He counts the money. Folds it in the pocket of his shirt. Puts the key on the counter.

I picked it up. 

He's staring at me now, from behind his desk. Magnified eyes, searching my face. “Y'all traveling far?”

“Louisiana.” I rubbed at the back of my neck. “Just came in off of I-10. Figured I had about enough.”

“Lock up good tonight.”

“How's that?”

“Got a manhunt.” The bare office light bulb shone in the lens of his glasses.

I felt the weight of the SIG against the counter.

“Up in the hills,” he says. “Bunch of guns is closing in on 'em. Bank robbers, what I heard.”

I nodded. “Well. I'll take that advice.” 

I pocketed the keys, stepped from the counter. Slow, no hurry. I pushed open the door.

Tennille's out of the Dakota, smoking on a cigarette. I pointed to where the room was at, at the far end of the row.

I walked fast, beneath the steel balcony, rain dripping from it.

Tennille runs across with the flight cases. 

I opened the door, flipped on the room light. Tennille put the cases on the bed.

“I'm going to move the truck. See if I can't find a spot around back.”

She leaned over the cases, unfastened the latches. Raised both lids. The second case was full like the first had been.

I headed back outside, jumped in the Dakota. I drove it around the side of the building. There was a ramp down to another lot, three or four cars parked—I stuck the Dakota in behind them. Two shotguns in the cab. Police officer’s gun belt and holster. If I tried getting them in the motel room, anybody saw me, they're dialing nine-one-one. I put 'em on the floor, pushed back under the passenger seat. Locked up. Headed back to the room.

Tennille was leaning against a set of drawers just staring down at all the money.

“You going to count it?”

She turned, a blank look on her face.

I says, “You want to count this? Or what?”

“Fuck. I don't know. I don't like being here.”

“It's too dangerous out on the road. Nothing's moving.”

“You think staying here's all fine?”

I tried the door—made sure I'd locked it. Leaned my back against it. “We're never going to make it out of here. Not like this.”

She folded her arms across her chest.

“We get another vehicle.”

“Right,” she says.

“You think we're going to make it back—in Joe's truck?”

She didn't answer.

“By morning, we got to be gone.” I looked at her. “You want to walk?”

“Yeah, Gil.”

“We steal something, or maybe we can buy something. All that money. Whyn't you count it? Make a start. It's not like we're going to get any sleep.”

“What about you?”

“I want to scope around, check what's happening. Guy on reception says they running a manhunt in the hills.”

“And you want to stay here?”

“You want to tool out on the highway?”

“But what did he say?”

“Yeah, he really thinks we're it. Coming in to catch a few.”

“We could still try to get back.”

“It's four hundred miles.”

She shook her head. Leaned down. Picked out a thick stack of money.