Adobe Flats (18 page)

thirty-two

The Absolution Motel and
RV Park was in darkness by the time they arrived, a two-car convoy in the mouth of South Lee Street, just across the railroad tracks. Doc Cruz's little puddle jumper and Tony Sabata's pickup. They had driven the last half mile without lights, so Grant's eyes were already adjusted to the dark by the time he got out and surveyed the turnaround out front. Down on one knee, low amid the scrub and cactus beside the two-lane blacktop.

Cruz stayed in the car. Sabata crouched next to Grant. The two men who had exchanged blows and gunfire looked at each other. Both men knew this wasn't good. There had been no phone at Fort Pena Colorado Park, and the cell phone coverage south of Absolution was for shit. Grant always reckoned that was a convenient plot device in the movies. He found it extremely inconvenient now. Texas should invest in more cell phone towers.

He turned his attention back to the reception office. The last time he'd done this, he had been close to exhaustion and bleeding everywhere. Tonight he was in better shape, but he thought the outcome was going to be worse. There was no sign of Macready's men hiding in wait. There were no vehicles in the turnaround. There were no fresh tracks in the moonlit dust. None of the tourist cabins were occupied. Even the one that Athey had rented to Grant was empty. The only part of the motel and RV park getting any trade these days was the mortuary. Grant hoped that wasn't going to be true this time.

He checked both ways along the highway, then sprinted across the road doubled at the waist to stay below the height of the windows. He doubted that would make any difference, but he felt less conspicuous that way. Sabata trailed him, and they went through the archway together. Grant dropped to one knee next to a cactus that looked like Mickey Mouse getting acupuncture. Big round leaves or whatever they called them. The carved wooden sign hung above them, still with no bullet holes in it. It swayed gently for no reason Grant could fathom. There was no breeze. The night was still and quiet.

Grant scanned the front of the building for security cameras high up under the eaves. There weren't any. There were no security lights either. Who was going to burgle a desert motel in the middle of nowhere? Satisfied that nobody could be watching on camera, Grant darted forward and flattened against the wall. He dropped to one knee again and peered through the window, his head low and down in one corner so it wouldn't stand out.

There was nobody inside. Grant could tell that because the office had been destroyed, and nobody was tidying it up. There was no movement at all. The table had been tipped over. Catalogs and brochures for Big Bend National Park were scattered across the floor. The chairs were upended. The telephone had been ripped out of the wall. Grant checked the shadows on the floor. If anything had happened to Hunter Athey, that's where his body would be. The only shadows were smashed furniture and ripped cushions.

A red light blinked inside.

Grant tensed. His eyes flicked from the red light to the office space to the door that Athey had come out of drying his hands. There still was no movement inside. The red light blinked again. Grant tried to remember if there was an alarm panel somewhere in the office. No, there wasn't; same reason as the security cameras. Who was going to burgle a desert motel? He didn't feel safe going in just yet. He turned to Sabata and made a walking man symbol with one hand, indicating for Sabata to go one way and Grant the other, round the back of the motel reception, then meet back here.

Sabata nodded and set off at a crouch.

Grant set off anticlockwise.

The stars were bright in the night sky. The moon wasn't up yet. There were no streetlights to pollute the darkness. Pale blue starlight was the only illumination. It turned the journey around the motel into a shadowy ghost train ride on foot. Every crevice in the motel exterior was a black hole threatening to hide an assassin. Every bush and cactus was a possible henchman. Grant avoided the gravel path and the flower border. His footsteps were silent and continuous. He worked his way around the building quick but careful. He crossed paths with Sabata round the back and exchanged a brief nod before continuing all the way to the front again. A double check in case one of them had missed something.

By the time he'd reached Mickey Mouse again, Grant was satisfied there was nobody lying in wait. That only left the red light blinking in the darkness. If it wasn't an alarm sensor, then what was it? He reached for the door handle, then stopped. His mind ran through what he knew about Macready. He was the wealthiest man in Absolution. He had no compunction about killing people. And he employed ex-army and mercenaries.

