An American Outlaw (25 page)

“Ten minutes, I'll be back.” 

I slipped out of the room and closed the door.

The rain was starting to ease up, a few sets of headlights still coming up from town. 

I walked along the main drag, jacket pulled tight. Past a building supply, a couple of houses. Down a side-street there's a car rental. 

I studied the line of vehicles on its lot. 

I walked on down to an intersection. Nothing was going on. Just a wet night, small town Texas. Friday night, everybody gone wherever they was going. No sign of cops. No cars, nobody patrolling the street.

If any search was going on out there, everybody must be on the hill.

I stood in the shadows a minute. And turned around, started on back.

Two hundred yards from the motel, a cruiser's coming down the strip—white cruiser, light-bar strung across its roof.

He was headed in from the direction of the interstate.

He was too far away to see me. But I got in behind a rig and trailer on a strip of waste ground—just to let him pass.

He was slowing. Most likely finishing a shift.

There were no other cars, no other traffic—but he was stopping.

Right in line with the motel.

His headlights swung through the rain as he turned in.

I couldn't see him no more.

As I broke cover.

Started to run.

CHAPTER 26

Guadalupe River. Hunt, TX.

“Y'all figure it's set to rain all night, McBride?”

“I don't rightly know, Marshal. I'm no expert.” 

McBride pulls the zipper on the rain jacket, all the way up to his throat. 

“I grew up in Beaumont. East Texas. Only been out here six years.”

“Thought you all was local boys?”

“No, sir.” He huddles his shoulders for warmth. “You know, you're the second person to ask me. About the weather.”

“How's that, son?”

“The guy did it. Gilman James.”

The marshal stands in the headlight beam of the Silverado. Glancing up the hood, the windshield cracked and crazed .

“Yes, sir,” says McBride. “He asked me what I thought. Of conditions, such like. Right after he handcuffed me to that tree.”

The door on the truck's shot up pretty bad. Still drives good, has to give it that. In his mind, Whicher sees the figure kneeling on the road, by the yellow E-series. Deliberately drawing a line. A little high. A warning. Pulling the trigger.

“How'd he seem?”

McBride shrugs. “I don't know. On it, I guess.”

“Y'all didn't think he was going to snap? Shoot your ass?” Whicher looks at him, shivering in the wet night air. Thin hair plastered to his face.

“He seemed—pretty calm,” says McBride.

Whicher nods.

“I was more afraid of her, tell the truth.”

Above the hiss of rain, there's the sound of vehicles approaching. Tires slashing standing water on the dark highway.

“Y'all made it out in one piece,” says Whicher, “even if it took a while. There's a damn lot of country to cover.”

“Do you think we'll find them, Marshal?”

“Tonight?”

Three cars roll around a bend on the two-lane. They disappear into the black. 

There's a beep on the radio, light flashing in the truck, another call. 

Whicher steps out of the headlight beam. Climbs up in the cab.

“Whicher, go ahead.”

“Marshal, this is Special Agent Cornell. Drew Cornell. ATF out of Houston. We met Tuesday—down in Alpine.”

Whicher pulls the door shut. Cranks the heat a notch. “You're working late.”

“I was going to leave a message for you. I heard you nearly walked in on a hot one. That bunch of jar-heads you've been chasing? Out at San Angelo?”

“Yeah. Word gets around.”

“You any closer to figuring out what's going on?”

Whicher stares at the rain running down the windshield.

“You have something for me, Special Agent?”

“Maybe I do.”

The marshal rubs a hand across the stubble at his jaw. “Lay it on me.”

“ATF are still dealing with that airport robbery. In Lafayette? Their first play...”

“Right.”

“I called Lt. Rodgers earlier—he told me about a suspect truck registered to a Michael Tyler...”

“We know a little about him.”

“Did you know he worked at that airport, part-time. Two years back.”

“Okay. He's in.”

“That's not why I'm calling. You remember me telling you about a suicide?”

“Yeah, Nathaniel Childress.”

“I got a buddy in the division, following up the suicide, for the inquest. I saw him at the office tonight.”

