Tyranny (19 page)

M
iranda didn't look quite as put together as she usually did. Her hair was a little tousled and she wasn't wearing much makeup. But it had been late when G.W. called her and asked her to come out here to the ranch, and anyway, Kyle thought the natural look made her even prettier, if such a thing was possible.

She had regarded Barton Devlin with considerable suspicion at first. Kyle could tell that she didn't want to show him all the information she had put together to argue G.W.'s case against the IRS.

“I assure you, Ms. Stephens, I can't use any of this against Mr. Brannock,” Devlin had told her. “I doubt very seriously that I even have a job with the Internal Revenue Service anymore.”

“You don't know that for sure,” Miranda had argued. “What if when you do go back to Washington, they still want to pursue the case against G.W.?”

“If the numbers truly do support his position, then there's nothing I or anyone else can do to harm him.”

After thinking it over, Miranda had said, “I suppose that's true.” She set the cardboard file box she had brought with her on the kitchen table and took the lid off it, then looked at Kyle and G. W. and went on. “This is going to take a while. You two might as well go and do something else while Mr. Devlin and I go through this paperwork.”

That was how they came to find themselves in the living room, watching G.W.'s copy of
Ride the High Country
.

“Reckon I've always liked what Joel McCrea says in this movie,” G.W. commented. “I just want to enter my house justified, whatever that takes.”

“Hard choices, like you said.”

“More than likely.”

Kyle glanced toward the kitchen door and then asked quietly, “If it comes down to a fight, G.W., do you really plan to start shooting?”

G.W. sighed and said, “I hope it never goes that far, but if it does, this is my land and I know that, no matter what anybody else says. If somebody tries to take it away from me, I'll defend it.”

“Honestly, though, you can't start a shooting war against the United States government and expect to win.”

“If I've done what I know is right, then that's winnin' as far as I'm concerned.”

That was an admirable attitude, thought Kyle, but it might wind up getting his grandfather killed.

And him, too, because whatever G.W. did, Kyle intended to be right beside him. He had spent enough time wallowing in self-pity and not amounting to anything. Even though he hated what G.W. was going through, the adversity had taught him some valuable lessons. He wished he had come back here to the ranch sooner.

“How do you reckon it's goin' in there?” G.W. asked with a nod toward the kitchen.

“I don't have any idea,” Kyle said. “If I was awash in a sea of numbers like that, I'd drown for sure.”

“That's it,” Miranda said as she showed Devlin the last of the printouts she had brought with her. “I spent a long time putting all this together with the best tax accountant I could find. Some of it is subject to rules interpretation, of course, but even taking those areas into account, it seems obvious to me that G.W. is so scrupulously honest he actually
overpaid
what he owed. The amount may be uncertain, but it's clear to me that the government owes my client money.”

Slowly, Devlin shook his head. Miranda could tell that it was a gesture of amazement, though, not disagreement.

“This . . . this just isn't possible,” the man muttered. “There must be some other source of income you're not showing. . . .”

“You've studied the case,” Miranda said. “Where is it? What is it? You can look around and see how the man lives. Do you honestly think he has millions stashed away in secret bank accounts in Switzerland or the Cayman Islands?”

“He could,” Devlin said stubbornly. “This humble lifestyle he lives could just be a front—”

“He's never been out of the country except to go to Mexico a few times. We can prove that.”

“These things can be set up via computer.”

Miranda laughed and shook her head.

“Not by G.W. Brannock,” she said. “And if I were to put him on the stand in court, a jury wouldn't have any trouble seeing that.” She tapped a fingernail on the printout lying on the kitchen table in front of Devlin and went on. “Just look at that for a minute and then tell me the government was right to try to take that man's home away from him.”

Devlin sighed and said, “I can't.” He looked up at her. “But it's all moot. The case has been dropped.”

“It could be reopened.”

Devlin shook his head.

“I suppose it's possible, but I doubt if that would ever happen. The focus now is on the BLM. Someone must have decided that we weren't going to win the tax case, so now they're trying something else.”

“They?”

“Whoever is pulling the strings on this. Whoever Slade Grayson is really working for.”

“Who do you think that is?”

“There can only be one answer to that, can't there?” Devlin scraped his chair back and stood up. “This goes as high as it can go.”

He turned and walked toward the living room. Miranda hurried after him. Evidently, Devlin wanted to say something to G.W., and she wanted to be there for that, whatever it was.

“Mr. Brannock,” Devlin said as he came into the living room. “I have to talk to you.”