Grant lowered his hand from the door handle.

Mercenaries were explosive experts. Had Macready set a trap in case Grant came looking for Hunter Athey? Was there a trip wire or an infrared device waiting to blow up the building if Grant stepped inside? He pushed his face to the window and squinted at the red light. It blinked again in the far corner next to a drift of cardboard matchbooks and paper sachets spilled across the floor. Foreign coffee pouches and teabags with the little drawstrings for dangling in your cup.

Grant nodded his understanding.

He reached for the handle and opened the door.

Ten minutes later, the
office was secured, all the corners searched. There was no sign of Hunter Athey apart from the battered hearse they'd found parked round the back. Grant unplugged the electric kettle, and the red light stopped blinking. Despite the lack of starlight in the darkened office, he had no trouble following the track of the struggle.

The overturned chair and table.

The slew of papers and area maps scuffed with dirty footprints.

The cups and plates broken amid the scattering of teabags.

The kettle on its side on the carpet.

Leading to the phone ripped out of the wall.

The disturbance wasn't wanton destruction or signs of an overenthusiastic search of the motel reception. It was evidence of a man being caught by surprise who tried to make the warning call before it was too late. Who Athey thought he was going to call, Grant wasn't sure. There was no phone at the Fort Pena Colorado Park, and he must have known that cell phone coverage was bad south of Absolution. Grant righted the chair and sat down. He drummed his fingers on the overturned table leg. Sabata leaned against the wall.

Grant thought about the cat—the one with its neck snapped around backwards. An old saying ran through his head: in the dark, all cats are gray. He didn't know what that had to do with anything here, but the thought persisted. He needed a second opinion, so he turned to Sabata.

“What do you think?”

Sabata pushed off from the wall. “I think it is very bad.”

“Where would they take him?”

“That depends what they want him for. To make him talk? That he can do anywhere. Macready is not worried about what people think. He is not afraid of the law. So, the hacienda.”

Grant nodded. Macready owned the law in Absolution. If he wanted Athey to disappear, the body would never be found. There would be no evidence that he was killed at Macready's compound.

“What else could he want?”

“He wants you.”

Grant was leaning towards a theory but wanted Sabata to confirm his thinking. “So?”

“So, if he wanted to send a message, there is only one place you have shown an interest in.”

“Adobe Flats.”

“What is left of it.”

Grant nodded his agreement.

“That's what I was thinking.”

He'd been staring at a fixed spot during all this. Focusing his mind. That odd saying popped into his head again. In the dark, all cats are gray. The spot he'd been staring at was the scattered papers near the telephone. The smudged footprints and crumpled maps. A dark stain on the wall where the phone's wire had been yanked out. Dark gray. All cats are gray. In the dark. He remembered taking witness statements in Yorkshire, especially ones about cars fleeing the scene of a crime in the dark. How many times had the color been disguised by the night or the orange sodium lights?

The stain on the wall was dark gray.

The smudged papers were the same.

In the dark, all cats are gray.

Grant stood up and picked up a book of matches from amid the spilled teabags. He went to the stain and struck a match. Sulphur flared. The light flickered and settled down. The smudge wasn't gray. It was red. The crumpled papers on the floor obscured the trail of blood, but it concluded the struggle that Grant had tracked. It didn't end with the phone being yanked from the wall. It ended with somebody being dragged towards the back door. The one that led to the mortuary.

Grant closed his eyes and extinguished the match. He counted five seconds to allow the burned image to dull, then opened them again. With his eyes readjusted he crossed to the door, barely registering the smell of gas in the background.

