Tyranny (7 page)

K
yle drew in a sharp, surprised breath. Stella was just about the last person he'd thought he would see get out of that car.

Not that the sight of her bothered him. She looked spectacular today, wearing cut-off jeans and a sleeveless white shirt. She had tied the shirttails under her breasts, leaving her smooth, honey-colored midriff bare. Her long raven hair was loose today. It tumbled around her shoulders in dark waves.

She smiled and said, “You don't need that gun, Kyle. I'm not here to make trouble.”

“You didn't bring your friend Vern with you, did you?”

Stella's smile disappeared as she made a face and said, “That jerk. He's not my friend. He's just a customer at the store.”

“That didn't stop you from telling the cops I threw the first punch at him yesterday.”

“Well, you did, didn't you?” Stella shot back. “I wasn't going to lie to the cops and get in trouble for that.”

“He provoked me,” Kyle said. Then he shrugged and went on. “But I guess I can't really hold it against you. I wouldn't want you getting in trouble on my account, either.”

“That didn't stop
you
from leaving town a few years ago when I might have been in trouble on your account, did it?”

Kyle's back stiffened as he thought about the import of her question as she used his own words against him. He said, “You weren't—”

“No, I wasn't,” she broke in. “But that was no thanks to you.”

Kyle glanced over his shoulder at the screen door. Miranda was right inside, and she had to be hearing all of this. For some reason that bothered him, even though he told himself that it shouldn't.

Under other circumstances he would have welcomed Stella's visit, even though he was still a little peeved with her for what she had told the police about the fight. Today, though, he found himself wishing she would just get back in her old clunker and head back to town.

“Why'd you come out here, Stella?” he asked. “Is there something I can do for you?”

She came toward him, her mouth set in a pretty little pout now, her movements naturally sensuous.

“I thought maybe we could catch up on old times,” she said. “I figured your grandfather would be at church—”

“He is.”

Stella leaned her head toward Miranda's car and went on, saying, “But I see you already have company.”

The screen door's hinges squealed as Miranda pushed it open. Kyle grimaced, unsure whether he was reacting to the sound or to the fact that Miranda hadn't just stayed inside out of sight until Stella was gone.

“Don't worry, Ms. Lopez,” Miranda said as she stepped out onto the porch. “I was just leaving.”

Stella stopped short. The look she gave Miranda was almost but not quite a glare.

“I've seen you around town,” she said. “You're that lawyer from back East somewhere.”

“I'm Mr. Brannock's attorney, yes. And it's a legal matter that brought me out here today.” Miranda looked coolly over at Kyle. “If you'll give your grandfather that information, I'd appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Kyle said. He added, “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” Miranda said. She took the porch steps down to the ground and headed for her car, circling to give Stella plenty of room as she did so. The two women watched each other warily as Miranda went past.

She got in her car, backed around, and drove off. Some of the dust drifted toward Stella. She waved a hand in front of her face to brush it away as she watched the car dwindle in the distance.

From the porch, Kyle said, “Come on in. I think there's a pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator.” He had seen it earlier when he got the strawberry jam.

“No, I should go. You're busy.”

“I'm not the least bit busy,” Kyle assured her. He was a little disappointed that Miranda had left so abruptly the way she did, but she was gone now and there was no reason for Stella to leave, too.

“You were talking to the lawyer lady.”

“She was just telling me about some legal work she's doing for my grandfather.”

“That's all?”

“That's it,” Kyle said.

“She was kind of dressed up for a Sunday morning.”

“Really? I didn't notice.”

That wasn't strictly true. Kyle had noticed the way the jeans hugged Miranda's legs and hips. He had approved of the silk blouse and the lightweight jacket, too. But he had way too much sense to mention those things to Stella.

“Why'd you come out with a gun?” Stella asked, pointing at the rifle that Kyle still held with the barrel pointing toward the ground.

“I didn't know who was coming.” Kyle decided it wouldn't hurt to tell her the truth. “G.W. said some guys have been sneaking around the ranch. I thought it might have been them.”

