Tyranny (5 page)

T
he GPS on Barton Devlin's phone took him right where he needed to go. He brought the rental to a stop near the edge of a ridge that ran for more than twenty miles along a meandering path that followed a generally north-south orientation.

The rocky drop-off down to the flats was about forty feet. The slope was easy enough that a man could walk down it if he was careful, but a vehicle wouldn't be able to make it so the dirt road Devlin had been following—really just a barely discernible trace—ended here.

He didn't need to get any closer today. He was just here to indulge his curiosity.

He picked up the binoculars lying on the seat beside him and got out of the car to walk to the edge. He had already taken the binoculars out of their case, so all he had to do was lift them to his eyes and peer through them.

The valley spread out before him was several miles wide and greener with vegetation than much of the arid landscape around here. That was because it was watered by a clear, spring-fed stream that flowed down from the mountains on the other side of the valley.

The creek disappeared almost as soon as it left the mountains, swallowed up by the thirsty ground, but the moisture was still there, trickling under the surface and making it easier for grass and other plants to grow.

Because of that, this valley—designated Yucca Valley on official USGS topographical maps—was good ranch land and had been ever since one of G. W. Brannock's ancestors had settled here almost a hundred and fifty years earlier.

But there were other good uses to which Yucca Valley could be put, thought Devlin as he raised the binoculars and focused on the ranch house.

It was a rambling, two-story frame structure that had been built onto several times over the years, those additions to the original house being easy to see.

But that gave it a unique quality. There wasn't another house anywhere in the world exactly like it. Brannock probably liked that about it.

Several cottonwoods grew around the house and provided shade at various times of day. Again, the underground moisture allowed them to attain greater height than most of the rather scrubby trees in this area.

Set about fifty yards behind the house and off to the side a little was a large barn made out of sheet metal, even its roof. Devlin knew from studying Brannock's tax returns that the barn was six years old, having been built to replace the old wooden barn that had been there.

To the left of the barn was a large enclosure made from T-posts and horse panels. On the other side was an old-fashioned wooden pole corral. An open shed was also on that side of the barn, its roof overhanging metal water troughs.

Devlin swung the binoculars toward a row of small, three- and four-room frame cottages. The ranch hands who worked for Brannock lived in those cottages, some with families, others single men who shared the cottages.

His workers were all Hispanic, but there were no illegals among them. In fact, all of them came from families that had been American citizens for several generations. The INS had no leverage to use against the rancher.

And they had searched high and low for just such leverage, Devlin knew.

He lifted the binoculars to look at the lower reaches of the mountains. At this time of year, most of Brannock's cattle would be up there on that higher range, although Devlin didn't spot any at the moment. Generally, winters were mild in this part of West Texas, but there could still be a considerable amount of snow, so during the fall the herd would be driven down into the valley.

Everything looked just about like he expected it to, thought Devlin as he lowered the glasses. He had never been here before, but he felt like he knew Brannock's ranch quite well despite that. He had spent a lot of time studying the place when he was given this assignment. He never went into a job unprepared.

This drive out here today had been just to get the lay of the land and make sure no one had overlooked anything. Satisfied, he started to turn back toward the rental car when something caught his eye.

A column of dust had appeared, moving slowly toward the ranch headquarters from the direction of the state highway. Curious, Devlin brought the binoculars to his eyes again and looked through them.

It took him a moment to locate the dust column through the lenses and then follow it down to the vehicle causing it. An old, dark blue pickup bounced along the rough dirt road leading from the highway.

That was Brannock's pickup, Devlin knew. He knew about everything the old rancher paid taxes on or registered with the state. He knew what was in all the e-mails Brannock retrieved once a week, his only use of the Internet. He knew what programs Brannock watched on his satellite dish, mostly sports and old movies and vintage sitcoms and variety shows. Brannock lived in the past as much as possible, no doubt about that.

That was going to be his undoing. A man had to look to the future to survive.

There was no garage, but a wooden carport sat to one side of the house. Brannock parked the pickup underneath it and climbed out.

To Devlin's surprise, the passenger door swung open as well and another man got out. This one was a lot younger, a slender, sandy-haired man in jeans and T-shirt.

The agent's forehead creased in a frown. As far as he was aware, Brannock lived out here alone except for the ranch hands. Maybe this guy was somebody the rancher had just hired.

Clearly, though, he wasn't Hispanic, which meant he didn't fit Brannock's pattern.

Devlin didn't like anything that didn't fit into a pattern.

But it didn't matter, he told himself. No matter who the man with Brannock was, he wouldn't have any effect on what was going to happen soon.

The plan had progressed too far for anything to stop it now. Satisfied, Devlin got into the car, backed it around, and started back the way he had come.

A couple of hundred yards away, hidden behind a rock spire, two men Devlin hadn't seen at all watched the IRS agent drive away.