Starlight bathed the mortuary
in pale blue light through the skylight that Grant hadn't noticed before. The last time he'd been in here, he had been somewhat the worse for wear. Hiding in a coffin until Hunter Athey had entered and turned on the fluorescent lights. Neither of them turned the lights on this time. Grant remembered Vince McNulty blowing his gas-filled flat up in Leeds, the ex-detective not being quick enough to stop Donkey Flowers from flicking the switch. Tony Sabata wasn't that stupid. Both men smelled the gas. Both saw the propane bottles standing against the back wall, the taps partly open for a slow feed. Two bottles that hadn't been there the last time. The RV park might use gas bottles for its visitors, but the mortuary was fully electric.

Grant went straight to the gas taps and turned them off. Sabata wedged the back door open to ventilate the room. The gas was heavier than air. It was slow to clear. Grant finished with the second bottle, then turned to face the coffin on the trestle—a different coffin than the one he'd been hiding in. The same layout: heavy wooden box with the lid resting loosely on top, not nailed down, slightly off center. Blood trail on the floor.

Sabata followed Grant's gaze. Both men stood rooted to the spot, one at either end of the coffin. Grant was the first to move. He stepped forward and stood at the shoulder of the coffin. He would have taken a deep breath but the gas was still thick in the atmosphere. He pushed the lid to one side. Six inches. Just enough for the glow through the skylight to pick out the inside.

Hunter Athey stared up at him. The glassy-eyed stare of the long-time dead. One side of his face was swollen and bloodied. The wrinkles had smoothed out, making him look younger than in life. That wasn't the thing that shocked Grant. The body was lying on its stomach in the bottom of the coffin, but the head was turned all the way round, the neck snapped as cleanly as the cat's.

Grant felt anger boiling inside him.

He pushed the lid another six inches.

He wasn't surprised to find what he was looking for.

The sleeves of Athey's shirt were wrinkled just above the elbow. Tight creases where strong hands had held him while Macready had performed his favorite trick. Snapping a man's neck takes more effort than killing a cat. A man is unlikely to sit still while you do it. Grant knew that if he rolled Athey's sleeves up, he would find bruises on both arms. Four fingers and a thumb. Like the shake injuries on Sabata's wife or the bruises on Sarah Hellstrom's arms.

The anger cranked up a notch. He felt like turning it loose on Sabata for beating his wife despite the extenuating circumstances. He felt like taking it out on Scott Macready for beating Sarah because she'd lent Grant her car. Mostly he wanted to tear Tripp Macready's head off and shit down his neck. None of those things were going to happen. Not yet.

A shiver of foreboding ran up Grant's spine. His mind replayed the struggle that had taken place in the front office. The overturned table. The spilled papers. The telephone yanked out of the wall. Who had Athey being trying to warn? Not Eduardo Cruz because there was no phone at Fort Pena Colorado Park. That only left one person.

Sarah Hellstrom.

Chances were that Tripp Macready had come to the same conclusion. The only other person who had helped Grant since he came to Absolution. The only person aside from Doc Cruz who might be hiding him.

“Shit.”

He grabbed the coffin lid to slide it shut. Then he saw the red light blinking in the bottom near Athey's feet. Not an overturned kettle but a delayed timer tripped by Grant opening the coffin. The gas had cleared slightly but was still thick enough to be dangerous.

“Double shit.”

He turned and pushed Sabata towards the open door. Grant slipped on the smooth floor. He went down hard on one knee. The wound opened again, but he ignored the pain. The red light blinked faster, accompanied by an almost imperceptible
beep
,
beep
,
beep
.

Sabata got through the door first.

Grant didn't make it.

The light stopped blinking.

thirty-three

The peace and tranquility
of Absolution, Texas, was torn apart by the explosion and fireball half a mile west of town. It ripped the silence and shook the ground like a medium-scale earthquake. Half a mile west and three quarters of a mile southwest of the athletics track and Macready's compound. Everybody in town heard it, including Tripp Macready. The town dictator would have been quicker off the mark if he hadn't already been knee deep in his own preparations.

Jim Grant didn't know that.

