The Devil's Highway Page 7

  “I can see your point.” I thought for a second, and asked, “But what does your gut tell you?”

  He smiled a one-sided smile, and looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. “My gut? Policeman’s intuition? Like I said, Colonel Cushman had this done, all right. I just have to figure out the how and why. Those are the things juries want to hear.”

  “I got a sermon from your Colonel Cushman. He was telling me that his movement was all about Redemption for the USA, collapse of the government and the dollar, the Wrath of God. A return to a simpler way of life, which I guess is what they think they’re doing out there at the compound, playing soldier.”

  “”I’ve heard it all before, believe me. What did you think about Cushman’s spiel?”

  “If there’s a God, I don’t think he’s a politician.”

  Garrett laughed. “In my church, no one owns an assault rifle, that’s for sure.”

  He thought for a second. “Well, at least, as far as I know, they don’t.”

  I thought about Kiker’s black eyes, and his black Glock, both equally without human kindness.

  “He’s got some hard-liners out there, too.”

  “Yes, he does,” Garrett agreed. “I’ve often had to consider what I’d do if we ever had to go up against them.”

  “Whatever this Cushman is doing out there aside, I’m focusing on Brad.” I said to him. “ I think they are keeping him under guard, out on the compound.”

  “They are, I’m sure. Did they give you a reason?”

  “They’re saying he’s sick, and they also gave me some kind of song and dance about a visitation list.”

  Sheriff Garrett smiled bitterly. “Sounds like they’re making it up as they go long, but that doesn’t surprise me. Sorry to say there’s next to nothing that I can do about it, though. That compound isn’t even in my jurisdiction. It’s on land they rented from the Tigua Reservation, on a 99-year lease. Unless some kind of Federal crime is being committed, and the FBI or DHS comes in, the only law out there is Cushman, and his hired guns.”

  “They’re holding Brad Caldwell out there against his will. They also murdered Mendoza.”

  “But can you prove any of that?” he asked, his tone ironic.

  “You know they won’t let me see him.” I shrugged in response.

  Garrett nodded, and thought for a second. Then his head came up. “Surely you’re working for Caldwell’s parents, though, right?”

  “I am.”

  “Why not give them a call? Maybe they’d be willing to come out here, put pressure on Cushman to see their son.”

  “I considered it, but the father’s pretty ill, and I don’t want to add to the family’s troubles. Mr. Caldwell may be dying, and the mother’s the main care giver. That’s pretty much the reason they hired me. I get the idea the mother would have come out here, guns blazing, otherwise, if she’d had any idea where to look.”

  “Ah. Well, there is one other option, then—you could always go to the press.”

  “Tell me how to get them interested, and I’ll go straight to them. If we had Mendoza’s proof, that’s one thing. But they’d look at we have now and think we were the nutcases, making unsubstantiated accusations.”

  “True enough. Nothing newsworthy in a college kid going gonzo and joining a cult. Or a militia, if you want to call it that. But, mark my words, if your boy Brad was a pretty blond girl, all the channels would be out here with everything they had. They call it Missing White Woman Syndrome. No doubt, on the surface, it looks like Brad is where he wants to be. It all looks kind of normal to an outsider.”

  He fell silent for a second, then said, “Come with me, Longville. There’s a place I want to show you.”

  We walked to Garrett’s squad car and got in. Garrett drove back out the way I’d gone, towards the Redemption Army compound, but he pulled off the left shoulder of the road and followed a barely visible path around some rock outcroppings, until we were on a bluff about two hundred yards away from the compound.

  We both got out and walked around to the front of the car.

  “I come out here a lot, sometimes just to see what they’re up to,” Garrett said.

  “I came here after they killed Fernando Mendoza, and at other times, when there were fights between our people and theirs. They know I watch them, I’m sure. They know that we don’t want them here, complicating our lives. Now you’re here, complicating theirs.”

  “And that’s okay with you?”

