Kirk Russell - Redback

‘Let’s get everybody there we can.’

‘That’ll blow the operation, Lieutenant.’

‘It will. Get everybody and let’s get help from the county.’

County officers and wardens worked a grid across the slope and a helicopter sat over an area just north of Brad’s truck. A K-9 unit was on its way. Inside the house, Carl Talbot repeated his story to Marquez, complaining that he had already told it to both the county and the girl wardens. He’d eaten breakfast at the casino – where he always ate – then came home and started work. A two foot deep trench lined with black filter cloth ran along one side of the house foundation. A plastic perforated pipe ran down the center of the trench. Marquez looked at it before going in to talk to Talbot. Talbot claimed his whole day was breakfast and working on the drainage trench.

Marquez looked through the window at the helicopter hovering over the slope, and then at Talbot. Streaks of dried sweat ran along the sides of his face. An angry looking boil sat low on the left side of his neck and he kept touching it. His hair was greasy, clothes dirty, one sideburn lower than the other. He was young and underneath the attitude, nervous and scared. He had to be worried that the search would find whatever he and Holsing had up on the slope. But he was sticking to his story that he didn’t know anybody named Jeff Holsing, never heard of anybody named Holsing.

Talbot answered questions in a monotone as though he was a prisoner of war reciting name, rank, and serial number. He slouched on a couch, a TV remote in his right hand. When Marquez walked in he’d turned on a NASCAR race and then muted it but wanted to leave it on as he answered questions because he’d waited for the race all week. He turned it back on now and Marquez walked over and unplugged the TV.

‘You can’t do that, man, this is my house.’

Marquez sat down next to him. He held his cell phone so Talbot could read the screen. ‘I’m going to show you a text a warden on our undercover team sent this morning.’

He smelled the mud on Talbot’s boots and the sweat that had dried in his shirt. At the shoulders his shirt was wrinkled and sweat-stained where the backpack straps had rubbed. He hadn’t thought to change his shirt, or maybe he had no idea that Brad was on the slope and that the police would show up. Could be he had no clue about the sturgeon.

Roberts had forwarded the text to him. Talbot glanced over long enough to read it. Then his gaze returned to the blank TV screen.

‘I told the warden chick everything I know.’

‘Before Brad Alvarez sent that message he described Holsing and you hiking up there. We’ve had surveillance on Holsing for weeks.’ He let a beat pass and added, ‘There’s no way around that for you.’

Marquez pointed at the dark blue backpack in the corner of the room.

‘You were carrying that, so before this goes to the next level, I want to make sure you understand that everyone here knows you’re lying. If you stick with that lie, it could make things much worse for you later.’

‘I’m going to watch the race.’

A Yolo County deputy poked his head in the front door now and said, ‘They’ve spotted two guys up there moving across the slope away from the dogs.’

That hit Marquez hard. It touched his worst fear and he stood. He asked Talbot, ‘Who’s trying to get away?’

‘Probably some fucking illegals working on a farm around here and living in the hills.’

Marquez pointed through the window.

‘Those are SWAT team officers they’re lowering out of the helicopter. The pair trying to get away won’t get much farther.’

‘Whatever, man, if they shoot them that’s OK with me. They ought to kill those guys at the border or build that fence they keep dicking with.’

Marquez looked through the window as he talked now. He looked for movement on the slope below the helicopter.

‘I was in the DEA for a decade before I came to Fish and Game and if it’s a grow field up there and the two men trying to get away were tending it, you’re completely fucked, because when the Feds put you and Holsing in separate rooms Holsing will have something to trade and you won’t. You’re just another guy hired to watch the farm. Holsing will trade names. He’ll trade his way to a minor sentence and they’ll hang the grow field around your neck. You’ll do the real time. I’ve been there; I know how it works.’

‘Whatever.’

Talbot got up and plugged in the TV. Marquez watched him sit back down, pick up the remote, and click the NASCAR race on. He left Talbot as Chief Blakely called. He took her call outside. Everyone at Fish and Game headquarters was focused on what was happening here.

‘The CHP just found Holsing’s van on the side of an eastbound freeway onramp in Auburn Ravine,’ she said. ‘Sturgeon are inside and the California Highway Patrol is asking what we want to do. I can get a warden there to watch the truck or they can impound it.’

‘Let’s get a warden there.’ As he said that it hit him and he reversed himself. ‘No, check that, let’s impound it. He abandoned the van. Somebody met him, picked him up, and he’s on the run. He’s scared.’ Fear for Brad ran hard in him again. ‘Chief, can you text me a message that reads, Holsing stopped on 80 and arrested. He’s in Sacramento and has told investigators about the grow field and that it’s Talbot’s deal.’

She repeated the message he wanted sent and then hung up. When the text came through Marquez was back in the room with Talbot. Talbot turned slightly as Marquez’s phone chimed. He flinched when Marquez put the Blackberry screen where he couldn’t avoid it.

‘This is about you. They got Holsing.’

Talbot muted the sound and Marquez shook his head no and pulled the phone back.

‘Turn it off.’

Talbot clicked the TV off. He read the text and without saying a word turned the TV back on and the sound way up.

‘No sweat, Talbot, we don’t need you anymore. Let me know who wins the race.’

Marquez walked out but it didn’t surprise him that Talbot caught up to him as he crossed the pasture.

‘I didn’t even know it was up there. They didn’t tell me until I got here. I don’t even smoke the shit.’

‘What do you get out of it?’

‘Ten grand for keeping the Mexicans supplied with their fart food.’

‘Did you see our warden this morning?’

‘No, I didn’t even see the Mexicans this morning. I left their stuff for them while Jeff checked the plants.’

‘Show me. Let’s go.’

A county deputy walked with them. Behind Marquez, the deputy’s equipment jangled with each step. The trail twisted as the slope steepened and brush went from waist to chest high. He didn’t question Talbot as they climbed over fallen trees and pushed through the brush. He waited until they were well up the slope and following footprints, but all he could think about was Holsing abandoning his van, the sturgeon, everything, and fleeing. Higher up, the ground became muddy from seepage. Marquez smelled marijuana. He saw the edge of a grow field and stopped at a deep set of boot prints.

‘Lift yours,’ he said to Talbot. When Talbot lifted his boot and showed the sole, Marquez said, ‘OK, so this is your print here, but who is this walking next to yours?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not like a tracker.’

‘Was Holsing wearing boots?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘When did you talk to him last?’

‘He took off after we were up here.’

‘Where was he going?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Didn’t tell you anything?’

‘He doesn’t talk to me, dude.’