Invasion USA (21 page)

Buddy nodded. “I'm sorry about the girl.”

“The girl? What you talkin' about?”

“When the bastard you called Juan shot at me, he hit her instead. She's dead, Diego.”

He looked stricken. “
Muerte
? Aaiiee . . .”

“If there's anything I can do—”

“Just get outta here, man. And like I said, don't come back.”

Buddy could have been wrong—it was hard to tell in the shadowy alley—but he thought he saw tears shining in Diego's eyes. No pimp would cry over a dead whore, would he? Maybe sometimes . . .

With a shake of his head, Buddy got in the car and started it, relieved when the engine caught normally. He pulled away, leaving Diego in the alley. What a fine, upstanding cop he was, he thought bitterly. He'd shot a man and gotten a girl killed. Neither of them had been innocents, but the girl, surely, hadn't deserved such a fate.

But Herb and Mildred hadn't deserved their fate, either, he reminded himself, and neither had the dozens of other people
Mara Salvatrucha
had killed, most of them good friends of his.

The port of entry was in downtown Nogales. Most American tourists parked their cars in lots just north of the border and walked across, relying on cabs for getting around the Mexican city. But you could drive if you were brave enough or had a good enough reason, and there were a few cars waiting in line to go through customs either way. Buddy waited his turn patiently. He wasn't worried about the Mexican customs agents; they would barely glance at him on his way through the checkpoint. It was always possible that the American agents might decide to search his car, though. If that happened, he was up shit creek, because they would find Ortiz. Of course, he could claim ignorance and say that someone had dumped Ortiz in the trunk while the car was parked. That story
might
be believed. But there would still be a lot of questions that he didn't want to answer.

As expected, the Mexican customs agent on duty just waved him on through. The American took a look at his driver's license and the badge that was next to it in the wallet. “You're the sheriff of Sierrita County?” he asked.

“That's right,” Buddy said, keeping his voice level and calm.

“Hear you've been having lots of trouble up there.”

“More than our share.”

“Why were you in Mexico?”

Buddy reached down to the seat and brought up a paper bag he had placed there earlier. He handed it to the agent, who opened it, looked inside, and handed it back.

“If you want to trust those Mexican antibiotics, Sheriff, that's your business, but I'm not sure I would.”

Buddy smiled. “Yeah, I know, but my wife's sold on 'em. She's got a sinus infection, and she says they work better than the American ones. Cheaper, too.”

“Well, good luck to her.” The customs agent stepped back and motioned for Buddy to drive ahead.

He didn't heave the huge sigh of relief he felt until he was several blocks away from the border crossing. The Mexican pharmacies just across the line did a huge business with American customers, and they were open twenty-four hours a day. Buddy had figured that stopping for a couple of bottles of antibiotics would give him just the excuse he needed to be in Nogales.

And now he was on his way home. When he got there, he would stash Ortiz somewhere and work on him until the man told him everything he wanted to know about M-15 and the gang's involvement with the murders of Herb and Mildred Brannon. Buddy had never beaten a confession out of a suspect in his life, but after everything else he had done tonight, that didn't seem so bad. As long as he didn't let the ACLU get even a whiff of what was going on . . .

He drove carefully until he was out of Nogales, veering northwest from Interstate 19 on the state highway that led to Little Tucson. As always on the desert, the night air cooled off quickly. Buddy turned off the air conditioning and rolled down the windows.

It must have been the rush of air that kept him from hearing the helicopter until it was right on top of him. Suddenly it swooped past him like a huge bird of prey and flew on down the otherwise empty desert highway. Buddy hit the brakes as the chopper turned.

What the hell! The damn thing was coming right at him now. In the glow of his headlights, he saw the man leaning out from the cabin, saw the flicker of orange as the machine gun in the man's hands opened up. Then the windshield shattered, splintering into a million razor-sharp shards. Buddy screamed as some of them lanced into his eyes and slashed his hands on the steering wheel. The car careened wildly back and forth.

A giant fist slammed into Buddy's left shoulder, driving him back against the seat. The car bounced madly as it left the road. Buddy came up in the seat, slamming his head against the roof. A thunderous hammering filled his ears, and somehow he knew it was caused by the high-powered machine gun rounds hitting the car. If one of them struck the gas tank . . .

