Invasion USA (14 page)

But they would. Soon.

14

Tom was watching television in the bedroom when Bonnie came out of the bathroom wrapped in her robe, a towel in her hands which she vigorously used to dry her hair. “It's all over the news,” Tom told her. “They're already calling it the SavMart Massacre.”

Bonnie stopped drying her hair and perched on the edge of the bed beside him. Together, they watched the newscast from one of the Tucson stations. Being fairly close, the station had gotten a reporter and a camera crew on the scene already. The national networks were relying on their affiliates in Arizona for immediate coverage, but this was a big enough story so that reporters from New York and California would be coming in soon.

The female reporter doing the stand-up was at the edge of the SavMart parking lot, with the sprawling building visible behind her. From the looks of things, the entire parking lot was blocked off. Several large, boxy vehicles were parked near the store entrance. The reporter identified them as belonging to the forensics department of the state police.

“We've confirmed that agents of the FBI and the Border Patrol are also on the scene,” the reporter said. “A few minutes ago, we spoke with Sheriff Buddy Gorman.”

The scene switched from live to videotape, but the background and the angle were almost identical. Buddy Gorman, looking tired and harassed and impatient, said to the microphone stuck in his face, “Yes, federal authorities have arrived, but they're here to assist us, that's all. The Sierrita County Sheriff's Department is in charge of the investigation.”

From off-camera, the reporter's voice asked, “Is there any truth to the rumor, Sheriff, that the army or the National Guard will be called in? Will Little Tucson be placed under martial law?”

“Absolutely not. What happened here today was robbery and murder, not an invasion, and we're not going to treat it as such.”

“But, Sheriff, some people are saying that the criminal gang known as M-15 has declared war on Little Tucson.”

Buddy shook his head. “I don't have any comment on that except to say that the investigation into this tragic incident will continue until the people responsible for it have been identified and brought to justice.”

He turned away, ignoring shouted questions from several reporters, and the coverage cut back to a live shot. The female reporter, looking remarkably cool considering the fact that it was late afternoon and the temperature had to be hovering around 110 degrees, said, “Those were Sheriff Gorman's comments just a few minutes ago. The sheriff declined to tell us how many people have been killed, saying that an official statement on the death toll would be issued later, but a source at the Sierrita County Hospital tells us that so far there are twenty-two fatalities and at least thirty other people were injured, many of them seriously. No names of the dead and wounded have been released. Reporting live from Little Tucson, this is—”

Tom pushed a button on the remote and turned the TV off. “Twenty-two people dead,” he said in a hollow voice. “If you count the ones M-15 killed before, we're talking about more than two dozen murders. In less than a week!”

Bonnie put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed the stiff muscles in the back of his neck.

“I don't care what Buddy says,” Tom went on. “This
is
a war, an invasion. It started small . . . more drug running, more smuggling of illegal immigrants. . . and people just said how awful it was and talked about how somebody ought to do something about it. Then more robberies, and a killing here and there, and then a bank robbery in broad daylight. . . and now this! What the hell is next? M-15 comes in and tries to take over the whole town?”

“That won't ever happen,” Bonnie said.

Tom snorted. “Buddy can't stop it with just him and a handful of deputies.”

“The FBI and the Border Patrol are here, the lady on TV said—”

“This may be more than the FBI and the Border Patrol can handle, too. Who knows how many of those M-15 bastards there are? Hundreds, anyway, maybe thousands.”

“Take it easy, Tom. It's not your responsibility.”

He turned toward her. “Damn it, I almost lost you today! You could have been killed!”

She met his angry gaze squarely and said, “Now you know how I felt when I heard about you tackling those men who kidnapped Carla May.”

Tom couldn't argue with that. He was saved from the necessity of trying to do so by the ringing of the telephone. He turned to the bedside table and picked up the cordless unit from its base.

“Hello?”

“Tom, this is Pete Benitez.”

Tom frowned in surprise. Pete Benitez was the editor and publisher of the Little Tucson
Eagle
, a weekly newspaper devoted to local news. Tom knew him fairly well, having run ads in the
Eagle
on a regular basis for years.

“What can I do for you, Pete?”

“I heard that Bonnie was at SavMart when those bastards shot the place up this afternoon.”

Tom's hand tightened on the phone. “You're calling for an interview?” His voice was edged with anger.

“What? Lord, no! The
Eagle
can't compete with the dailies and TV, and I don't have any interest in trying to. I just wanted to make sure Bonnie was all right.”

“Oh.” Tom felt a little sheepish now. “Sorry I snapped at you, Pete. Bonnie's okay. Pretty shaken up, of course, but she wasn't wounded.”

“That's good.” Pete hesitated for a second, then went on, “You know, you
will
be getting requests for interviews, once the big news outlets know Bonnie was there. You'd better get an answering machine, if you don't already have one.”

“We do, but thanks for the advice, Pete—”

“There's something else,” the newspaperman cut in. “The little girl Bonnie saved . . . Deputy Henderson told me about what happened . . . the little girl is my cousin Hector's daughter Felicia.”

“Well, I'm glad that Bonnie was able to—” Tom stopped short as the realization hit him. “That means . . .”

“Yeah. Hector was killed.”

“Oh, Lord. I'm sorry, Pete.”

“We all are.” Tom heard the man take a deep breath, probably to get his grief under control, and then Pete went on, “That's still not all I've got to tell you. The town . . . hell, the whole county . . . is pretty well up in arms about this, and there's been a meeting called for tonight at the high school.”

“A meeting?” Tom repeated. “What sort of meeting?”

“People want to get together to talk about what happened.”

That might help some folks to feel better, but other than that it didn't sound too productive to Tom. He said, “I don't know—”

“They plan to talk as well about what we can do to keep anything like this from happening again.”