  “You ex-military, Longville?” He asked me, instead of answering.

  I nodded. “Army. I was an M.P.”

  “Thought so,” Garrett said. “I went into the Army, too, because around here, that’s what you do. I was a Cold War soldier. When I got out, I came back here and decided to go into Law Enforcement. I started out as a deputy, up in Van Horn. I’m originally from here in Delgado, though, a native son. I got myself a little experience under my belt. After five years of giving people tickets on I-10, I came back here and ran for sheriff. That’s sixteen years ago, now. And it was all small town sheriff life, after that. That is, up until Tolbert and this Redemption Army crew showed up. Now, it’s like my own little Cold War, right here in West Texas. I want that to be over, Roland. I think Brad’s arrival, and now yours, might contribute to making that happen.”

  The sun was getting low in the Texas sky. Even the compound, sprawled out before us, took on a strange beauty in the desert sunset. I nodded down towards the place, where Cushman and Kiker and Brad awaited.

  “I’m going back down there, tomorrow, Sheriff. And I’m not leaving without Brad Caldwell.”

  Chapter 11

  After we got back into town, I left the Sheriff’s Office, and grabbed some lunch at May’s Place. I helped myself to one of the steaks that Donnie Mackey trucked in frozen, once a month. I lingered over coffee and my planned second visit to the compound, and decided that it was best to call it a day.

  I sauntered out into the falling night. A warm breeze was blowing in from the southwest, and there was a pleasant scent in the air. I wondered if could be those colitas the Eagles sang about, and decided to ask Garrett or Hughes about that. I was about three blocks from my hotel, when I heard someone call out to me.

  “Longville.” There was a strange accent to the voice that I recognized. Kiker.

  I turned. Kiker was walking quickly towards me from across the street. He was also wearing a padded jacket despite the West Texas heat. That told me he had something to hide. I put up a hand.

  “That’s far enough, Kiker.”

  He stopped two paces from me, and we stood there, staring each other down.

  “I came to tell you that you should stay away from the Redemption Army compound if you know what’s good for you. Your kind aren’t welcome there,” he sneered.

  “My kind? You guys don’t like black people?”

  “Your race is not the issue. Personally I do not like blacks, although the Colonel is indifferent to race. You are the problem. You are a trouble maker. Colonel Cushman is a great man, and I will not tolerate you interfering in his work.”

  “Colonel Cushman is a nut, and so are you, Kiker. I could not care less what either of you tolerate.”

  “I’ll teach you, kaffir!” Kiker snarled, lunging at me, a knife flashing in his hand. The bulky jacket he was wearing to conceal the fact he was carrying also slowed him; he telegraphed the move, and I leaned back, and grabbed his wrist and elbow and pushed him past me, letting the momentum of his lunge carry him into the wall behind me.

  Pushing his wrist into the wall, I brought all my weight in on the point where the shoulder joins the socket, one, two, three times. The third time he gasped and the knife clattered to the pavement. He went down and rolled. He was quick, but I’ve seen people a whole lot quicker in the North Birmingham projects where I grew up.

  I kicked the knife down the street and managed to give him a sound right cross on the jaw. From a squat, he tried to sweep my feet from under me,
something you see in Kung Fu movies, but it seldom works in the real world. He took a swing at me from a squatting position, an awkward move at best, which put him further off balance. I put a foot on his shoulder and shoved, sending him sprawling.

  Kiker tumbled, dazed, and backed away crab style before fumbling to his feet. He went into a karate stance and came at me again, but I stepped to the side and brought a fist down on his wounded shoulder. He howled with pain and backed away.

  “Had enough of this kaffir, Kiker?” I asked him.

  He rubbed his face and started walking quickly away. “This isn’t over!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Come on back, then! I’m just warming up!” I called after him, taunting him. I’d taken him to school, this time. I knew next time I saw him, Kiker would bring more than a knife.

