The Last Witness

[THREE]

Little Palm Island, Florida

Sunday, November 16, 9:12 P.M.

Matt Payne looked at the phone number of the call that had just rolled into his voice mail. It was from area code 713. He tried to place it as the voice-mail message began to play.

“Howdy, Marshal. .”

Jim!

“. . If you can break free from that beautiful better half of yours, I’d appreciate you calling me. I’m following a lead in the Miami area right now, then another up your way.” He paused, and there came an overwhelming whine, what sounded like a jet aircraft passing nearby. He then went on: “I’m giving you a heads-up, Matt. It’s gotten worse-beyond CATFU. Call me.”

Beyond Completely And Totally Fucked Up? Payne thought.

What the hell could that be?

About two months earlier, Texas Rangers Sergeant James O. Byrth had come to Philadelphia-with his huge white Stetson that Payne had dubbed The Hat-hunting a vicious drug-cartel member who was trafficking in young girls, guns, and illicit drugs. Deputy Police Commissioner Coughlin had assigned Payne to work with Byrth.

Juan Paulo “El Gato” Delgado and his ring had left a trail of dead bodies from Texas to Philadelphia-and there kidnapped Dr. Amanda Law, not knowing she was in any way connected to Payne-before a shoot-out that found Delgado dead and Amanda rescued.

Payne regularly recalled one of the last things that Byrth had said when Payne dropped him at Philadelphia International Airport: “Come visit us in Texas, Marshal. We’ve got plenty more bad guys like Delgado. And it’s only going to get worse.”

Payne pushed the key on-screen that read CALL BACK.

Jim Byrth answered on the first ring.

“Howdy, Matt. Thanks for getting back so quick. You must be sitting around bored to tears. How are things in Philly?”

“Hey, Jim. On the contrary, I wish I was bored. Look, I may have to break off this conversation, but I wanted to at least return your call. What’s going on?”

“I just walked out of a titty bar-”

“Lucky you. Congratulations,” Payne interrupted, sharply sarcastic. “You called to tell me that?”

Byrth was quiet a moment, then said, “What’s crawled up your ass, Marshal?”

“Sorry. I am a little pissed right now.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“Not right now. I have to get back to dinner. You go.”

“Okay, I’ll make this quick. Can you run some Philly names and addresses through your system for me?”

“Sure. What’s it in regard to?”

“I reckon it’d be a long shot if I asked you if you knew what Pozole was,” Byrth said, and before Payne could reply, he added, “It’s a Mexican stew.”

Payne grunted. “So you called to talk about food?”

“You remember your buddy El Gato?” Byrth said, ignoring that.

The Cat.

Payne’s memory flashed with an image of a defiant Delgado, his hands and feet taped to a chair in a hellhole of a Philly row house.

Having just found Amanda captive there and cut her free, Matt had put the muzzle of his.45 between Delgado’s eyes. He wrestled with the impulse of blowing Delgado away, if not as payback for kidnapping Amanda, then to honor all the young Hispanic girls he had raped and tortured-including cutting off the head of one teenaged Honduran. In the end, Payne had decided against “shooting them all and letting the Lord sort them out,” and allowed the Cat what turned out to be at least his ninth life.

“Where’s this going?” Payne said. “The bastard’s dead. You saw to that.”

You tossed a black bean at Delgado’s bound feet-then turned a blind eye when our informant put a bullet in his head.

Not that the sonofabitch didn’t deserve what he got. Especially considering what he no doubt was going to do with Amanda, whether or not he got a ransom for her.

You’re probably tumbling another bean across your knuckles as we speak.

Is it white-or black?

Byrth had told Payne, also on their way to the airport for Byrth’s flight back to Texas, about the Mier Expedition, led by Texas Ranger John Coffee Hays in the 1840s.

Hays and Big Foot Wallace had pulled together a group to invade Mexico. South of the border, however, they found that they’d severely underestimated their target.

They were captured.

“The order came down to execute every tenth man,” Byrth explained.

Black and white beans were put in a pot to determine who lived and who died. A man drawing a black bean was shot. Those who drew the white beans lived to carry the tale back to Texas.

Byrth had then explained why he had no remorse for the informant’s “self-defense” killing of Delgado. Beyond the unspoken fact that it had been what Payne considered payback for all those whom the brutal Delgado had harmed, it also eliminated paying for courts and prisons.

“El Gato getting himself killed saved taxpayers at least a million bucks.”

“Los Zetas,” Byrth now explained, “makes El Gato’s little gang look like choirboys. And I may have just found evidence here in North Texas of their handiwork that I’ve witnessed in Mexico.”