If he had, he might have made some different choices.

Grant's back was on
fire. Rubble and debris bounced all around him. Shards of broken glass became deadly blades of shrapnel. Grant curled into a fetal position and protected his head with his arms. Shrapnel sliced his jacket and cut his hands. The flames were hot, but he couldn't risk putting them out until the fallout dissipated. He gritted his teeth and waited until the debris shower stopped. The fireball receded almost immediately, blown out by the force of the explosion and the lack of fuel. The debris took a few moments longer.

Sabata was up and running first. He whipped off his coat and smothered Grant's back. The flames went out but Grant's hair continued to smoke, singed down to patches of ugly stubble. As soon as he realized he had survived, he let out a roar of anger. Once he'd got that out of his system, his thoughts turned to the telephone warning.

“Sarah.”

He struggled to his feet but couldn't get his body moving. He tried to get his bearings. Gilda's Grill and Diner was at the other end of town. Sabata grabbed his arm.

“That is the first place they will go.”

Grant shook his head clear but didn't struggle. “This is the first place they'll go.”

Sabata nodded. “And very soon. Everyone in town will have heard the explosion.”

“Then let's go to the diner.”

“Straight through town? I don't think so.”

Grant wasn't thinking clearly, but he knew where he wanted to go. “Yes. Right now.”

His mouth said it, but his body wouldn't respond. His head began to spin again. This was too soon after the fever. He hadn't regained full strength yet. It seemed like he'd spent his entire visit to Absolution being pushed around or treated for injuries and illness. He tried to shake his arm free.

Sabata let go and held up his hands. “Evade and destroy. That's what you told Eduardo.”

Grant was confused. Had he really said that? Yes, he had. After struggling across the desert while Macready's men had searched for his body. Well, they could have his body now. Because he was going to find them. And make them pay.

“Destroy. Yes.”

Sabata persisted. “Evade first. Instead of standing here waiting for Macready to come get you.”

Grant nodded. Sabata was right. He was about to agree with the coyote when headlights sped around the back of the mortuary. Two pairs skidded to a halt and caught Grant in the crossfire. He held a hand to his eyes but couldn't see beyond the glare. Doors slammed shut and footsteps raced towards him.

“Amigo. There is no
time to waste.”

The concern in Doc Cruz's voice snapped Grant out of his daze. The doctor and the Mexican from Sixto's took Grant by the arm and urged him towards the car. Two other Mexicans shouted for Sabata to do the same. The pickup spun in a tight arc and headed back out of the motel. Cruz's car followed. The convoy crossed the road again and bounced over the railroad tracks. Headlights were turned off. The convoy disappeared into the darkness from whence it had come, heading south at the edge of town.

Grant looked out of the rear window at the smoldering ruin. He'd had enough of running and hiding. It was time to take the fight to Macready. But first he needed to make sure Sarah was safe.

“The diner.”

Doc Cruz squinted in the dark to follow the pickup. He indicated the old Mexican sitting in the back seat.

“Sixto's. Use the friends that you've got.”

The Mexican was nodding. The pickup took a left. Cruz followed.

“But not yet.”

He indicated the Mexican again.

“Javier lives down here. We need to regroup.”

Grant settled in his seat. “You hear that from Pilar?”

“I heard many things from Pilar. Enough to know you are a man to be trusted. Form your plan. Decide your tactics. After I have put out the fire in your back and treated your burns at Javier's house.”

Javier's house was on South Fifth Street, just off Avenue D. The low-rent houses Grant had seen across the railroad crossing on his way south. The bottom edge of town. In the opposite direction to Macready's and Sixto's. The pickup knew where it was going. Cruz pulled in behind it. In the yard of a ramshackle bungalow with torn curtains and a rusty children's swing.

