Power and Empire

8

Texas Department of Public Safety trooper Roy Calderon had already ended his shift and made it home once today. He’d just snuggled down against his wife’s pregnant belly at their small three-bedroom house in Mansfield when dispatch called his cell about an overturned cattle trailer at the 287/67 junction. The accident investigation and subsequent report had taken the better part of three hours.

Now on the way home a second time, Calderon thought about calling his wife to tell her he was fifty minutes out — the baby was probably keeping her up, anyway — but decided he’d better not, just in case she’d been able to drift off. Thinking about her made him smile. He hoped the kid was a redhead like her.

The trooper rarely had time to listen to the good-time radio during a normal shift. He preferred to keep his mind on the job between traffic stops, but there were no cars on the road this late — or this early, considering the fact that the sun would be up in a couple hours. The night was wonderfully cool, so he rolled down the windows on his Ford Mustang interceptor and turned up the volume on the AM to let Coast to Coast blast conspiracy theories into the darkness.

He caught the glimpse of taillights fifteen miles south of the Mansfield city limits. Trained to be inquisitive when it came to vehicles on “his” highway, Calderon stomped on the gas. The Mustang’s V-8 roared to life, throwing him back into his seat like a good interceptor should. The other car was going slow — too slow, really — and the Mustang closed the distance in a matter of seconds. The trooper silenced the good-time radio out of habit and fell in behind the vehicle.

The car, a maroon Chrysler 300, kept a constant speed of sixty-three miles an hour, two miles an hour less than the posted limit. It bumped the center line a couple times but didn’t cross it, and that could have been a function of trooperitis. Nobody could drive a quarter-mile without committing some kind of violation, least of all someone with a black-and-white staring at them in the rearview mirror. Still, there was a gnawing in Trooper Calderon’s gut that came from one part experience and two parts instinct — something about this particular vehicle — that made him want to do a little more investigation.

He asked Ellis County to run the license plate, gave the dispatcher his location, then decided to follow it for another minute or so. This guy hadn’t really done anything wrong. Calderon was exhausted, and he wanted to get home to his wife’s pregnant belly.

Then the face of a young girl popped up in the rear window. She hadn’t given him a long look. If fact, the face vanished as quickly as it had appeared, as if someone had ordered her away.

Calderon had seven years on with the Texas Department of Public Safety. Way back during his field-training days, a senior trooper in the Highway Patrol had once told him that only three kinds of people were out during the wee hours of the night — cops, paperboys, and assholes. Thousands of violator contacts over those seven years — many of them after dark — had proven the notion.

Ellis County came back over the radio and said the LP was registered to a guy named Carlos Villanueva, aka Parrot. The dispatcher was on the ball and had already run a triple-I, checking Villanueva’s criminal history as well as any outstanding warrants. He wasn’t wanted, but his record showed two convictions for driving while intoxicated.

Calderon followed the car for another mile, thinking about the girl — and whoever it was that ordered her out of the window.

“That’s too nice a car for a paperboy, asshole,” he muttered, and flipped on his red-and-blues.

Troopers in the Texas Highway Patrol are endowed with buckets of swagger by the time they graduate the DPS Academy in Austin. But swagger could get you killed if it wasn’t backed up with good procedure. As tired as he was, Calderon was careful and precise as he prepared to make the stop.

He gave Ellis County his new location and followed the Chrysler over to the right shoulder, stopping far enough back that the other car’s rear license plate was just visible over the front of the Mustang’s hood. He cheated the cruiser over a few feet to offer a little cover from traffic coming up behind him. Instead of walking up immediately, he flipped on the white, forward-facing halogens on the interceptor’s light bar. These “takedowns” flooded the back of the vehicle with bright light. Never one to engage in a fair fight when it came to his own safety, Calderon did one better and turned the dash-mounted spotlight so it hit the rearview mirror, effectively blinding the driver to his approach.

Then, instead of going up on the driver’s side, the trooper skirted around behind the Mustang so as not to cross in front of his own headlights, and made his approach on the right shoulder. He thought the guy with the peach-colored polo shirt was going to crap himself, he jumped so bad when Calderon tapped on the window with the butt of his flashlight.

