Con Law (29 page)

The sheriff braked to a stop. They had returned to the scene of the crime. Where Book and Nadine had been run off the road. They got out and walked to the railroad tracks that paralleled the highway. Book had seen nothing the night before, just the bouncing light from the Harley’s headlight until they went airborne. Now he saw everything. Where they had gone off the road, the short distance to the embankment, the barbed-wire fence where he had landed, and the mesquite bush that had broken Nadine’s fall—and her arm and leg.

‘EMTs, they had a hell of a time cutting you out of
that barbed wire,’ the sheriff said. ‘Said that gash on your forehead was bleeding like a stuck pig.’

Blood stained Book’s white T-shirt.

‘Lucky your gal was unconscious, or she would’ve been hurting something bad.’

The heat rose inside Book. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

‘Damn,’ the sheriff said, ‘this land is brittle dry. Nothing but kindling. We get a desert storm, one lightning strike could set the plateau on fire, might not stop till the flames get to Fort Worth. Could be biblical.’

The sheriff knelt and grabbed a handful of prairie grass; it broke off in his hand like twigs instead of grass.

‘Year ago this time, the Rock House fire ignited two miles west of town, raced across the grassland. If the wind was blowing east instead of north, it would’ve taken out most of Marfa—downtown, homes, the art. Instead, it went north and burned a lot of Fort Davis. Burned for a month, scorched three hundred thousand acres, killed a lot of livestock. Horses couldn’t outrun the flames.’

He shook his head.

‘To see those horses burned to a crisp, make a man cry. We put up the “Burn Ban” notices, but folks from out of town, they flick cigarettes out the window ’cause they never witnessed a wildfire, so they can’t imagine what it’s like, to see that wall of fire coming your way fast. When the wind’s blowing fifty miles an hour, neither man nor horse can outrun the flames.’

‘Anything you can do, to prevent a fire?’

‘Pray for rain.’

Book walked around the scene. The desert lay silent, and the morning air smelled fresh. The grass crunched under his boots. He spotted something near a yucca plant. He squatted and picked it up: a small plastic bottle of Purell hand sanitizer. He squeezed his hand tight around
the bottle as if making a fist.

‘I need to see Billy Bob Barnett.’

‘Now, Professor, I’m conducting a homicide investigation. I’m compiling a list of suspects—’

‘Including Billy Bob?’

‘He’s at the top of my list.’

‘Then arrest him, throw him in jail.’

The sheriff smiled. ‘See, you’re talking like a man whose gal got hurt, not like a law professor teaching all those constitutional rules we gotta follow—Miranda warning, probable cause, plain sight, incident to an arrest—all those fine points of the law just waiting to trip us up out here in the real world. All that sounds real good in a classroom, but out here when there’s a victim in the hospital and a bad guy on the loose laughing at you, it don’t feel so good, does it? The rules are meant to slow us down, make sure we get the right bad guy, but now it’s personal for you so you want to go fast. ’Cause you
think
he did it.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I’m gonna investigate, not kick someone’s ass—and you are not gonna kick any more ass in my county. I’m gonna build a case, prove he did it. I’m going to go back to my office, call Mr. Barnett, and set up an appointment. Then I’m going to interview him and take a look at the black pickup truck his boys were driving, see if there’s any evidence they ran you off the road. Now, we can work together, Professor, or you can go home.
Comprende?
’

‘I’ll take care of Billy Bob Barnett myself.’

The sheriff spat.

‘Oh, I see how it is. The famous law professor, he likes to work alone. Running all over the country, saving folks, righting wrongs, just him and his Harley. He helps everyone, but he don’t need help from anyone, is that it? ’Cause he’s just so damn smart and tough. Well, first of all, Professor, you playing the Lone Ranger got your little gal back there put in
that hospital bed, that’s a fact. And you got to live with that fact. And second of all, even the Lone Ranger had Tonto.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Means it’s okay for a man to need help. And, podna, you need help.’

The sheriff dropped Book at the Paisano so he could
change before meeting the deputy about the Harley. But as soon as the sheriff’s cruiser turned out of sight, Book ran down Highland Avenue to Billy Bob Barnett’s office. He thought, I don’t need an appointment. I don’t need to play by the rules I teach. I don’t need help. And he thought of his intern; he had promised to protect her. He had not. The sheriff was right about that: his actions had put Nadine in the hospital. His anger built with each step. His years of taekwondo training to control his emotions failed him. He was mad.