“Zetas? The former enforcers of the Gulf Cartel?”

“Yeah. Now on their own and worse than ever. If it’s Zetas or someone copying them, it gives new meaning to ‘Don’t go digging up more snakes than you can kill.’ Ergo, CATFU.”

“What’s worse?”

“Liquefying young strippers-slash-hookers.”

“What? How the hell does that happen?”

Byrth began, “In the woods by a lake we have found a ratty camp with more than a half dozen fifty-five-gallon drums of sulfuric acid. . ”

“And,” Byrth finished five minutes later, “Sheriff Pabody, a really good guy, showed me this titty bar’s business card he found in the trailer. It’s got a girl’s handwriting that says when quote April unquote would be working and her phone number. I’ll send you a shot of it and forward the shot that Pabody sent me of her DOT ID.”

“That’ll work,” Matt said. “So, you went to the strip club and-”

“Yeah. The card said she was supposed to work there just these last three nights.”

“And let me guess-nobody knew nothing.”

“‘Nada,’ as it’s said in ol’ Ess-pan-yole. It took me some time to get anyone to even admit they could speak English. Finally I was handed a napkin with a phone number written on it. When I called, sounded like a white guy who answered. Identified himself as Todd Lincoln and said that he was the owner of the club. And he of course offered to cooperate completely. He might have some local Dallas cops bought to look the other direction but knows that I can really bring in the heat.”

“And?”

“And what else? I got the usual BS runaround. Anyone can get ahold of those cards and write whatever they want on them. He said he would ask his managers about any girls named April. ‘But it’s probably a stage name, if she exists at all.’”

“And since you don’t know what she looks like. .”

Byrth’s mind flashed with what was left of the face of the girl in the barrel.

“Not unless she’s the one pictured on the ID. Even showing everyone in the titty bar that image blown up on my phone I came up with zilch.”

Matt felt his phone vibrate once.

“Well,” he said quickly, clearly trying to wind up the conversation, “send those to me, and I’ll get them right up to Philly.”

“‘Up to Philly’? Where are you?”

“In the Keys with Amanda. But some shit’s just hit the fan, so I don’t know what’s next.”

“Is she okay?”

Matt could hear genuine concern in the Texan’s deep voice.

“Thanks, man. She’s fine. Someone we know is missing after her house was firebombed last night.”

“Damn. I’m sorry. I won’t hold you up any longer. Get back to me when you can.”

“Will do.”

“Good luck, Marshal.”

“You, too, Jim.”

Matt broke off the call, then checked the screen:

AMANDA 9:22 PM

WHERE ARE YOU? WE NEED TO TALK.

Oh shit, he thought as he typed: “Meet in bar?”

Is this good or bad?

Either way, I’ll need a drink.

Then maybe we can get back to dinner. . and everything else.

He hit SEND, and another message box popped on-screen:

BYRTH 9:23 PM

GOOD HEARING YOUR VOICE. IMAGES FOLLOW.

GIVE AMANDA A KISS FOR ME. TAKE CARE OF HER. . LADIES LIKE THAT ARE RARE INDEED.

As Matt smiled and nodded appreciatively, his phone vibrated twice. Each of the messages contained only an image. He studied the Hacienda business card, then the girl’s Department of Transportation ID.

Beautiful girl. .

Hazzard Street? That’s in Kensington.

He hit the FORWARD key, found Tony Harris’s phone number, and typed: “Our brother-in-arms the Texas Ranger needs whatever we can find out about this girl. Can you have someone run it ASAP? Maybe Kerry Rapier can crack it open beyond the obvious. Thanks.”

The girl’s bright eyes seemed to stare out at him as his finger touched the SEND key and the image went away.

He then looked out past the palm trees and the groomed white sand beach to the Atlantic Ocean, and the majestic moon and blanket of stars above it. The wind was picking up. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the cleansing feel of the salty air, then exhaled and shook his head.

So much beauty in this world. And so much hell.

You never know what’s coming next.

As Amanda’s friend Carl Crantz said just before his lungs gave out: “Live every day like it’s your last.”

He turned and started to walk up the tiki-torch-lined path toward the bar. Another message came in with an image.

A third?

He read it:

BYRTH 9:23 PM

MATT, THIS IS IT FOR NOW. FIGURED YOU NEEDED TO SEE WHAT WE’RE DEALING WITH. GOT THIS FROM THE SCENE.

FWD: GLENN PABODY 8:03 PM

JIM. . HERE’S THE LAST IMAGE.

And then he tapped the image.

“Oh shit!” he blurted.

He stopped and stared at the photograph of the acid-burned teenage girl’s face looking up from inside a blue barrel.