Once the driver got over his initial shock, he blinked up at the trooper but kept both hands on the wheel. A lone girl was seated directly behind the driver. She was tiny — just a child, really — with long hair hanging down and obscuring her face. This was surely the girl he’d seen in the rear window. She pretended to be asleep, but her breath was uneven.

One hand on the butt of his SIG Sauer pistol, the trooper motioned with his flashlight for the driver to roll down the window. It came down with a motorized whine.

“Good evening, Trooper,” the guy at the wheel said.

He didn’t look like a Parrot.

“Morning,” the trooper said, getting a better view of the Chrysler’s interior with the periphery of his flashlight’s beam now that the window was down. He didn’t say anything else for a long moment.

“Is everything okay?” the driver said, right on cue. Nature wasn’t the only thing to abhor a vacuum. People — especially guilty people — hated silence.

“You tell me,” Calderon said.

“I’m fine,” the driver said.

“Are you Parrot?”

“I… where did you hear that name?” His hands began to slide down the sides of the steering wheel.

Calderon wagged his flashlight at the guy’s lap. “Scares me when you do that,” he said, grinning. The beam of his light illuminated an empty condom wrapper at the driver’s feet. Calderon shot a quick glance at the girl in the backseat. The grin bled from his face.

“Scares you?” the driver said.

“Do me a favor and keep your hands on the wheel until I tell you.”

The driver nodded but didn’t say anything.

“So,” Calderon asked again, “are you Parrot?”

“Parrot loaned me his car,” the driver said. “My name’s Reggie Tipton.”

“Is this your daughter, Mr. Tipton?”

Reggie gave a forced smile. “No.”

“Who is she?”

A long pause.

“She’s Parrot’s niece,” Reggie said. “I’m taking her to visit her aunt.” His hands started to slide down the wheel until Calderon wagged his light again.

“Parrot’s sister?”

“No,” Reggie said. “The girl’s aunt.”

“Parrot’s sister-in-law?”

Reggie shook his head.

The trooper raised an eyebrow. “Parrot’s wife?”

“No, her aunt,” Reggie said, looking up toward the ceiling, exasperated. “She’s not related to Parrot.”

Calderon nodded. “I get it,” he said.

Reggie finally caught on to his mistake. “I mean… Parrot just calls her his niece.”

“Okay,” the trooper said. “That makes sense.” The hairs on the back of his neck were already on end. “Had anything to drink tonight?”

Reggie’s shoulders slumped, visibly relaxing at the new line of questioning. He shook his head. “Not a drop, Trooper.”

“This is just a routine stop,” Calderon said. “You crossed the center line a couple times back there, so if you haven’t been drinking, I’ll just write you a warning.”

“Thank you,” Reggie said, relaxing even more.

“I just need to see your license and insurance and I’ll get you on your way.”

“Can I move my hands to get my wallet?”

“Anything down there I should be worried about?”

The girl in the backseat glanced up and shook her head, then pretended to be asleep again.

“No.” Reggie gave a nervous chuckle. “Nothing that I know of.” He moved slowly, pulling his driver’s license out of his wallet with trembling fingers, and then leaning across the passenger seat to pass it through the open window.

The girl behind him looked up again. Her hair fell away and Calderon was horrified to see the thick layers of makeup around her eyes and cheeks. It was smudged and streaked, as if she’d been crying. She was hardly old enough for a bra, but the lace straps of a lacy black one peeked from under her pink tank top. It was cold enough to hang meat inside the car, but the poor kid had on nothing but skimpy gym shorts and the thin shirt.

The trooper hoped he managed to hide his surprise. “What’s your name, hon?”

Tipton jumped at the question. He shot a glance over his shoulder, not bothering to conceal his anger. His leg began to bounce.

“Her name’s Mag… I mean Blanca,” Tipton whispered.

“Hi, Blanca,” Calderon said. He kept one eye on the driver but offered the child his best smile. It was difficult enough not to look imposing in the gray-green Highway Patrol uniform and Stetson. “My name’s Roy. How old are you?”

“She’s thirteen,” Reggie said. “She doesn’t have a license or anything. Look, if you don’t mind—”

Calderon put the light directly in the driver’s eyes while his right hand drew his SIG. “Reggie,” he said, his voice raspy and tight. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Shut your mouth and get out of the car.”