G.W. turned the TV off and stood up. Kyle got to his feet as well and stood beside his grandfather.

“Whatever you've got to say, spit it out,” G.W. said.

“Ms. Stephens has presented your case to me, just like she would in a hearing. This is all unofficial, of course, but if I had been presiding over such a hearing . . . I would have been forced to rule in your favor.”

A grin split G.W.'s rugged face.

“What you're tryin' to say is that I'm right and you were wrong,” he declared.

Devlin sighed and nodded.

“Yes, that's what it amounts to,” he said. “And one more thing . . . I'm sorry.”

This time G.W. looked surprised. He said, “Somebody from the government . . . apologizin'? Did I hear right?”

“There's no need to rub my nose in it,” Devlin said peevishly. “I was prepared to do my job, that's all. I just wish . . . what I mean to say is . . .” His expression was bleak now. “To be honest, it appears that much of the government's case against you was . . . fabricated.”

“You mean somebody lied and made up a bunch of bullcrap just to get their hands on my ranch.”

“That's the way it appears.” Abruptly, Devlin brought up a trembling hand and rubbed it over his face in a gesture of utter weariness and desolation. “God help me,” he muttered, “how many other lives have I ruined based on falsehoods?”

“I can't answer that question,” G.W. said. “I reckon that possibility is just somethin' you're gonna have to live with.”

Devlin sank into an armchair without being invited. He put both hands over his face now. He didn't cry, but he seemed shaken to the very core of his being.

“There's probably nothing you can do about anything that happened in the past, Mr. Devlin,” Miranda told him. “But there
is
something you can do about this situation.”

He looked up at her and asked hollowly, “What's that?”

“Help put it right,” she said. “Help us save G. W. Brannock's ranch.”

S
lade Grayson kept his temper under control, but it wasn't easy.

“You just let them get the drop on you like that?” he demanded.

“What else were we going to do?” Finley asked. He sounded angry, too. “It's not like we're some sort of Old West gunfighters or anything!”

Grayson narrowed his eyes and asked, “Are you mouthing off to me, Warren? Is that really the tone you want to take after your little screwup?”

Finley had the good sense to swallow hard and look a little nervous. He said, “With all due respect, Mr. Grayson, I just don't see what else Woody and I could have done.”

Todd grunted and put in, “We're lucky we were able to get away from those guys. Brannock said he was gonna call the sheriff.”

Grayson shook his head and waved a hand dismissively.

“I'm not worried about some Texas yokel sheriff,” he said as he began to pace back and forth across the motel room's carpet. “But things might have gotten tricky if Brannock got hold of that stuff I gave you.” He glanced at the vial sitting on the dresser. “I'm really glad you didn't lose it, Warren.”

“So am I,” Finley said. “I made sure to hang on to it as tight as I could.”

“Well, another thirty-six hours and none of it will matter anyway. That ranch will belong to us.”

“To the government, you mean.”

“Yes, of course, that's what I meant, Warren,” Grayson said. “It's not like any of this is personal.”

But it was, of course, and deep down, Grayson knew that. He didn't like being defied, and that old man had made a habit of it. So had Brannock's grandson. Grayson had scores to settle with both of them, and he had a strong hunch that they would both be behind the bars of a federal penitentiary before this was over—at the very least.

There were black sites that might be better suited to enemies of the country like those two. Places where they would never be seen again, so they couldn't stand up to the government—or even worse, inspire other people to do so.

“What I'm really curious about,” Grayson went on, saying, “is who it was that helped you get away. Neither of you recognized the guy's voice?”

Finley shook his head, and so did Todd. Finley said, “We never got a look at him. That light was too bright and blinding. And the voice wasn't familiar to me.”

“Me, either,” Todd added.

“Well, did he sound like a Texan?” Grayson persisted. “Did he have some stupid drawl?”

Finley frowned in thought, then said, “No, not really. He didn't have much of an accent, but if I had to guess, I'd say he came from . . . well, from somewhere around Washington.”

“One of us, eh?” Grayson said. He frowned, too. The only other recent visitor from Washington to Sierra Lobo he could think of was . . .

No, that didn't make any sense. He had sent that IRS weasel scurrying back to his hole.

Anyway, Barton Devlin didn't possess any real courage except what he got from the backing of the most powerful government in the world, and he didn't have that on his side anymore. The Internal Revenue Service was done here. This was Slade Grayson's job now.

No, he didn't have anything to worry about from Devlin.

