Spectre Black (3 page)

Chapter
4

After a few hills, the road straightened out through a wide, flat valley. It was an agricultural area: beans, chiles, and cotton, the road a black arrow straight to hazy blue mountains in the distance.

The milepost number grew higher. When it passed 120, Landry actively started scanning for a Circle K. He was only eighteen miles away from Milepost 138.

He drove past several farms, everything from a few acres and a farmhouse to massive agricultural concerns. There were three big farms and two small ones. The big farms looked new and well kept; acres and acres of farmland hemmed in by twelve-foot-high chain-link fences with concertina wire on top. The wire was new and shiny. He noted complexes inside complexes and rectangles inside larger rectangles. The buildings looked new and state of the art, made to loosely resemble the gracious haciendas of California and Mexico. All of them appeared to have the same architect. The only differentiations in the buildings were the individual layouts and the colors of the buildings. One farm had beige walls and rusty-brown metal roofs. Another had white outbuildings and slate-gray roofs. Another had beige buildings with red roofs. A white sign flashed by: “Jordan H. Green Experimental Agricultural Station: Your Tax Dollars at Work.” Another sign, also white, but with blue letters instead of black: “Heron Lake Agricultural Farm.” Landry looked for a lake but didn’t see one. He did see irrigation ditches, though.

The third big farm was called “The Valleyview Experimental Agricultural Station.” Like its companion farms, the Valleyview Experimental Agricultural Station was neatly laid out with computer motherboard precision. There were two gigantic manufactured steel buildings and several smaller ones, all fitting together in a pleasing manner, divided by paved roads lined by poplar trees. A small airfield and hangar were situated at one end of the grid of bean fields.

He slowed a tick—no one else on the road—as he drove past the mega farm, instinctively enjoying the layout, the neat interlocking parts. Precision was something that appealed to his eye. He had always been drawn to circles and squares and triangles. Geometry had been his favorite subject in school.

He watched the farm dwindle in his rearview. The land became fallow farmland again and the odd patch of desert. As he left the valley and the farms behind, the road climbed a little.

Up on the left he saw a child’s building block of a structure—the Circle K. An old one, the kind he used to hang out at during his youth. The pole rose above it but the sign was gone, except for a rusty square frame.

Landry didn’t alter his speed, but drove past it, cop style. First, get the lay of the land. Then, go back. At approximately two hundred yards beyond the Circle K, Milepost 138 flashed by.

He scanned the road, looking for anything or anyone, but saw nothing. He turned around and drove back, pulling off the road into the pitted asphalt parking lot. Aimed for the tamarisk tree at the edge of the lot near the rear of the building, and parked behind it. This way he was hidden from the road on one side and blocked by the bulk of the abandoned building on the other.

He saw the pay phone on the side of the Circle K. Turned on his 4G and punched in the number Jolie had left with his answering service. The phone rang.

Landry had mixed feelings about tamarisk trees. They were salt cedars, imported from the Mediterranean. They clogged up rivers and streams in the west, killing the natural flora and fauna, and they sopped up a lot of water. On the other hand, their shade wasn’t just good, it was spectacular—the deepest, darkest, coolest shade you could find anywhere. At this time of day, going on eleven in the morning, the area under the tamarisk tree was as black as ink.

Landry went out on the road and looked from every angle. The car was, for all intents and purposes, invisible.

Just in case someone pulled in (unlikely, as the Circle K was obviously abandoned) Landry opened the trunk and pulled out the spare tire and the jack. He left the trunk open and set the spare tire against the car and the jack near it. It would look like he was just getting ready to work the tire.

He leaned against the car, staring out at the road and the shimmering blue mountains to the east, and once again punched in the number of the pay phone.

This time he let the pay phone ring again and again and again while he scanned the desert for movement.

She did not come.

But someone did. Or rather they drove by, in a hurry: two Tobosa County Sheriff’s cars, light bars blinking. They whisked past, going at least eighty miles an hour, in the direction Landry had come from. They disappeared over a hill and the sound diminished.

Landry wondered where they were going in such a hurry, but decided it was none of his business. He continued to wait for Jolie Burke, staring out at the desert, and tried calling again.

The same result. Nothing.

Another city or county car—this one a plain wrap—blew through, followed by a tall white panel van. After that, nothing. Landry continued to try the phone at the Circle K periodically, as noon turned to afternoon. One hour turned to two hours turned to three hours. The sun moved and he moved with it, staying in the shade of the tamarisk tree.

For hours at a time, the road remained empty. There was very little traffic either way. Maybe one or two cars, zipping by.

No sign of Jolie.

He checked his answering service: nothing.

Maybe she was waiting until it was dark. But Landry couldn’t stay out here much longer. Even though there was little traffic on the road, the disabled car would become conspicuous at some point. That point hadn’t been reached yet, but it would soon.

He counted only fourteen cars in a three-hour stretch, all whizzing past.