Stella frowned and shook her head. She said, “Why would anybody sneak around the ranch? You think they're, like, rustlers or something?”

Obviously, Stella didn't know about the trouble G.W. had been having with the IRS. That was no surprise. G. W. kept things to himself. He wouldn't have gone all over town complaining. Chances were, the only one in Sierra Lobo who knew about the situation was Miranda, and G.W. would have told her about it only because he needed her help.

It must have rubbed his grandfather the wrong way to ask anyone for help, thought Kyle, especially a young woman. That was a good indication of just how serious the problem was.

G.W. wouldn't want him saying anything to Stella about it, so he replied, “I don't know what it's about. I just wanted to be ready in case it was anybody looking for trouble.”

“Maybe I'm looking for trouble and you just don't know it.”

She wore a flirtatious smile as she said it. Kyle had to grin back at her, glad that she had gotten over being miffed at him. He said, “I think I can handle that kind of trouble without a gun.”

“You think so, do you?”

“Yeah, I—”

Her smile disappeared again as she snapped, “Maybe you better get some legal advice to be sure.”

With that she turned and marched back to her car. Stella Lopez looked good leaving, no doubt about that—but Kyle didn't want her to go.

“Wait a minute!” he called after her. He started down the steps. “You don't have to leave—”

Too late. The slam of her car door cut off his words. With a rattle, the engine started. Stella didn't bother backing up. She just swung around in a wide circle and punched the gas as she started toward the highway, the car's tires spitting gravel and kicking up dust.

Kyle stood there on the porch watching her go and thought about how he'd two good-looking women come to see him this morning, and yet here he was, alone.

Yeah, that was about par for the course.

B
arton Devlin wasn't sure why he'd had to arrive in Sierra Lobo on Saturday. Monday was the earliest he could make his move against G.W. Brannock, so it seemed like he could have flown from Washington to Dallas and driven out here on Sunday just as easily.

But Devlin wasn't the sort of man to question orders, so he'd shown up on Saturday, as he'd been told to.

With nothing to do on Sunday, he had gone out for breakfast at one of the local cafés, gone back to the motel, and spent the morning double- and triple-checking everything in the documents he had brought with him. He didn't like to leave anything to chance.

That and his sheer love for what he did had enabled him to rise rapidly in his job.

While he was eating breakfast, he had been aware of the guarded, hostile glances directed at him by the café's other patrons. Word had gotten around town that he was an IRS agent, he thought. That meant the motel owner, Lou Scarborough, had spread the news.

The attention didn't bother Devlin. He figured he could probably charge Scarborough with hindering an official investigation. At the very least, one simple notation in the computer would ensure that Scarborough was audited every year for the foreseeable future, the same way many Republican business owners were.

Devlin thought about that several hours later as he was going over his paperwork, and it still brought a chuckle to his lips.

He wasn't nearly as amused when someone knocked on the door of his motel room that afternoon.

No one should be disturbing him. Maybe Scarborough was coming around to suck up and try to get back in Devlin's good graces. It wouldn't do him any good, but Devlin supposed it wouldn't hurt anything to let him make the attempt.

Devlin enjoyed a good grovel as much as the next federal employee.

But when Devlin opened the door, it wasn't Lou Scarborough who stood there. It was a man Devlin had never seen before, in a rumpled suit that was obviously expensive despite its wrinkles. The man's collar and tie were loosened, and sunglasses covered his eyes. A wooden toothpick stuck out of one corner of his mouth.

Devlin hated him on sight.

Without taking the toothpick out of his mouth, the man said, “Barton Devlin?”

Instead of answering the question, Devlin said, “Who are you?”

The man reached inside his coat. Devlin frowned and abruptly wondered if he should be scared. In all the years he'd been an IRS agent, despite all the lives he'd ruined, no one had ever pulled a gun on him or even taken a swing at him. The fear that the citizenry felt for the IRS—and it was only right and proper that they should feel that way, Devlin believed—was just too deep and ingrained for them to conceive of striking back.