“K
eep movin' and get in the house,” G. W. said sharply as he and Kyle approached the porch steps.

“Something wrong?”

“Don't ask questions. Just get inside!”

The urgency in his grandfather's voice was plain, thought Kyle. He did what G.W. said and took the steps quickly, then crossed the porch to the screen door.

The wooden door was open. G.W. never locked up when he was leaving the house. Kyle pulled the screen open and stepped inside.

G.W. was right behind him. He reached over and took down a rifle from a wooden rack where it hung with several other long guns.

“What the hell?” Kyle asked.

“Stay in here,” G.W. snapped. “Don't stand up close to the windows.”

He pushed the screen door open with his foot and stepped back out onto the porch.

Kyle's confusion began to turn to alarm. He said, “Hey, if you're gonna shoot somebody—”

“I'm not plannin' to shoot,” G.W. said as he nestled his cheek against the smooth, polished wood of the rifle's stock. “I'm just usin' the sight.”

It was true that the rifle had a telescopic sight attached to it. G.W. leveled the weapon and cupped the rear end of the sight against his right eye. For a long moment he didn't say anything and didn't move.

Kyle's nerves were taut as he waited for his grandfather to tell him what was going on here.

Finally, G. W. grunted, lowered the rifle, and said, “Looks like he's gone.”

“Who?”

“Fella on the ridge over yonder who was watchin' us.”

“What ridge?” Kyle asked. He recalled his days of exploring the ranch. “You mean that ridge all the way on the other side of the valley?”

“Yeah.”

“That's miles away!”

“Air's clear out here,” G.W. said. “A fella with good eyes can see a long way. But what I saw was the sun reflectin' off glass where there shouldn't be any.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, what I was worried about,” G.W. said dryly, “was that there was somebody up there drawin' a bead on us with a high-powered rifle that'd shoot that far. Why'd you think I hustled you on into the house, anyway?” He rasped his fingertips over the beard stubble on his chin. “Of course, a bullet from a rifle powerful enough to shoot that far probably would've gone right through the wall. But at least the son of a buck wouldn't be able to see what he was aimin' at.”

“Wait a minute,” Kyle said as he tried to wrap his brain around what his grandfather had just told him. “You think somebody might have wanted to
kill
us?”

“Well, if they did, they left. More than likely, though, it was somebody with a pair of binoculars spyin' on us. Couldn't take a chance on the other, though. Shoot, you just got here. We ain't had a chance to visit much yet.”

Kyle gave a little shake of his head as if what he'd just heard didn't make much sense. He said, “Why would you even think somebody might want to shoot you?”

“Like I said, I didn't, not really. I was just bein' careful. But there's been some strange things goin' on around here lately, Kyle. My hands have spotted fellas on the ranch who didn't have any business bein' here. So have I. We've never been able to catch any of 'em, though.”

“Maybe they're smuggling drugs or undocumented immigrants over from Mexico,” Kyle suggested.

“Yeah, I thought about that, but we're a little too far from the border to make that likely. Some of that sort of stuff goes on around here, of course, but my gut tells me this is somethin' different.”

G.W. came in and hung the rifle on the gun rack again.

“Saw a little dust hangin' in the air, over on the ridge,” he went on. “Like a car drove off. That makes me think somebody was watchin' us, too.”

“Like maybe the IRS?”

“I can't see any reason why they would,” G. W. said with a frown. “But at the same time, you can't really put anything past those ol' boys. They play fast and loose with the truth
and
the rules, and they've been doin' that ever since somebody decided workin' for the government means workin' for the Democratic Party.”

“Still, skulking around a ranch doesn't seem like something the IRS would do,” Kyle said. “Do you have any other enemies?”

“Not that I know of, but I've always been plainspoken enough that there's no tellin' who might have me on a list somewhere.”

Kyle knew that was true. Growing up in a suburb of Dallas, he'd been surrounded by liberal attitudes all his life, and naturally he had accepted most of them. When he was young, his grandfather's opinionated personality had rubbed him the wrong way on many occasions.

It had taken being out in the real world and seeing how things actually worked to open Kyle's eyes to the facts. He had worked construction during the summers while he was in high school, and that had taught him as much as any classroom ever could.

“You think it's safe for me to go back out and get my duffel bag from the truck?” he asked.

“Yeah, whoever it was, they're gone.”

“But they'll be back?” Kyle guessed.

“More than likely.” G.W. had a thoughtful look on his face as he went on. “But now that you're here, maybe whatever's goin' on, we can put a stop to it.”

T
he rest of the day passed uneventfully. G. W. didn't press Kyle for details about what he'd been doing since he'd seen him last, and Kyle didn't volunteer any. He just told his grandfather that he'd been drifting around, seeing the country.

