Burn Zone

46

ALEX DUARTE SAT IN LINA'S PLAIN HOTEL ROOM ALONE WITH the FBI agent. Félix had left complaining of aches and pains as well as a lack of sleep. The DEA agent's edginess had become more apparent every hour.

Duarte looked at Lina and said, "I'm surprised Staub left so quickly."

Lina shrugged. "I was surprised he stayed so long. He really didn't add anything here in the U.S. But who can tell with a guy like him?"

"I thought you knew him pretty well."

"Why?"

"You seemed pretty, um, friendly with him."

She stared at him, the color rising in her face.

"You know what I mean." Duarte hoped that acted as a catchall apology.

"You and Félix kill me. You can't see past your stupid dope deal."

Now she had Duarte's attention.

"The colonel had a few questionable contacts, so I acted friendly to him to see if he'd talk. I stopped short of being physically friendly and seemed to turn him off. There's a lot law enforcement guys like you never get. This is called 'intelligence,' and I was trying to gather it."

If she was trying to make Duarte feel like an incompetent, immature jerk, she'd succeeded.

She didn't let up. "Didn't you and Félix notice he disappeared for a few days? Did you wonder where he went?" She looked up at the ceiling and said, "Jeez."

Duarte said, "Well, I…you know…"

"You guys are too interested in roughing people up and the rest of that police bullshit that you missed something close to you. There's a lot to intell, and that guy had something going on. It may have been a personal thing. Maybe a kinky one, but I don't know."

"He's that weird?"

"I definitely got a funky vibe from him."

"You don't think he was involved in any of the deaths, do you?"

"No way to tell."

Duarte looked off in space and said, "Wish I had some DNA to send to Alice to compare with our sample."

"Like what?"

"Anything, I guess. A hair or even an old cigarette butt with his saliva on the end."

Lina looked out onto her balcony. "We might be able to work something out."

Ike drove the pickup slowly along the access road the way they had come, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fleeing man. It had been two hours since he'd lost him, enough time to have made it back to the highway, but Ike thought he would've seen him by now.

He felt like he was on some big-game safari in Africa, hunting the dreaded white-trash moron. He smiled, thinking about his cool as he'd fired at the two men he had sent to the bottom of the canal. Sure, they were two unarmed men in a confined space, but it was still something Ike wouldn't have thought he could've done just a few months ago.

Now he had to find this man to avoid possible trouble with the Houston cops. He had heard not to fuck with Houston cops, and he didn't intend to ignore that advice.

His eyes scanned the acres of low brush on either side of the road. The problem was that the smelly, decaying racist could've just laid down and taken a nap, and Ike wouldn't find him. He now understood why they used so many men to search for escaped prisoners.

He stopped the pickup occasionally and walked out into the open fields, hoping to scare Charlie out of hiding, but had no luck. Finally, after two hours of searching, Ike decided to head back to the hotel, clean out his stuff and wait for Mr. Ortíz in case Charlie made it to the tough Houston cops and told them what had happened.

As he drove up the road and approached the highway, he could just make out the main building of his hotel. The sun was dipping in the west, and long shadows were cast over the area behind the hotel. He blinked his eyes when he thought he saw a figure just off the road about two hundred yards from the hotel.

It was a man, walking unsteadily, his shirt dark with sweat from his back and underarms. Ike smiled. It was Charlie. The older man apparently could walk pretty fast.

Ike smiled as he rolled down the window and idled up next to the exhausted man.

Charlie was so tired he barely looked over, and when he did, he showed no signs of surprise or fear. All he said was "Why?"

Ike pointed the pistol out the window with his left hand, point-blank at Charlie's weathered face. "Because now I can." He pulled the trigger once, hoping that if anyone at the hotel heard it they'd write it off to a backfire or part of a distant storm. He left Charlie where he lay just off the road. Who would ever notice an old drifter dead on the side of a little-used access road?

Alex Duarte looked at Lina as she studied what had been faxed to them from Lina's FBI office. On the small, round table they had notes, some computer phone tolls that Lina had gotten really fast through a contact with a phone company and a LexisNexis address profile on Cal Linley and Forrest Jessup. They hadn't dared ask for any information on William Floyd because they hadn't wanted to draw any attention to their efforts.

Duarte stretched his arms and looked up at the ceiling. When he finished, he looked at Lina. She had been telling him about the FBI and William Floyd.

"He's considered a domestic terrorist because of some past connections. When we first heard about him making contact with a known drug smuggler, we figured he was using the pot to finance something they were doing. Whatever he's up to, it's not at our direction."

"What would he be financing?"

"That's why they sent me instead of using a local agent. I'm supposed to find out what he's doing. He's on his own now. We need to rein him back in."

"Were you ever going to tell us your agenda?"

"No."

He looked at her.

"I wasn't authorized. You had no need to know."

Duarte nodded.

"I was only following orders." She gave him one of her crooked smiles, looking like a Picasso masterpiece.

"That line didn't work for the Nazis."

"The FBI is not the Gestapo either."

He went back to looking over the phone calls to and from Forrest Jessup's house. "These aren't normal toll records."

She smiled, "I used a different source to get them."

"What kind of source?"

"The NSA."

Duarte tried to keep the shock off his face. "Is that legal?"

"Do you care?"

He shrugged and went back to the records. "Here, look." He pushed the sheet of paper toward Lina. "He got one call." He looked closer. "Jesus, that was today? How'd they get these?"

She just smiled.

Duarte continued. "He got one call. It originated from Houston. See the eight-three-two area code."

Lina nodded. "So."

"Cal Linley thought his package had something to do with the oil business. Jessup used to be in the oil business and lived in Houston."

"Could be a coincidence."

"We need to start taking some chances. This may be a viable lead."

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number. After four rings, a man answered. "Hello?"

"Hey," said Duarte. "Where is this phone? I got a call from it."

"In the Santa Anna's Pit Stop off Brylan Street."

"In what town?"

"Jacinto City, Texas."

"Near Houston?"

"Yep."

"Thanks," Duarte said as he hung up.

He looked at a small map on the back of an advertisement booklet. It showed the Gulf Coast and East Texas. "If I were on my way to Houston, I'd go through Lafayette."

"Based on one call, you think he's in Houston?"

"It's where the information points."

"It's a stretch."

"You think they drove to Lafayette, then back to New Orleans?"

"I didn't say that."

Duarte said, "But what would be in Houston?"

Lina said, "A lot of Middle Easterners."

"That the FBI paranoia coming out?"

"No, it's just that there's not much else to Houston that might relate to a dirty bomb."

Duarte stared at the map as he considered their options.