Then the car began to roll, and that was exactly what happened. It came apart in a huge ball of orange flame that threw pieces of the destroyed vehicle hundreds of yards in every direction. Anyone inside it was instantly incinerated.

The helicopter swooped over the site of the explosion, hovered there for a moment, and then flew toward the south, back across the border. The men inside it had done the job they came to do. Diego hadn't lasted more than a few minutes under torture, and then he had told them exactly what kind of car to look for. Cipriano Asturias brought the machine gun back inside the cabin. Once he and his brother reported to Señor Montoya that Ortiz would never be able to testify against M-15, they could go ahead and kill Diego. Foolish young man, to think he could hide what he was doing from the eyes of
Mara Salvatrucha
.

The chopper disappeared into the distance, the eggbeater sound of its engine fading to nothingness, as behind it the wrecked car continued to burn fiercely.

And some yards away, the heat blistering his skin, the man who had been thrown clear bare seconds before the explosion, kept trying to crawl away. He was blind, his face covered with blood, and he felt the hot drops falling on his hands as he clawed at the desert sand . . .

21

Tom fought his way up out of sleep as the cell phone on the nightstand rang. Out of habit, he reached for the regular phone first, forgetting for the moment that he had unplugged all of them to keep the reporters from calling constantly. Then he realized it was the cell and picked it up instead. The screen was lit up, and the number it displayed belonged to the Sierrita County Sheriff's Office.

A chill shivered along Tom's spine. The bedside clock read 3:30
A.M.
Buddy wouldn't be calling at this time of the morning with good news.

“Whosit?” Bonnie murmured sleepily from beside him.

“Buddy,” Tom said as he pushed the button to take the call.

Only it wasn't. After Tom said hello, a woman's voice asked, “Mr. Brannon?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Lauren Henderson. From the sheriff's office.”

Tom sat up straighter in the bed. He knew Lauren, but not all that well. Well enough, though, to tell that she was really upset about something. “What is it?”

“Buddy . . . Sheriff Gorman . . . There's been an accident . . . It's terrible . . . I thought you'd want to know . . .”

“Is he alive?” Tom grated out. Even as he asked the question, he wondered if what had happened to Buddy had really been an accident—or if this was another strike by M-15.

“He's alive,” Lauren said. “Barely, though. He was in really bad shape when he was brought in. The doctors at the hospital don't know if he'll make it or not. If a trucker hadn't come along the highway and seen the wrecked car . . .”

“It was a car accident?”

“Buddy's car went off the road and rolled over and then the gas tank exploded. If he hadn't been thrown clear when the car rolled, he would have died for sure.”

“My God,” Tom said softly.

“That's not all of it,” Lauren went on. “Since you're the mayor now, as well as Buddy's friend, I suppose you have a right to know. He was shot, too. His whole car was shot up. And . . . there was what was left . . . of a dead man in the trunk.”

Tom closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. What the hell had Buddy been doing? The only thing he was sure of was that M-15 had to be mixed up in this somehow.

“Has Buddy been able to talk?”

“No, he's unconscious. The ER doctor said he might never wake up.”

“I'm coming down there to the hospital.” Bonnie's hand tightened on Tom's shoulder as he spoke.

“There's really nothing you can do—”

“I can be there,” Tom cut in. “That'll have to be enough for now.”

Lauren was silent for a moment, then she went on, “I'm at the office right now, but I was thinking about going back to the hospital, too. I'll meet you there, Mr. Brannon.”

“All right. Thanks for calling, Deputy.”

Tom broke the connection, and Bonnie said, “Buddy's hurt, isn't he? Was it M-15?”

“Looks like it.”

“Will he be all right?”

“I don't know,” Tom said with a shake of his head. “I'm going down to the hospital to see about him.”

“I know. I'm coming with you.”

He turned toward her and hugged her hard for a moment. He had never doubted that she would want to come with him. In fact, he would have been surprised if she hadn't.

“I'm starting to think M-15 won't stop until they've killed everybody in the county,” Bonnie said as they got dressed.

“Yeah, it seems like they've declared war on us, all right,” Tom agreed. “But they've forgotten one thing.”

“What's that?”

“We can make war right back at 'em.”