“Okay.”

“I told him you nearly got aced trying to bust a heist out at some place called Jackson Fork. That right?”

“Y'all heard right.”

“He told me Childress was living out there. On a farm.”

“Y'all sure on that?”

“It's in the inquest statements.”

Whicher twists his mouth. Locks his arm out on the steering wheel.
A farm.

“According to what I've seen, they got into problems, ended up losing the place. Some of the depositions point to loss of the farm being a contributing factor.”

“In the suicide?”

“The farm was in the wife's family. A long time. Childress only took it on after they discharged him injured from the Corps.”

“I know about the discharge....”

“Business was terrible, they hit a two-year drought. The short version is the loans they had got called in. They lost the place.”

Whicher thinks of the fields at Jackson Fork. Dust dry soil. Steel booms above the dirty white cotton.

“The farm was swallowed up by some corporate agri-business head-quartered in Dallas. Guess what happened to the stock. The cattle from the farm?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Sold off in lieu of debt. At Jackson Fork.”

Whicher stares at the crack in his windshield. 

A group of cars and trucks roll in across the hard ground. He recognizes the metallic gold and black livery on two of the vehicles; Tom Green County. 

The lead car's unmarked. A black sedan. It signals, stops. 

The rest of them pull out again, rolling on—in a spray of rain.

“Cornell?” says Whicher. “Can I call you back?”

“I won't be going anywhere.”

From out of the sedan, the local chief of police gets out. Tall guy—six four. He steps across the wet ground. Plastic rain-cover on his wide brimmed hat. 

He puts his gaunt face close to Whicher's window. “That's it,” he says, “we're going to wrap.”

“Don't want to lose 'em.”

“It's set to worsen. We're not getting anywhere.” The chief looks up into the night sky, rain glistening on his black and gray mustache. “We get flash floods, all kinds of kinks, it gets like this. Cain't see. Cain't move. There's not a whole lot we can do about it.”

“Your call...”

“There's hundreds of square miles out there. They could be anywhere. But they cain't stay out, not forever.”

“Maybe these can.”

“Come on down to town with us. They could already be gone. We'll get something to eat, keep a few on the road, in case they show.”

“Y'all sure?”

“We've got a few still up on the hill. I'm putting a bunch of uniforms out to check overnight businesses—motels, garages, drug stores. They show up any place...”

“Alright, chief.”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I'll take that little streak of a trooper...”

“McBride.”

The Chief nods. “You want to follow us down?”

“It far to run?”

“Eight miles.”

“Only this damn windshield’s starting to leak on me. Where y'all say we're headed?”

“Down into Kerrville.”

South of I-10,  Kerrville.

I've got both hands on the pistol, I'm standing hidden from the glare of light on the lot. 

A highway patrolman's talking with the clerk outside the motel office. They're looking to the far end of the row, towards the room. The desk clerk standing smoking. Rubbing at a tattooed forearm. The patrolman with a notebook open, looking at his watch. 

I could just hear.

“I know it all ain't nothin',” the clerk talking.

“It's alright, sir. You did the right thing.”

“Males under age forty. That's what we's told—any late arrival..” The clerk takes another drag on the cigarette. “Anyhow, cain't be 'em—the two you're after finding.”

“Why's that, sir?”

“Well. It's a bunch of fellers, right? Two on 'em. Out there on the hill.”

“Matter of fact, no. It's not. It's a man and a woman, sir. What car they all arrive in?”

“I don't know. It was raining so damn hard, I wasn't about to go stand in it. I didn't look.”

“Well, I can't see the vehicle. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about.” 

The patrolman reaches on his belt. Pulls out a flashlight. 

“I'll take a look around, all the same. Then I'd like to check those details.”

The clerk flicks the cigarette butt in a puddle. He pulls up his bagged out jogging pants. “I'll git that registration card.”

The patrolman starts walking under the steel balcony.

I moved from the shadows, gun arm beside me, hanging down. 

Outside the room, the patrolman paused. Flashlight beam on the door number.