Ten minutes later Doc Cruz was applying soothing balm to Grant's burns. Just like the first time Grant had seen him with Sabata's wife. The orange windcheater had taken most of the blast and protected his back, but he was still bruised and sore. The coat was scorched and tattered but was still hanging together, a bit like Grant himself. It was time to stop being the target and turn his fury on Macready. Cruz was right, though. Not yet. Not until he'd reconnoitred the enemy positions and not until he'd got Sarah Hellstrom out of the firing line.

That meant using the old Mexican's connections at Sixto's.

Grant hated waiting, but the Mexican had already set off while Grant was being treated. The band of desperados waited in the kitchen for Javier to return. Sabata and his friends. Doc Cruz. Jim Grant. The father and the Yorkshireman who had only come to Absolution to return the daughter's stethoscope. They didn't have to wait long.

The kitchen door creaked as Javier slipped inside. It was the first sound the group had heard. The Mexican might be old, but he moved like a cat. It gave Grant hope that the news would be good. It wasn't.

“Miss Sarah is gone.”

No surprise there. Grant clutched at straws.

“She left?”

Javier stood with his back to the door.

“Taken. By the pup.”

Nobody asked who the pup was. If Tripp Macready was the top dog in town, then his son was still wet behind the ears. Grant had hoped Hunter Athey had got through with his last phone call, but it had always been a forlorn hope. Sarah was the only other person in Absolution who had helped Grant. Scott Macready was the jealous type. Those two things added up to a world of trouble for the woman who refused to sell out.

“Adobe Flats?”

Javier shook his head.

“The hacienda.”

The old Mexican came to the table and pulled up a chair. He sat heavily, with slumped shoulders and a troubled brow. There was more, and it didn't look like good news. Doc Cruz waited patiently. Sabata leaned his elbows on the table. Grant looked from one to the other, than back at Javier.

“What?”

“The boy does not like you, and his father wants you dead. Miss Sarah is the bait. A trade—you for her.”

Doc Cruz huffed and stood up from the table. Sabata interlaced his fingers and flexed them until the knuckles popped. Grant kept his voice calm even though anger was building inside him.

“And if I trade?”

Javier lowered his eyes.

Doc Cruz let out a sigh.

Sabata answered. “He will kill you both. As a message.”

Grant let the rage subside, holding it ready for when he could set it loose. “Then it's time I sent a message to him.”

Javier held up a hand of warning. “He is ready for you. The soldiers—they are gathering.”

“The mercenaries?”

“Si, se
ñ
or.”

Grant looked at Sabata. “Convoy?”

Sabata shrugged. “Not so soon. Unless, after the factory explosion…”

“That wasn't me.”

“He doesn't know that.”

“Then why the mercenaries?”

Sabata nodded at Grant. “You are a dangerous man.”

Grant glared into space. “He doesn't know the half of it.”

He looked at Javier. “No sign of the trucks?”

“No.”

Grant fed all the information into his strategy computer. Professional soldiers. A walled, defensive position on the outskirts of town. An angry man out for revenge. He doubted Macready would underestimate Grant again after he'd slipped away from the mountain convoy. This would have to be a frontal assault unless he could think of something else.

“Is there a phone here?”

Javier shook his head. Grant thought about cell phone coverage nearer town. He hated mobile phones and had always told the young coppers in Yorkshire that he'd never have one as long as he had a hole in his arse. He wished his arse was sewn up now.

“Anybody got a cell?”

Sabata raised his eyebrows. “You gonna call him?”

“I'm going to call the cavalry.”

Doc Cruz waved the idea away. “No coverage.”

“Even in town?”

“There used to be two cell phone masts. Macready had them destroyed. He wants all calls going through the exchange.”

“And he controls the exchange?”

“He controls everything.”

“But he can't block calls.”

“He'll know where you're calling from.”

Grant thought about the only place he'd heard a phone being dialed: the Los Pecos Bank and Trust. Just down Avenue D from Macready's compound. Too close for comfort. Then he thought about where the call had been placed.

“Sixto's.”

This time nobody objected.