 

 

The doctor said, “Sheriff Gorman has a broken shoulder, four broken ribs, a punctured lung from one of those rib fractures, numerous deep cuts and lacerations from being thrown through the windshield, head trauma, and severe damage to his eyes. If he lives, I doubt if he'll ever have any vision to speak of. The broken shoulder was caused by a bullet wound, and of course he lost a great deal of blood. We don't know yet if there was any brain damage beyond a concussion.”

“He can recover from all those things, though, right?” Tom asked.

The doctor shrugged. “He's been lucky to stay alive this long. Who knows how much longer his luck will last?”

Tom rubbed a hand over his head and frowned. The thought of Buddy, helpless and blind, made him sick. But the thought of Buddy being dead was worse.

“Deputy Henderson said something about there being another man in the car . . .”

The doctor nodded. “He's in the morgue, what's left of him. There's not much besides charred bones. That was quite an explosion.”

“Any way of identifying him?”

“You'll have to ask the deputy about that. Dental records, maybe. Or DNA, but that seems like a long shot. It's not my area of expertise, though.”

Tom looked over at Lauren, who was standing with Bonnie beside the door into the Intensive Care Unit. They were looking through the small window in the door, but Tom wasn't sure they could see anything except maybe Buddy's wife Jean, who sat in a wooden chair beside the bed.

He went over to them and said, “Deputy Henderson, we need to talk.”

Lauren nodded. She wasn't in uniform but rather wore jeans and a University of Arizona T-shirt. She had her badge and her holstered revolver clipped to her belt. Her shoulder-length brown hair was loose instead of pulled back in the ponytail she usually wore on duty.

She followed him about twenty feet down the hall to a small waiting area with reasonably comfortable chairs. As they sat down, Tom said, “Tell me everything you know.”

Lauren took a deep breath. “Like I told you on the phone, a trucker came along and spotted the wreck off to the side of the road. He stopped to take a look around and found Buddy . . . Sheriff Gorman.”

“Buddy's fine,” Tom said with a faint smile. “That's what I call him, too.”

“Okay. The trucker called nine-one-one on his cell phone. The night dispatcher sent an ambulance out right away, along with Deputy Montero. Then he called me, even though I was off duty, because I'd asked him to let me know if anything happened.”

Tom nodded. He could understand Lauren wanting to be kept abreast of the situation.

“I came here to the hospital first to check on Buddy, then went back to the office to make sure nothing else was going on in the county. That's when I called you. Then I came back over here.” She shrugged. “That's all I know. You're up to date, Mayor Brannon.”

“Make it Tom,” he told her. “Have you seen the body of the other man, the one who was in the trunk?”

She nodded, a grim expression on her face. “Not much left. We'll be lucky to ever identify him.”

“But he was definitely inside the trunk?”

“Yes. The lid was popped from the rollover, but the skeleton was relatively intact and still inside the trunk.”

“So he was locked in there?”

“Unless someone came along and dumped a body inside the trunk while the car was still on fire. I suppose that's remotely possible, but I'd consider it highly unlikely. The heat would have been too bad for anybody to get close enough to do something like that.”

Tom agreed—which left him with a question he wasn't sure he wanted answered.

Why had Buddy Gorman locked somebody inside the trunk of his car?

“Do you know what he was doing down there, or where he had been?”

Lauren's eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “Are you asking me as the mayor of Little Tucson, or as Buddy's friend?”

“For right now, as Buddy's friend. Did he tell you what he was planning to do, Lauren?”

She hesitated for a second longer, then shook her head. “No, I don't have any idea. But he must have gone to Nogales. There's nothing else in that direction.”

Nogales
. . . Tom remembered what he had said the previous afternoon about going to Nogales and how Buddy had talked him out of it. Buddy had promised to investigate the murders of his parents . . .

Had his investigation taken him to Nogales? That was the only answer that seemed to make any sense.

“I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, but if I were you I think I'd check with the authorities on this side of the border in Nogales and see if they know whether Buddy was down there last night.”

Lauren nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. And
I'm
not trying to tell you how to do
your
job, Tom, but somebody's going to have to take over running the sheriff's office for the time being.”

“That'll be up to the county commissioners . . . but I intend to recommend to them that they make you the acting sheriff.”

“What!” The exclamation was startled out of Lauren. “I assumed that Wayne would take over.”