Billy Bob Barnett had hurt his intern.

He arrived at the Barnett Oil and Gas Company office—the black pickup truck was nowhere in sight—and barged through the front door and hurried past Earlene without asking permission—

‘Hey! Professor! He’s in a meeting!’

—and down the hall past the lunchroom where donuts were piled high on the table—

‘Wait!’ Earlene yelled from behind.

—and opened the closed door and marched into the office.

Billy Bob sat at the conference table with
three other men. They wore maroon shirts and were watching the fracking video.

‘Mr. Barnett,’ Earlene said, ‘he rushed right past me.’

Billy Bob held up a hand. ‘It’s okay.’ To Book: ‘You just have something against appointments, don’t you?’

He looked Book up and down—the bloodstained shirt and the bandage on his forehead—then stood.

‘The hell happened to you?’

‘You happened to me. And to Nadine. She’s hurt.’

‘Honeywell? She’s hurt?’

‘She’s in the hospital. Broken arm and leg. She could’ve been killed.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

The same two bald goons who had followed them to Midland entered the office and advanced on him. Book closed the distance and got in the driver’s face again. He was a side of beef.

‘You ran us off the road, didn’t you?’

The man’s muscles tensed as if to strike Book.

‘Do it.’

Taekwondo is not about kicking someone’s ass. It’s about self-defense, self-control, physical and mental discipline, about knowing you can but deciding you won’t … But Book wanted to kick this big Aggie’s ass so bad it hurt. And he could.

‘Please do it.’

‘Don’t do it, Jimbo,’ Billy Bob said from behind. ‘I don’t want your blood staining my brand-new Aggie gray carpet.’

He didn’t do it. He backed down.

‘Where’s the black truck you were driving yesterday?’ Book asked the goon.

The goon shrugged. ‘Butch took it to Hell Paso.’

‘Convenient.’

‘Beats walking.’

Book turned and pointed a finger at Billy Bob Barnett.

‘Nathan Jones’s son is going to grow up
without a father because of you. I’m going to prove that you killed him … that these two goons ran us off the road and hurt Nadine … and that your fracking is contaminating the groundwater. I’m going to put you out of business, Billy Bob. When you hurt Nadine, you made it personal.’

Book now turned to the men in maroon shirts.

‘Don’t invest with him. He’s going to prison.’

Billy Bob smiled. ‘Have a nice day, Professor.’

Carla Kent sat at a table in the courtyard at the Paisano Hotel. She had checked with the front desk; the professor and his intern hadn’t returned. The clerk said he’d heard there had been an accident the night before out on the highway. A motorcycle wreck. A man and a woman had been taken to the Alpine hospital. She had called the hospital; the professor was not a registered patient. But Nadine Honeywell was. There was no word on her condition.

God, what had she done?

Book stepped out onto the sidewalk fronting Billy Bob’s office and took a deep breath to gather himself. His body teemed with anger and adrenaline. He walked back to the Paisano and cut through the courtyard. He stopped. Carla Kent sat on the other side of the fountain, as if she had been waiting for him. He walked over to her. She stood. Her T-shirt read:
Don’t Frack with Mother Nature
.

‘Is she okay? Your intern?’

‘Word travels fast out here. She’ll be okay. Broken arm and leg.’

‘I’m so sorry, Professor.’

‘Not your fault, Ms. Kent.’

Her eyes went to the blood on his shirt and bandage on his head. ‘You okay?’

He nodded. ‘Got tangled up in a barbed-wire fence.’ He blew out a breath to ease his blood pressure. ‘I wanted to ratchet up the pressure on the killer, almost got my
intern killed.’

‘You taking her home?’

‘After I prove that Billy Bob hurt her. And killed Nathan. I’m going to get that son of a bitch.’

Her eyes sparkled. ‘Wow, the cool law professor gets mad. I like that side of you.’

‘Good. Because you’re going to see more of it.’

She was the connection between Nathan’s death and everything else. She knew something. So he needed to know her.

‘Ms. Kent, I’m ready to work together.’

‘Carla. We can start now.’

‘I’ve got to clean up first, and then see a deputy about a Harley.’

A frown.

‘Not Deputy Shirley?’

