Illegal

EIGHTY-THREE

The bed of a farmer's pickup truck could be filled with a pile of fragrant manure, or sacks of lung-searing pesticides, or a basket of rusty rakes and dirt-clodden hoes. Simeon Rutledge's green Ford, built during the Korean War, smelled of polish and gleamed with wax. Had a moon been peeking through the rain clouds, the truck would have shined in the dark.

Payne lay on his back in the short, stubby cargo bed, Adam's Louisville Slugger at his side. The truck was parked in the circular driveway in front of the farmhouse. If someone drove up-say, Enrique Zaga, hauling Marisol along-Payne would leap over the low side panel and flail away at the man's skull, like Juan Marichal on Johnny Roseboro in Candlestick Park.

The other option was Rutledge driving to wherever Marisol was being held.

Payne heard the front door of the farmhouse bang closed. He fought the urge to peek over the side panel. Rutledge's cowboy boots crunched the gravel, his steps quick. The driver's door opened, and Rutledge's weight settled into the front seat.

The old Ford coughed and cleared its throat. Rutledge put it in gear and spun out of the driveway, spraying gravel.

Payne stayed down, bracing his feet against the back of the cab. He lost his sense of direction after several turns. Asphalt. Unpaved road. Potholes the size of canoes. The painkillers must be wearing off. His temples throbbed. His head was filled with billiard balls, clacking into one another. At the same time, some gremlin with a hammer was engaged in carpentry on his hip bone.

Lightning flashed from the southeast, a summer storm born in Mexico, crashing toward the valley. The heat of the day gave way, the air cool and moist, the smell of rain even stronger now.

The truck bounced along, branches of sycamore and birch trees forming a canopy over the bed. The dirt road gave way to another stretch of pavement.

Thunder rumbled across the sky. Zeus hurling thunderbolts. Angels bowling. God farting. Whatever.

Payne crept onto his knees and peered cautiously through the window into the cab. Rutledge's right hand rested on the spindly gearshift shaped like a question mark. His left elbow stuck out the open window.

A jagged lightning bolt creased the sky and exploded somewhere close by. Payne pictured a mighty oak tree splintered and smoking. Raindrops, fat and cold, pelted him, pinging off the truck bed.

Rutledge's cell phone rang, and Payne strained to hear. Over the noise of the wind and the engine, he couldn't make out what the old man was saying. But a second later, the brakes whinnied like a tired horse, and the truck skidded to a stop.

Rutledge jumped out of the cab, cell pressed to his ear. "That bitch! I don't fucking believe it! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

He paced in front of the truck, rain soaking him. The thunder sounded like a mallet banging a kettle drum.

Payne edged to the side panel. Saw Rutledge framed in the headlights. Jeans, boots, a black felt Tejano hat with a silver buckle. A Western holster was tied to his right leg. It housed a big-ass revolver, an old Colt. 45. The gun called the "Peacemaker." As if Rutledge had just arrived by stagecoach from Deadwood. On his left leg, a scabbard held a foot-long Marine fighting knife.

Raindrops shined in the headlights, silver daggers from the sky.

"Dammit!" Rutledge yelled into the phone. "The little gook was supposed to be watching her."

What the hell's he talking about?

"Payne must know where she is," Rutledge ventured. "That's why he cut down the trees. A diversion so she can run. It's all planned."

News to me, Payne thought, wishing he'd been that smart. Playing those words over in his mind.

"…so she can run. It's all planned."

"I can't believe Z's dead," Rutledge said. "Goddammit, I can't believe it."

Enrique Zaga? Oh, Jesus. Had Marisol killed Zaga and run for it?

"Me and Z grew up together. Little fucker was like my brother."

Payne ducked as Rutledge strode back to the truck, hoisted one boot onto the running board, and stared straight across the cargo bed. Water dripped from his hat brim, splashing Payne's face. If Rutledge looked down, he'd spot Payne, flipped on his back like a tortoise.

"Javie, you find her, and quick."

Javie. Javier Cardenas. Rutledge's private police force.

"Bring her to the old pump station. I'm gonna clean up this mess once and for all."

Another lightning bolt hit, close enough to shimmy the truck. The air smelled of ozone.

"Don't get on your high horse with me, Javie. Where's the fire in your guts? Your old man wasn't like that. Hector would have begged me to let him kill them himself."

Rutledge listened a few seconds, then barked, "Don't give me that 'Calm down, Sim' crap. You know what your problem is? You're pussified. Your mother babied you. And I gave you too much. Just do what the fuck I say!"

Rutledge clicked off and sank his butt onto the running board.

Payne curled his fingers around the handle of the aluminum bat, gripping it so tightly the muscles of his forearm knotted. He could do it now. Beat the tar out of Rutledge. Split his skull wide open. But then, how would he find Marisol?

The old pump station?

Where the hell was that?

For a moment, there was only the rain exploding like glass beads off metal. Then a wailing like brass horns, as startling as an orchestra in a desert. Simeon Rutledge was sobbing. Great, wracking sobs that sent tremors through his body and shook the bed of the truck.