That was more intriguing. “What are you getting at, Pete?”

“Most people like Buddy Gorman just fine,” Pete said bluntly, “but not everybody believes that he's equipped to deal with a threat like this. Hell, we
know
he's not.”

Tom nodded, even though he knew the man on the other end of the phone line couldn't see him. “I've been thinking the same thing. Who organized this meeting?”

“I'm not sure. The word just started going around. I think you ought to be there, Tom. You're the only one who's taken on M-15 and won.”

“There were only two of them—” he began.

“Plus the three who broke into your house, all of whom you put in the hospital.”

“I don't know anything about that,” Tom said flatly.

“Hell, I don't care whether you admit it or not. I told you I'm not fishing for a story. I just think you need to be at the meeting.”

Tom thought it over, but only for a few seconds. “All right. I'll be there.” Bonnie looked at him curiously, obviously wondering what he was talking about. He held up a finger to indicate that he would explain.

“Good,” Pete said, sounding relieved. “Seven-thirty at the high school gym.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Tom hung up, and Bonnie asked, “What meeting? What's this all about, Tom? Was that Pete Benitez?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, answering the last question first. “That little girl you helped this afternoon was his cousin Hector's daughter.”

Bonnie put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear Lord. That poor man who was shot was Pete's cousin?”

“Yeah.”

“I feel so sorry for the families . . . for
all
the families.” She shook her head, then went on, “What about the meeting?”

“People are getting together at the high school gym this evening.”

“To talk about what happened?”

“To talk about how to keep it from happening again.”

A frown creased Bonnie's forehead. “That sounds a little like you're talking about vigilantes.”

“More likely people just want to put some pressure on Buddy Gorman to bring in help from the federal government.”

“Are you going?”

“Pete said I ought to be there.”

Bonnie nodded. “Then I'm going with you.”

Tom wasn't going to argue with her. In fact, he was glad he hadn't been forced to try to persuade her to come along.

He wasn't sure if he was ever going to go anywhere without her—or even let her out of his sight—again.

 

 

Pete Benitez had certainly been right about one thing—the phone rang at least a dozen times in the next hour, as reporters began to get hold of the names of some of the people who had lived through the already notorious SavMart Massacre. Tom answered the first few times and told the persistent questioners on the other end that his wife wasn't giving any interviews just yet. After that, he ignored the ringing and let the machine pick up.

When it came time to leave for the meeting at the high school, Bonnie was dressed in a simple, tasteful dress, and Tom wore jeans and a sports shirt. As they got into the F-150 and left the house, they spotted several TV station vans parked on the road that circled through the residential area.

“They'll probably be camped on our doorstep by the time we get back,” Tom said glumly.

“You can sic Max on them,” Bonnie said.

“Damn high-tech vultures,” Tom muttered as he drove past the vans with their satellite uplink equipment.

At this time of year, the sun was still fairly high in the sky at seven-thirty, and the heat was brutal. That didn't seem to have affected the turnout for the meeting. The high school parking lot was nearly full, and Tom saw quite a few people filing into the gym.

The bleachers were almost full, too, but Tom and Bonnie didn't have to hunt for a place to sit. Pete Benitez hurried up to them, a short, energetic man with red hair courtesy of his Irish mother. He pumped Tom's hand and said, “Glad you made it. Come on out onto the floor, both of you.”

Tom frowned as he saw that several long tables had been set up on the gym floor, with folding chairs behind them. He was a little surprised to see Buddy Gorman sitting at one of the tables. Several members of the city council and some of the county commissioners were out there on the floor, too, along with some men and women in city clothes who he didn't recognize.

“What's going on here, Pete?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

“You'll see.” Pete tugged on his arm. “Come on.”

Tom thought about jerking free from the newspaperman's grip and walking out, taking Bonnie with him, but his curiosity got the best of him. Something was up, and Tom wanted to know what it was, even though he had an instinctive feeling that he wouldn't like it.

He allowed Pete to steer him and Bonnie behind one of the tables, where they sat down next to one of the men Tom didn't know. The man wore a dark, sober suit, had thinning brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. Tom couldn't decide if he looked more like an insurance salesman or an undertaker. On the other side of the stranger sat a woman who was also dressed very conservatively. She wore a pair of gold-framed glasses, and her blond hair was pulled back severely.

Pete Benitez went to a lectern that had been set up between a couple of the tables. The school's public address system, which was used at pep rallies and consisted of an amplifier and a couple of speakers, sat on the floor in front of the lectern. Pete picked up the microphone, which was attached to the amplifier by an electrical cord, switched it on, and tapped it, causing a couple of loud pops. He lifted the mike to his mouth and asked, “Can you folks hear me all right?”

An affirmative rumble came back from the crowd assembled in the bleachers, which fell silent as Pete continued, “Thank you for coming this evening. I don't have to tell you what happened this afternoon, or how shocked and horrified we all are about it. Some of you lost loved ones in this tragedy. Many of you have friends or relatives in the hospital right now, fighting for their lives. Sheriff Gorman has agreed to come here tonight and give us a statement on the most up-to-the-minute developments.”

A little lukewarm applause sounded from the bleachers as Buddy stood up and came to the lectern to take the mike from Pete Benitez. He brought it a little too close to his mouth, causing a brief squeal of feedback before he lowered it and said without preamble, “The death toll from this horrible incident stands at twenty-three.”

Someone else died since that newscast he and Bonnie had seen earlier, Tom thought.

“The investigation is continuing,” Buddy went on, “but at present we don't have any suspects in custody. I've requested assistance from the state police, and the FBI and the Border Patrol have also agreed to consult with us.”