  I watched him until he was out of sight and walked on to the Fermosa Hotel, where I had a room. As I rounded the last block, I saw two patrol cars and a couple of ambulances outside the main entrance. Two men were being brought out on stretchers.

  Garrett and Hughes were standing out front.

  “What happened?” I asked Garrett.

  “Hello, Roland. Strange situation here; there was a fight in the hotel bar. Not that a fight in a bar is anything new, but the bartender says that it was Redemption Army members that started it all. I have two men busted up pretty bad. Just young guys, twenty one, twenty two. It’s been months since any of Cushman’s people stuck their heads in a bar here in Delgado. Like I told you, they have their own watering hole on the compound. Tonight, four of them came in here, and basically jumped on two farm boys who were having a beer. They trashed the place, then they took off.”

  “My guess is that was meant to be a diversion.”

  “Diversion? From what?”

  “Well, I’m staying here, and I just had a little dance with Cushman’s buddy, Kiker. I think maybe this was either to make sure you guys didn’t come to my aid, or they were here to tip Kiker off if somehow I bypassed him.”

  Garrett looked me up and down. “That Kiker strikes me as a tough customer. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I think I might have dislocated his shoulder, though. I know I tried.”

  Garrett looked a little surprised, then he chuckled. “You amaze me, Longville. Too bad you didn’t break his arm. Did he have a message?”

  “In between racial slurs, I gathered that he was trying to get me to forget about Brad Caldwell, and the Redemption Army. I’m just not so easy to strong arm.”

  “Well, well. One question for you, then: Do you still think you’re going back out there tomorrow and get them to hand Brad Caldwell over?”

  “I guess not,” I admitted.

  “The ball’s in our court, now, that’s for sure.” Garrett said, suddenly pensive. “This is what it was like before, these people coming into town and jumping on our people, then dusting back out to their screwy compound, and covering for each other. They break the rules, and the rules protect them.”

  “Then it looks like time for us to break the rules, too.”

  “Which means what?” Deputy Hughes asked.

  I smiled at him. “Go out there, break in, and take Brad out.”

  Garrett looked at me like I might have just suggested that we go hunting rattlesnakes with our bare hands. “Pardon me for sounding negative, Roland, but just how do you plan to do that?”

  I smiled at him, like Big-Hearted Al must have smiled when he sold Brad that used Toyota. “That part’s easy. With your help, Sheriff.”

  “Hell yeah!” Hughes smacked a palm with his fist, while Garrett groaned theatrically, and smirked. “I had a feeling you were going to say that, Longville.”

  “I got the idea just now that you’d find the notion appealing.”

  “Well, that I might, but it also could cost me my job, that is, if Mayor Ferguson and the City Council thought enough of Cushman and his crew to kick up a fuss. But after tonight, they might just go out there with you. I’ve had it with these Redemption Army people causing trouble in Delgado. I think it’s about time somebody spoiled Cushman’s party.”

  Garrett paused, and gave me a mysterious look, then a sly smile. “But that would be me sticking my neck out for your cause. Are you willing to do the same for mine?”

  “Your cause? If you’re asking me to choose sides, Sheriff, I think it’s time everyone here in Delgado realized they were on the same side. That is, anyone who isn’t part of the Redemption Army.”

  “Glad to hear you say that, Longville. Meet me tomorrow morning at my office. There’s something that I want to discuss with you.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I took the elevator upstairs, half expecting more Redemption Army members to be lying in wait for me there. What I found was a much more pleasant surprise; Andrea Herrera, loitering outside my door.

  “Roland Longville. Are you following me?” She asked, with a raised eyebrow.

  “The Fermosa is the only hotel in town, I might point out. Are you staying on this floor, too?”

  “I’m on the next floor up. I just wanted to see if you knew what the excitement in the bar was about.”

  I told her what I learned from Garrett and Hughes.

  “It’s starting,” she said, her black eyes boring into mine.