The casual arrogance with which this stranger carried himself, though, said that he wasn't afraid of anyone.

And
that
made a chill go down Devlin's back.

But it wasn't a gun the man brought out. Instead it was a leather folder designed to hold a badge and an identification card. Devlin recognized it right away, because he carried the same type of folder.

The stranger flipped it open, held it out, and said, “Slade Grayson, BLM.”

Devlin's first impulse was to say that he didn't believe it. He had known many men and women who worked for the Bureau of Land Management, and none of them had looked like the man standing at his door. They tended to be mild, peaceful sorts, the children and grandchildren of former hippies, unable to quite comprehend that they had become the unquestioning government drones their parents and grandparents had despised.

With his dark hair, sunglasses, and suit, the man who called himself Slade Grayson looked more like a Mafia hit man. Devlin wasn't sure such creatures existed anymore. He supposed organized crime was still around to some extent, but it had paled almost to insignificance in these days when the federal government thankfully controlled almost every aspect of every citizen's life from the cradle to the grave.

Grayson started to close the folder. Devlin said sharply, “Wait a minute. I want a better look at that.”

With a grunt, Grayson opened the folder again and held it out farther. Devlin studied the badge and ID card for several seconds. Both of them certainly looked authentic enough, and there was no doubt that was Grayson's picture on the card.

“Satisfied, chief?” Grayson asked. The toothpick jumped up and down when he talked.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Grayson snapped the folder shut and put it away. With a cold smile, he said, “You gonna ask me in? You know, one of Uncle Sam's loyal servants to another?”

Devlin's hatred for the man deepened. No one had a right to make fun of the federal government, and he thought he heard mockery in Grayson's tone.

But he stepped back and said, “Come on in.”

Grayson sauntered into the room and looked around.

“Not exactly fancy, is it?” he drawled.

“That doesn't matter. It's just a place to stay while I do my work.”

“Nice utilitarian little bureaucrat, aren't you, Barton?”

Devlin bristled and said, “What are you doing here, Grayson? You obviously know who I am—”

“And I know why you're in Sierra Lobo, too,” Grayson interrupted. “You're here to take G. W. Brannock's ranch away from him.”

“He owes back taxes, fines, and penalties that he's refused to pay. He deserves everything that's going to happen to him.”

“Maybe, maybe not. It doesn't matter anymore.”

“Doesn't . . . doesn't matter anymore?” Devlin sputtered. He'd never heard anything so outrageous in all his life. Nothing was more important than collecting taxes so the government could continue to function.

Certainly nothing that had anything to do with the Bureau of Land Management!

“That's right,” Grayson said with a smirk. “I'm heading up the government's dealings with Brannock now.” His tone hardened as he went on. “I wouldn't have to be telling you that if you hadn't jumped the gun. You weren't supposed to seize the old guy's ranch until Friday. You shouldn't even be here yet.”

Even though Devlin was angry, his keen brain still worked swiftly. Now it made sense why his superiors had moved the seizure up. They must have heard rumors that the BLM was interested in Brannock's ranch, too, and they wanted to bring the case to a conclusion before those rival bureaucrats could get their dirty paws on it.

“You're the one who shouldn't be here,” Devlin snapped. “I don't know what you have in mind, but the IRS has a prior claim on Brannock's property. All the paperwork will be filed as soon as federal court opens in El Paso tomorrow.”

“No, it won't,” Grayson insisted. “That deal's dead. You can pack up and go home.”

“I don't believe it!”

“Then call your bosses and ask them,” Grayson suggested. “Or don't. It really doesn't matter to me. You see, Bart, ol' buddy, I don't care if you stay or go, as long as you do one thing.”

“What's that?” Devlin demanded.

Grayson bared his teeth in another grin that sent chills down Devlin's spine.

“Stay the hell out of my way,” said the man from the BLM.