Basically, that was the truth. When he was in a city big enough to have a day labor center, he picked up odd jobs that way, and when he had enough money for a bus ticket and to take care of his other needs for a while, he moved on.

Several times he had been approached by guys who wanted him to stand on a street corner with a sign saying he was a homeless veteran—which was technically true, Kyle supposed—and beg money from people who drove by.

Kyle had turned down every one of those invitations, and none too politely, as well. Whatever he had, even though it wasn't much, he worked for it. And when he couldn't get enough work, he did without.

He was perfectly willing to accept G.W.'s hospitality, though. Family was family, after all. And Kyle was willing to do whatever he could to help out around the place, too, and pay his grandfather back that way.

That evening G. W. fired up the grill on the back porch, and when he had the bed of coals the right shade of red, he wrapped two potatoes in aluminum foil and put them down in the coals, under the rack. Then two thick steaks from the refrigerator went on the grill, too.

Kyle thought it all smelled wonderful.

“I don't suppose we're going to have a salad with that,” he said.

G. W. snorted and said, “If you want rabbit food, there's the makin's for it in the icebox. Help yourself.”

Kyle had to laugh.

“You're a living, breathing time warp, you know that, G.W.?”

“Not sure what you mean by that, so I reckon I'll take it as a compliment.”

“That's fine. That's pretty much the way I meant it.”

When the food was ready, they sat on the back porch with their plates in their laps and longnecks on the floor beside them. The mountains rose before them, with a rosy glow from the fading sunset behind them.

The scene was such a peaceful one that it made Kyle angry to think that the government wanted to force G. W. off his land. His grandfather was happy here. The IRS had no right to do what they were doing.

“I don't suppose you want to go to church with me in the mornin',” G.W. said.

“I'm not much for singing hymns and listening to a preacher, you know that.”

“It might do you some good.”

“It probably would,” Kyle agreed, “but if it's all right with you, I think I'll just sleep in.”

“Fine. I'm not gonna argue with you.”

“Maybe there are some chores around here I can do for you,” Kyle suggested.

“I'll take care o' Sunday chores before I leave,” G.W. said gruffly. “Don't worry about it.”

Kyle nodded. He knew he had let his grandfather down, but there was only so much a guy could change at a time.

He changed the subject by saying, “Tell me about the people who have been sneaking around here. What did you mean when you said maybe we could put a stop to it?”

“Half a dozen times my hands have spotted a couple of fellas in a jeep out on the range where they shouldn't be. We still work the cattle mostly on horseback, so by the time my men rode out to where the jeep was, it was gone and so were the fellas in it. I've seen 'em myself. Not only that, I've heard their engine at night, up around that pool at the edge of the hills.”

Kyle knew the pool his grandfather meant. The creek formed it by running into a basin in the rocks. It wasn't very big, maybe twenty feet across and five or six feet deep, and from there the stream trickled on out in the valley for another quarter mile before disappearing. Kyle had gone swimming in that natural pool when he was a kid, and he remembered how clear and cold the water was.

“What I was thinkin',” G. W. went on, saying, “is that you and me would stake ourselves out up there and wait for the varmints to show up.”

“At night, you mean?”

“Yeah. We'll take our sleepin' bags and take turns standin' guard until they show up again.”

“And what do we do then?” Kyle asked.

“Well, we'll take rifles, too,” G.W. said. “That ought to help convince 'em to tell us who they are and what in blazes they're doing sneakin' around my ranch.”

Kyle frowned and said, “You're going to throw down on IRS agents? That's a good way to get your butt in a federal pen, G.W.—or shot off.”

“Well, what do you think we ought to do?” G.W. demanded with a frown of his own.

“Having a stakeout and trying to catch them is a good idea, but maybe we'd better leave the guns at home. You've got a spotlight, don't you?”

“Sure.”

“If we hit them with the spotlight, they won't be able to see us. They won't know whether we're armed or not. If they've got any sense they'll answer our questions. This is still your land, and you've got a right to know who's on it and why.”

G. W. snorted and said, “Well, I'm glad we see eye to eye on that much, anyway.”

“We'd better record the whole thing, too. If we can prove that the IRS has been trespassing, it might help your case in court.”

“Maybe,” G.W. said in grudging agreement. “I've got one of those fancy phones that'll record video.”

“That's not fancy. They'll all do that now. They have for twenty years or more.”

G. W. ignored that and said, “We'll start tomorrow night. Don't want to do it tonight because it might interfere with church in the mornin'—and with your sleepin' in.”

Kyle let that little jab go on by unremarked and picked up the longneck from the porch planks beside his chair.

“To Operation Skulker,” he said as he raised the bottle in a toast.

G.W. just made a slightly disgusted sound, lifted his own beer, and said, “To corralin' skunks—government and otherwise.”