  I grabbed her shoulders. “Andrea, you’re starting to sound like Cushman when he talks about the Apocalypse. You make it sound as though this was all planned out, just waiting for me to get here.”

  “Planned? No. I don’t subscribe to prophecy in my line of work. But do I think it was inevitable, yes. Maybe it really started when Brad Caldwell came here. Delgado, the Redemption Army Compound, all of it; it’s a pot that has been simmering for a very long time. I think you added that little extra heat that’s going to finally make it boil over.”

  I just stood there and looked at her. She reached up flirtatiously straightened my lapels and walked past me. “I’m in room 343, if you were wondering.” She whispered in my ear as she walked by.

  I watched her saunter down the hall. She didn’t look back.

  I like to make my own decisions, but ever since I had arrived in West Texas, I had felt like my every move had been planned out for me. Andrea believed there was a big battle coming, and I was going to be caught in its midst. Something told me that she was right.

  A couple of minutes later, I was knocking on the door of 343. Andrea answered the door, one eyebrow arched and a little smile playing at her lips.

  “Long time no see.” She turned, leaving the door open. I walked in and closed it behind me. She turned to face me. “Something you wanted?”

  “There’s something I’ve been wondering about.”

  She came up to me, put her palm on my chest. “What’s that?”

  “Fernando Mendoza and you came to Delgado to make a documentary. That was before you ever heard of Brad Caldwell.”

  “Yes,” she said, in almost a whisper.

  “So how did you know about Cushman, and the Redemption Army? You must have already suspected something.”

  “Fernando had heard things from immigrants. We were already working on another piece . . . . Fernando wanted to do a film on illegal immigration. Most people think illegals are all from Mexico, when the truth is there are many who make much longer journeys; they come from Mexico, Nicaragua, and points even further south. He wanted to show the public in the United States that the border that needs policing is Mexico’s southern border.”

  “And in the making of this other picture, you heard something about Cushman and the Redemption Army? Something that was big enough to draw the two of you here?”

  Andrea nodded, and put her head on my chest.

  “Some people who had been caught by the Border Patrol and sent back over the border told us about a woman they had met, who told them she had escaped from a large group that was being moved north by some militia group. It was just a rumor, and you hear many on the border. A few weeks later, tho
ugh, someone told us of some traffickers in Juarez who bragged of selling women to men in camouflage clothes in the desert near Delgado. Fernando decided we needed to know more, so we came here.”

  She raised her face up close to mine. “They killed Fernando. I’ve been alone here ever since.”

  I put a hand under her chin. “You’re not alone, any more.”

  Her face was very close to mine, now. Her eyes were glistening pools of darkness, bewitching, and I ached to be drawn into them. I stepped back.

  “I’d better go.”

  She took my hand and squeezed it, let it go. “You don’t have to, you know.”

  I hugged her once and smiled. I went out the door and closed it quietly behind me.

  Chapter 12

  I met Sheriff Garrett the next morning in his office. He was still acting a bit mysterious. Deputy Hughes met us in the squad room, eyes wide.

  “What’s happening, Sheriff?” I asked Garrett.

  Sheriff Garrett went around behind his desk and fetched something from a drawer.

  “Roland Longville, raise your right hand, please. And repeat after me.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. This was Garrett’s county, after all, and whatever happened, however this bizarre scenario played out, I was a part of it already, getting to be a bigger part of it by the minute. Now, I was about to do something that I never thought I would ever do again, however temporarily, I was about to get back into Law Enforcement.

  Garrett looked at me solemnly, and began: “Do you, Roland Longville, solemnly swear to uphold the laws of the City of Delgado and of the State of Texas—“

  * * *

  A little while later, it was a matter of public record: Deputy Hughes signed a document witnessing my swearing in, and notarized it himself. After that, he begged off to go grab himself some breakfast. Garrett and I talked for a few minutes, and he suggested we do the same. May’s Place was convenient, so we decided on there. We walked outside, though, to an unexpected gathering.