Deputy Shirley blew strands of blond hair from her face then wiped sweat from her brow. She was driving Book in the Sheriff’s Department pickup truck with the Harley in the back to the repair shop. He had cleaned up and changed his shirt.

‘Pedro,’ she said, ‘he used to have a gas station and garage in town, but the artists drove him out.’

‘How?’

‘They ran up rents in downtown, drove the local businesses out. Artists converted Pedro’s old garage into a studio. So now he works out of his own garage, on the Mexican side of town.’

‘There’s a Mexican side of town?’

‘This is Marfa, Professor, but it’s still Texas. North side of the railroad tracks, that’s always been the Anglo side. Now it’s the Yankee side, big homes behind walled compounds. South side, that’s the Mexican side. Trailers mostly, little homes, crumbling adobes.’

The hot wind blew through the cab. Deputy Shirley blew hair from her face again.

‘You know what I like to do on hot days
like this?’ she said.

‘No. What?’

‘Get a big ol’ snow cone—I like root beer, with cream—and drive up into the mountains where it’s cooler, find a nice little spot and spread out a soft blanket …’

‘Sounds nice.’

‘… and screw.’

She turned to Book and arched her eyebrows.

‘What do you say, Professor?’

She offered a country girl’s natural beauty and unabashed sexuality, an excellent combination in Book’s experience. But now was neither the time nor the place.

‘Well, Deputy—’

‘Shirley.’

‘Deputy Shirley, I appreciate the offer, but—’

‘I’ve got handcuffs.’

Pedro’s Repair Shop was a garage to the side of his house on East Galveston Street past the crumbling adobes with the
Fuck U ChiNazis
graffiti. Latino music played on a small radio and Pedro Martinez sat on a stool on the dirt ground in front of the garage, wearing reading glasses and pondering an engine part. They got out and walked over. Brown-skinned children played barefooted in the street. The voice of a woman singing a Mexican ballad and the smell of Mexican food drifted over from the house.

‘Pedro’s wife, she makes the best tamales in Marfa,’ Deputy Shirley said. ‘You can get your car fixed and pick up dinner in one stop.’

Pedro watched them over his glasses as they came toward him.

‘Deputy Shirley,’ he said.

‘Pedro, this is Professor Bookman. He needs his Harley fixed.’

Pedro smiled. ‘Ah, the karate professor. I have heard of you.’

‘On the public radio?’

‘No. We do not listen to that. It is not for us. It is
for the rich Anglos from the north. I have heard of you from word of mouth.’ He stood. ‘Let us look at the bike.’

‘I’m gonna get some tamales,’ Deputy Shirley said. ‘Have a little girl talk with Juanita.’

She headed to the house. Book and Pedro walked to the truck, leaned on the sideboard, and studied the twisted motorcycle. Pedro pondered for a time then nodded.

‘I can fix that.’

‘You repair Harleys?’

‘
Sí
.’

‘Have you ever repaired a Harley?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t know. I restored this Harley by hand.’

His father had taught Book how to restore Harleys. It was his dad’s hobby. He restored them and then sold them—‘Adopted them out,’ as he said—to worthy Harleyites.

‘And I will repair it by hand,’ Pedro said. He was a white-haired man in his sixties, perhaps seventies. He removed his reading glasses. ‘
Señor
, I am Pedro Martinez. I am known all over Presidio County as the
hombre
who repairs the vehicles. I can do this.’

Pedro returned to his stool and sat. He replaced the glasses on his face, turned up the radio, and picked up a wrench.

‘So,
Señor
, do you want that I fix your Harley?’

Book pulled out his pocket notebook and began jotting down the terms of this repair contract. First, the price.

‘How much?’

‘Oh,
mucho dinero
.’

Book sighed.
Mucho dinero
was a bit vague. He put the notebook back in his pocket. Perhaps he would rely on an oral contract.

‘I need it soon.’

‘Okay. I will do that.’

Deputy Shirley returned with a brown bag. She reached inside and came out with a tamale. She handed it to Book. He hadn’t eaten that morning, so he was hungry. He ate
the tamale.

‘That’s good.’

‘
Sí
.’

They rolled the Harley down from the truck bed and into Pedro’s garage. Book felt as if he were leaving his only child at college. Of course, he didn’t have a child and would never have a child; he would not pass the mutant gene on to another generation of Bookmans. He hoped Joanie had not.