 

 

The government man looked like an animal caught in a trap, Kyle thought as he, G. W., and Miranda loomed over him.

Devlin glanced around at them nervously.

“I don't see what I can do to help you,” he said. “I told you, I've probably lost my position. I don't have any influence in Washington anymore. It . . . it's all out of my hands.”

Miranda crossed her arms over her breasts and regarded him coolly. She said, “Maybe you know something about what Grayson is planning. You admitted that you talked to him.”

“Yes. He sent me packing. At least, he thought he did. I didn't feel like I could leave yet, though . . . and it's probably cost me everything.”

“He didn't say anything about his plans?” Kyle asked.

“No, he just said he was taking over. . . .”

Devlin frowned as his words trailed away. G.W. leaned forward with his hands on the table and said, “You look like somethin' just occurred to you, son.”

“Something that Grayson said?” Miranda asked.

Devlin licked his lips and shook his head.

“No, this was something I overheard Finley and Todd talking about tonight right after they got to that waterhole,” he said. He looked at Kyle and G.W. “The two of you might not have been close enough to hear it. Finley said something about how Grayson was planning to go ahead and make his move the day after tomorrow . . . ?”

Miranda's eyes widened as she said, “That's not possible. He told G.W. he had sixty days to vacate the ranch.”

“You're sure about what you heard?” Kyle asked. He leaned over and put both hands on the table just like G.W. so he could look directly into Devlin's eyes.

The man didn't flinch under their intense scrutiny. He nodded and said, “I'm absolutely certain. Finley said Grayson has something planned for the day after tomorrow. That's Monday. And it sounded final, too.”

Kyle straightened and exchanged looks with G.W. and Miranda. If Devlin was right—and they had no reason to doubt him now—their timetable had been cut very short indeed.

“Maybe we can create a distraction that will cause Grayson to postpone whatever he has planned,” Miranda suggested. She tapped the documents spread out on the table in front of Devlin and asked him, “Would you be willing to go public with any of this? Would you tell the media that someone in the IRS falsified the audit reports so that they could try to seize G. W.'s ranch?”

Devlin just stared at her for several heartbeats before he said, “Are you completely insane? If I went to the press with that, I'd be ruined.”

“I thought you said you already were,” Kyle pointed out.

“I'd be
worse
than ruined. I'd be signing my death warrant. I never would have believed that before now. . . .” Devlin shook his head. “But if they'll deliberately get the math wrong and file false reports based on those numbers . . . my God, there's nothing those monsters won't do.”

Kyle managed not to laugh at the absurdity of that statement. This was all deadly serious to Devlin.

Besides, he was probably right. The people in power in Washington didn't like to be crossed. Rumors had floated around for years about mysterious deaths that looked like suicide but might be something else, homicides that appeared random or were committed in the course of a robbery, and outright disappearances that were never solved. The trail of bodies that followed around some Democrat politicians and their families was a long and grisly one.

Crushing a petty bureaucrat like Devlin wouldn't mean anything to those people. To them it would be like swatting a gnat or stepping on an ant.

So maybe he was right to worry.

“We heard you say all of that, you know,” Kyle told Devlin. “There's nothing stopping us from going to the media.”

“I'll deny it,” Devlin responded instantly. “I'll say you made the whole thing up, and it'll be your word against mine.”

Kyle started to step around the table as anger welled up inside him. Devlin could help them, and Kyle wasn't going to let him get away with refusing to do so, even if he had to get rough.

G.W. put out a hand to stop him, though.

“Hold on,” G.W. said. “I know what you're thinkin', Kyle, and I don't blame you for feelin' that way, but we're not gonna sink to their level. If we've got to be as underhanded as those folks from Washington in order to win, it's just not worth it.”

“But you heard him,” Kyle argued. “Grayson's making his move in less than forty-eight hours. He might have to back off if it came out that the IRS tried to seize your ranch illegally.”

G.W. shook his head and said, “You saw Grayson the other day. He didn't strike me as the sort of fella who'd back off for any reason, once his mind is made up.”

“He won't,” Devlin said. “Everyone in Washington is afraid of him. He has a reputation for being . . . well . . . ruthless.”

“Then we need something not even Slade Grayson can overcome,” Miranda said. “We need an army.”

“Where do you figure we can find one on such short notice?” G.W. asked.

Miranda took out her phone, smiled, and said, “The old-fashioned ways are fine most of the time, G.W., but sometimes modern technology comes in handy, too.”