Tipton’s hands dropped as if to open the door but went to his lap instead.

Calderon saw the black metal of the pistol glint in the beam of his flashlight, and fired two quick shots from his SIG. Tactically, he should have stepped to the rear to keep more of the Chrysler between him and the shooter, but that would have put the girl directly in the line of fire, so he stepped backward, firing as he moved.

Tipton wasn’t smart, but he was committed, and he managed to get off four shots from his nine-millimeter before the third of Calderon’s .357 SIG rounds struck him below the right eye, ending the fight.

Calderon kept his SIG Sauer still trained on the dead man while he reached for his radio with his left hand.

“Shots fired, Dispatch,” he said into the mic, sounding more excited than he wanted to. He yanked open the passenger door and pulled the gun out of Tipton’s hand.

Suddenly woozy, Calderon grabbed the door post to steady himself. He looked at Blanca. “Are you okay, hon?”

“Yes,” she said, pointing at him. “But you… you are bleeding.”

The Ellis County Sheriff’s Office dispatch came back over the radio. “Three SO units rolling your direction,” the dispatcher said. “Paramedics also en route.”

“Ten-four,” Calderon said. He slid to the ground, leaning against the door. “Tell them to hurry. Suspect’s down. And I’m losing a lot of blood.”

Three minutes later found Roy Calderon lying in the dark on the gravel shoulder of the road. The young girl cradled his head in her lap. The odor of road tar and the sweet smell of newly cut hay from the field on the other side of the fence reminded him he was still alive — for the moment. Blanca Limón pressed her hand against the wound in his neck, slowing the flow of blood.

“Are you going to arrest me?” the girl asked.

Trooper Calderon gave a tired sigh. He was incredibly thirsty, and he knew that wasn’t a good sign. “You’re just a kid,” he said. “I don’t arrest kids.”

The little girl sobbed quietly, her trembling lips set in a grim line as if she didn’t believe him.

“Parrot told us all the police would put us in jail with the other whores.”

Calderon’s heart broke. “I would never,” he whispered. “Besides, you’re saving my life.”

The girl nodded again at that. “My name is Blanca Limón.”

Calderon licked his lips. He could hear sirens now. “Good to meet you, Blanca Limón.”

“More police are coming,” she said. “Do you think they will put me in jail with the other whores?”

“No.” Calderon coughed, wincing at the movement. “And you’re not a whore.”

“But I am.” Blanca’s crying grew more intense as the sirens got closer. “I have… I have something that maybe I can use to make a deal.”

“You don’t need to deal.”

“Maybe that is so.” She sniffed. “But maybe not. My friend was with a man earlier tonight—”

The trooper began to cough again, cutting her off. He closed his eyes and regained control. “Sorry,” he said. “Go ahead. You were with a man…”

“My friend,” the girl said, then stopped. She looked down at him as if coming to some conclusion. “Yes… I was with a man last night. I think this man is a spy.”

“Really?” Calderon stifled a smile, humoring her, a little kid telling fantastical stories. “A spy, you say?” The sound of approaching sirens grew louder. Dear God, Calderon thought, please let that be the ambulance. “Did this man hurt you?”

The girl hesitated, blowing out a long breath as if to regain her composure. “Yes,” she said. “They all do.” She looked over her shoulder, then back at Calderon. “My father used to watch many spy movies and this man bragged about doing things I think real spies must do. He fell asleep after he… finished. That is when I stole the thumb drive from his computer.”

“Really?” Calderon coughed again.

“You do not believe me?” Blanca said.

Calderon groaned. “Of course I believe you.”

“Well, I did steal it,” Blanca said. “Maybe I can give it to you and you will help my friend. Awful people have her now. And I am worried for what they will do to her.”

Calderon felt himself drifting off. He licked his lips, willing his eyes to stay open, to stay awake for the ambulance. “Not… a very good spy… if he let you steal his thumb drive.”

Blanca slumped. “She told me he was a spy…”

The trooper coughed. “What?”

“Nothing,” Blanca said.

“I’ll tell someone to help your friend,” Calderon said. The paramedics rolled up, and just like that, it began to rain cop cars. “And I promise to check out that guy for you. What’s his name?”

A tear rolled down Blanca Limón’s filthy cheek.

“Eddie Feng,” she said.