Late in the afternoon, a rancher drove into the lot and parked near the tree. He leaned across the seat and yelled through the open window, “Need help?”

“I got this,” Landry said. “Thanks.”

“You sure?” The rancher turned off the engine and got out of his truck. He wore a straw cowboy hat, a snap-button plaid shirt, and boot-cut Wranglers. Wranglers and Roper boots. The man’s face was seamed and brown, like a gingersnap cookie. He reached out and shook Landry’s hand. “Name’s Jerry Boam.”

“Boam? Like the giant bottle of wine or the first king of Israel?”

The rancher laughed. “Both, I reckon. My parents, God rest ’em, had a sense of humor. Funny thing is, they was both teetotalers.”

“I’ve heard everything, now.”

“Nope. There’s plenty more where that came from. My sister’s name is Margarita.”

Landry covered his eyes against the glare. “I’m new here, came to see a friend of mine. Her name’s Jolie Burke. Do you know her?”

He thought for a moment. “She live in Branch?”

“Yup. She’s with the local sheriff’s.”

“Sounds familiar. Local girl? You sure you don’t want a lift?”

“No thanks, I’m good.” Landry grinned. “It’s time I brushed up on my tire-changing skills.”

“Seek and ye shall find, that’s what the Lord says.” The rancher reached into his breast pocket and pressed a pamphlet into Landry’s hand. “We’re all travelers in search of answers. I think you’ll find some comfort here.”

Landry looked down at the religious tract in his hand. Boam hopped into the truck cab, started up the engine and cocked his elbow on the door. “You see those sheriff’s cars?”

“Sure did.”

“You know what they were going to?”

Landry shook his head. “No idea.”

“Guess I’ll hear about it on the news. Or on the Internets. You take care now and drink plenty of water. It gets hot out here.”

Landry held up his water bottle with a grin. “What are the motels like in Branch?”

“Oh, fair to middlin’. The Satellite INN is nice, though. Wife’s cousin works there. They got cable TV, even serve breakfast. Nothing fancy, just some coffee, rolls, butter patties. Swimming pool, too. I remember when the place was built in 1963. Most modern thing I ever saw. Oh, if you do like wine, which I do
not
, there’s a winery right here in Branch. Think it’s over by the Walmart.”

“Thanks.”

Boam nodded to the leaflet. “Be sure to read that now, there’s nothing like God’s Word to set you straight on the path.” He saluted, put the truck in gear, and drove away.

Dusk came. A few official-looking cars and the tall white van went by—this time in the opposite direction. And this time, they were in no hurry.

Curious, Landry checked his Samsung 4G. No bars. He’d called the pay phone intermittently, but getting a signal on his cell phone was catch-as-catch-can out here. He waited some more. The sun began to show through the tamarisk screen. The white Nissan sat there with the wheel propped against the back fender, telling its story. Someone had a flat tire, and that same someone had gone to get help. Landry left the car where it was and walked out into the desert.

There wasn’t any high ground to watch the Circle K from, so Landry burrowed down in a desert wash an eighth of a mile away. He lay in a prone position at the lip of the arroyo’s bank and watched the Circle K through his nightscope. Every once in a while he called the pay phone.

It stood to reason that Jolie would wait until after dark to make her move.

But she didn’t.

Night stretched into morning. Landry shifted positions a few times for comfort. Toward dawn, the cold seeped through his clothes from the ground. Deserts were dry places; hot during the day but cold at night.

No one approached the disabled Nissan Versa.

Not on foot, not by car. Whatever the cops and other officials had been racing to was over with.

The road remained empty.

Long before dawn, Landry knew that Jolie would not be coming. She hadn’t taken advantage of her window of opportunity, and now that window had closed.

She might be looking to find him in some other way, and so he would stick around Branch and let himself be seen. Hopefully she
would
see him.

But for now, Jolie Burke was in the wind.

He ate an early breakfast at Dina’s Diner next door to The Satellite INN in Branch, tipping the waitress enough to make her happy but not enough to make him stand out. Before that, he’d ducked into the bathroom of the neighboring Texaco for a quick strip wash and a change of shirts.

Landry had adopted his “average dad” look: sports sandals and plaid cargo shorts covered by a big T-shirt featuring a sun wearing sunglasses.

Despite multiple deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan, Landry had managed to avoid tattoos—except for one, a snarling mountain lion on his upper arm. The tattoo was easily hidden by a short-sleeved tee.

Landry had a fellow Navy SEAL to thank for his lack of tattoos. Jim Doolen (now deceased) was his superior officer and a good friend. Jim had spotted Landry’s abilities early on. He’d taken Landry aside and suggested he think twice about getting more tattoos. After his service, Landry might have few options for work, and he should keep every option still available to him, open. Tattoos were memorable, and would likely disqualify him from some jobs—especially if those jobs were covert.

Tattoos didn’t matter to Landry much either way, so he took Doolen’s advice.