 I raised the SIG. Mouth dry. Looked down the sights.

The flashlight beam snapped off. He stepped back.

He turned from the door, started walking for the far-end of the building. He turned the corner. He was going around in back.

I ran, reached the room. Burst through the door. 

Tennille's counting piles of cash. She looks up—at the gun.

“Move. Get the money.”

She hesitates a split second. Then throws all the money in the flight cases—snapping them shut.

We ran outside, ran to the end of the row. 

I stopped her. Told her; “Wait there.”

I edged past the end of the building, down the ramp. 

The patrolman's got his back to me. He's bent in over the Dakota, trying to peer in the window, gun out, resting on his hip. He's distracted; hand shielding the window glass from the motel lights. Rain coming harder, drowning out the sound.

I raced to him.

Feet away, he heard me. 

He spun around, raised the pistol, fired a shot. 

I smashed the butt of the SIG against his neck.

He dropped to the ground.

I stared down at myself; at my body, at my legs and arms. I wasn't hit.

Tennille was running out from the corner.

I grabbed the patrolman, dragged him away from the Dakota. Ripping the keys from my pocket. “
Get in
...”

She threw in both the flight cases. Snatched her shotgun out of the footwell.

“What're you doing?”

“
You drive
.” She ran to the passenger side. “You told me
speed
...”

A pistol shot cracks out from the motel office, a back door. The desk clerk, firing a revolver. 

He fires a second time, a third—the gun flying up with the muzzle-climb.

Tennille raised the 870. She fired it—lighting up the lot. 

The clerk disappeared inside the office.

Both of us got in the Dakota, I jammed the keys in the ignition. I fired it up. Tore out of the rear lot. Flooring it out, up the concrete ramp. 

The clerk runs out of the office front. He fires the revolver. A round strikes metal.

Tennille drops the window. She levels the shotgun.

I veered left. 

She pulled the trigger. 

Noise like a bomb exploding—inside the cab. My heart racing, sound ringing in my ears. “
Are
you
crazy?
”

I swung out on the highway, back down, back towards the town.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“We got to cross the bridge.”

“Just go any way...”

“We got to get across...”

Coming up the road is a squad car, lights blazing, siren screaming. A black and white squad car, headed straight for us. 

It closed us down. Snapped a right—trying to block the road.

I wrenched the wheel left, tires slipping, spinning on the wet road, the wheel light, turning into the skid. 

The back of the Dakota smacked the side of the black and white. 

We're out past it, trying to straighten up, hard on the gas.

A second police car's coming towards us. Metallic gold.

I hit the brakes, the truck locking up. 

Tennille was pushing shotgun shells in the Remington.

Behind us, the black and white squad car's reversing—looking to block us in, get us pincered. I shifted into reverse. Yelled out; “
Hold on
...”

Tennille let go the shotgun, she grabbed the roof. 

I backed the truck full-out—edge of the tailgate in line with the wheel of the black and white. 

The truck piles into the car. It jumps on its axles; sick crack of metal on metal.

She shouts; “Am
I
crazy?”

I shifted gear, lurched forward. 

The wheel was hanging off the black and white, its front tire burst.

Up ahead, the gold cruiser's almost on us. Fifty yards up, turning profile—readying to shoot. 

I steered the truck on the sidewalk, grabbed the SIG off the seat. 

The driver ducks down below the line of the dash. 

I fired on his windshield. Steered off the sidewalk—back on the highway. 

Behind us, the white cruiser's tearing out of the motel parking lot—the highway patrolman. Down the sidewalk, the desk clerk's running, revolver out in front of him, like a kid's toy.

I braked the Dakota to a dead stop. Raised the SIG, looked down its sights. And opened up—shooting, zoning, suppressing fire—till the whole clip's emptied. Spent shells pinging off the road.

Tennille pinned me against the seat with the flat of the 870 barrel. “Sit back...”

She fired. The front light of the white cruiser exploding glass.

She pumped, fired, pumped, and fired again.

Till my head's reeling. And I'm halfway deaf. “
God damn
, Tennille.”