James Burke - Feast Day of Fools

He slipped on his boots and lay down on the quilt, the Thompson at his side, his head cushioned on his arm. The ground was patinaed with tiny wildflowers, and as he breathed their fragrance, he thought he could hear the wind whispering through the grass. The whispering grew in volume until it sounded like bees buzzing in a hive, or the whisperings of desperate girls and young women who had been trapped unfairly underground long before their time, all of them Asian girls whose sloe eyes pleaded for mercy and whose voices asked, Why did you do this to us?

I freed you from a life of degradation, he replied.

But his words were like the weighted tips of a flagrum whipped across his soul.

Early the next morning, Maydeen Stoltz walked into Hackberry’s office. She had a pink memo slip in her hand. “That was Bedford at the firehouse. He said he had a call maybe we should know about.”

“Concerning what?”

Maydeen looked at the memo slip. “The caller gave his name as Garland Roark. He said he was an arson investigator with the Texas Department of Public Safety. He said he was compiling information about the incidence of arson along the border.”

“Say that name again.”

“Garland Roark.”

Hackberry wrote it on a legal pad.

“So Bedford told him about the shack burning down, the one maybe Collins was living in,” Maydeen said.

“Go on.”

“The caller wanted to know how Bedford knew it was arson. Bedford told him the whole place stunk of kerosene. Then the caller asked if Bedford had any suspects in mind. Bedford goes, ‘Not unless you count the FBI.’”

“Wait a minute,” Hackberry said. “When did Bedford get this call?”

“A week ago, right after the fire.”

“Bedford suspected the feds did it but didn’t tell us?”

“Hold your water two seconds and I’ll try to finish,” Maydeen said.

“Excuse me.”

“I asked Bedford the same question. He said a trucker saw a car with a government tag parked by the shack just before the flames went up. Bedford figured if the feds set fire to it, there was a reason. He thought maybe it was a stopover place for illegals.”

“So why is Bedford calling us now?”

“He started wondering why this guy Roark didn’t ask about the arson incidents involving wildfires. Like what was the big deal with a shack? This morning he called Austin and was told nobody by the name of Garland Roark worked at the Department of Public Safety.”

“That’s because he’s dead,” Hackberry said.

“You knew him?”

“Garland Roark was the author of Wake of the Red Witch. Jack Collins likes to appropriate the names of famous writers. He used the name of B. Traven, the author of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, on several legal documents. Jack is quite the jokester when he’s not murdering people.”

“You want me to get Bedford on the phone?”

“Forget Bedford. Call Ethan Riser and fill him in. If he’s not in, leave the information on his voice mail.”

“Shouldn’t you do that?”

“I’m done pulling Ethan’s biscuits out of the fire,” Hackberry replied. “Ask Pam to come in here, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

A moment later, Pam Tibbs tapped on the doorjamb.

“Jack Collins knows the feds burned him out,” Hackberry said.

“Is Riser aware of this?”

“He will be. You have any suggestions?”

She shrugged. “Not really. Collins is going to square it.”

“You and I know that. But we’re the only law enforcement personnel around here who have dealt with him head-on.”

“So maybe Riser will learn a lesson and not be such a smart-ass.”

“We’re not going to let Collins make this county his personal killing ground.”

She took a box of Altoids out of her shirt pocket and put one on her tongue. “Why did you want to talk to me, Hack?”

“You know how Collins thinks.”

“You’re asking me what his next move will be?” she said.

“I thought you might have an opinion, since he tried to machine-gun you.”

“That’s not a subject I’m flippant about.”

“Neither am I,” he said.

“Collins hunts like a cougar,” she said. “He’ll go to the water hole and wait for his prey.”

“Where’s the water hole?”

“Wherever he thinks the feds will show up,” Pam replied.

“Where would that be?”

“You already know where.”

“Tell me.”

“The Asian woman gave refuge to Noie Barnum. The feds are probably watching her. One way or another, Collins will find that out.”

“Want to take a ride?” Hackberry said.

She looked out the window at the flag popping on the silver pole in front of the building. In the north a line of rain mixed with dust was moving across the hills, but to the south the sky was blue, the early sun already hot and as yellow as egg yolk. “Why ask me? You’re the boss man, aren’t you?” she replied.

Two men driving a black SUV had parked their vehicle behind a knoll and set up a high-powered telescope with a camera attached to it on a flat spot that overlooked the valley where the Asian woman lived. They were both dressed in stonewashed jeans and alpine shoes with lug soles and short-sleeve shirts with many pockets. They were both tan and wore shades and had the body tone of men who swam or ran long distances or trained at martial arts or followed a military discipline in their personal lives. One of them opened a lunch box on a rock and removed a thermos of hot coffee and two ham sandwiches. Both men carried Glocks in black nylon holsters on their belts.

Ten minutes later, a rock bounced down from the knoll. The men turned around but saw nothing out of the ordinary. After they finished their sandwiches and poured themselves a second cup of coffee, they heard the pinging of a guitar string. They turned around and saw a solitary figure sitting on the bleached trunk of an uprooted tree, thirty yards up a wash, his face darkened by the brim of a panama hat stained with soot or grime, a guitar propped on one thigh. He picked at a treble string with his thumbnail while he twisted a tuning peg on the guitar’s head. “Howdy,” he said without looking up.

“Where the hell did you come from?” one of the men in shades said.

“Up yonder, past those boulders,” the seated man replied.

“Mind telling us who you are?”

“Just another pilgrim.”

“Where’s your car, pilgrim?”

“Who says I have one?”

The men in shades looked at each other. “He teleported,” one said.

“You cain’t ever tell. I get around. You ever hear that song by the Beach Boys? It’s called ‘I Get Around,’” the seated man replied.

“I get it. You’ve been shooting the curl off Malibu.”

“There aren’t many places I haven’t been.”

“I dig your threads.”

“This?” the seated man said, pinching his suit coat with two fingers.

“Yeah, I thought it might be an Armani.”

“Could be. You fellows are FBI, aren’t you? Or maybe DEA?” The two men in shades and stonewashed jeans glanced at each other. “Looks like we’ve been made,” one said.

“I can tell because you’re wearing Glocks.”

“What’s your name, asshole?”

The seated man laid his guitar flatly across both thighs, his gaze focused on neutral space, the bumps and knots in his complexion like tan-colored papier-mache. A closed tortoiseshell guitar case lay on the ground by his foot. It was of expensive manufacture, the kind of case that might contain a Martin or vintage Gibson. “I disturb y’all?” the seated man said.

“That guitar looks like a piece of junk.”

“It is,” the seated man replied. “It’s got rust on the strings. They sound like baling wire.”