“Wayne Rushing is a good man, but he's never been any more than a small-town deputy. Same with Francisco. But you were a full-time officer on the Phoenix police force and were doing really well when you left there. You'd have been a detective soon, and who knows how far you might have gone.”

“Buddy talked about me, I see,” she said tightly.

“Buddy was frustrated that he couldn't get you to work more than part-time. He wanted to give you more responsibility. He said you could handle it better than anybody else in his department.”

“I suppose he wondered why I left Phoenix, too.”

Tom shrugged. “Maybe so, but he didn't say anything to me about it. I guess he figured it was your business.”

“That's right, it is.” She hesitated a moment, then went on, “I had a relationship that ended. A broken heart, as corny as that sounds.”

“Why are you telling me now?” Tom asked.

“Because you want me to be the acting sheriff, and I'm telling you I'm not cut out for the job. I'm not strong enough, obviously, or I wouldn't have run off down here to get away from the hurt.”

“Something hurts bad enough,” Tom said, “anybody's gonna run to get away from it. And you haven't let it affect the way you do your job since you've been here. Like I said, Buddy was really pleased with your work.”

“Well . . . I've been happier here than I expected to be.”

Tom wondered if that was because she had found somebody here in Little Tucson to mend that broken heart of hers. He didn't ponder the matter for long, though.

“So can I tell the commissioners you'll take the job?”

Lauren thought for a moment longer and then nodded. “I guess I can give it a try.”

“Good. Anything you need, just let me know and I'll do what I can to help.”

She reached out and touched his arm for a second. “I'm sorry that you've had to go through so much, Mr. Brannon . . . Tom. My God, it hasn't even been twenty-four hours since you lost your parents, and now Buddy—”

“Buddy's going to make it,” Tom said.

“If anybody's stubborn enough to do just that, it's him.”

Tom put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “There's nothing I can do here. Might as well go home and try to get some rest. I've got a busy day coming up. Funeral arrangements, you know.”

Lauren nodded. “I'm so sorry. It's all so unfair. Right from the start, from the day of the bank robbery and Carla Willard's carjacking, all you've done is try to help people. And look what it's gotten you.”

Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess sometimes the price is high for doing the right thing.”

“It should never be
that
high.”

He nodded in agreement. Lauren was right. M-15 had gone too far, further almost than the human brain could comprehend. And they showed no sign of giving up or even backing off any. He had called it a war, and he wasn't the first one to use that word.

How could anybody fight a war that was impossible to win? Was there even any hope, any reason to keep trying? Little Tucson couldn't look to the federal government for help, that was obvious. The people had tried to help themselves with the Patriot Project, and that had led to even more tragedy. Tom was convinced that whatever had happened to Buddy had happened because of his investigation into the deaths of Tom's parents.

Maybe it was time to give up. Maybe Bonnie was right and they ought to leave. Hell, maybe everybody who lived in Sierrita County ought to pack up and leave the place to M-15. Let somebody else deal with it.

Sick at heart but trying not to show it, Tom walked back down the hall to join his wife and take her home.

 

 

No matter what else happened, one thing you could depend on was that it would be hot in the summertime in these parts. The sun was already scorching at ten o'clock the next morning when Tom stepped out of Crabtree's Funeral Parlor. He and Ed Crabtree had spent the past hour going over the funeral arrangements for Tom's parents. Ed looked worn out, and Tom could almost feel sorry for the man. There had been so many funerals over the past couple of weeks that Ed had to be exhausted, and on top of that, his father-in-law had been one of the people killed in the SavMart Massacre. That tragedy had left almost no one in Little Tucson untouched.

Tom paused on the sidewalk in front of the funeral parlor and looked around. For once, downtown Little Tucson looked almost normal again. All the news crews were over at the hospital, reporting on Sheriff Gorman's valiant fight for life. Tom thought about walking down to the auto parts store to see how Louly and Sal were doing. From his phone conversations with Louly, he knew that while business hadn't been good, it hadn't dried up completely. Tom decided he could take a few minutes to do that. He had left Bonnie at the hospital to sit with Jean Gorman. She would be safe enough there for a while. Lauren had assigned two deputies to the door of the ICU, even before the county commissioners had met in emergency session early this morning and appointed her the acting sheriff.