Showdown in West Texas (5 page)

They loaded Dale onto a stretcher and whisked him into the hospital. The woman behind the desk gave Cage some paperwork to fill out.

“But I don't even know the guy,” Cage said as he looked down at the form.

“Just do the best you can,” she said wearily. “When you're finished, bring it back up here to me.”

Cage sat down in the noisy emergency room and
looked over the questionnaire. A news broadcast on the television caught his attention, and when he looked up, he saw a map on the screen with San Miguel circled in red.

He laid aside the clipboard and went over to the television so that he could hear over the E.R. chatter.

The bodies of six gunshot victims including one female had been found in a bar in the small border town of San Miguel in Presidio County. A man who was seen entering the establishment was wanted for questioning in the shooting, which authorities believed was drug related. The suspect was described as being a white male, midthirties, six feet tall, lean, and walked with a noticeable limp.

Cage stared at the news anchor in shock. She'd just described him.
He
was the suspect.

And it was a damn clever ploy, too. By going public with his description, the bad guys would have every local lawman and highway patrol officer in the area on the alert for a man fitting his description. Cage had just become the target of every hotshot cop in West Texas looking to make a name for himself.

“Sir?”

Cage spun, startled. The man who had come up behind him was a doctor, not a cop, thank goodness.

He gave Cage a curious look. “Are you the man who brought in the heart-attack victim?”

Cage shook his head. “I brought in a guy with a gash in his head.”

“Came in about twenty minutes ago, unconscious, laceration above his right eyebrow?”

“Yeah, that's him.”

“I'm sorry to tell you he didn't make it.”

“Didn't make it,” Cage repeated. “What happened?”

“It had nothing to do with the head injury. He suffered a massive coronary. We did everything we could, but we couldn't revive him.”

A heart attack? No wonder the poor guy hadn't looked so good.

The doctor was waiting for some kind of response. “That's a real shame,” Cage said. It was lame, but he didn't know what else to say at the moment. It was all he could do to keep his gaze from straying back to the television. “He seemed like a nice guy.”

“I take it you're not the next of kin?”

“No, I'm afraid not. I don't know anything about him. We just met out on the road a little while ago.”

“There was no identification among his personal effects. Do you at least know his name?”

“His name…” Cage trailed off. A uniformed police officer had just come into the E.R. and was talking to the woman behind the desk.

Cage's heart started to beat a quick, painful staccato. The last thing he needed right now was to attract the attention of the authorities.

“Sir? Are you okay?”

He glanced back at the doctor. “Yeah, I just…give me a minute, will you? This has all been kind of a shock. I think I need to go splash some cold water on my face or something.”

“The restrooms are right over there.” The doctor nodded toward the hallway.

“Thanks.”

Cage went into the bathroom, waited a minute, then
glanced out. The cop and the receptionist were still conversing at the desk. Whether their discussion had anything to do with him or Dale Walsh, Cage had no idea. What he did know, though, was that he had to somehow get the hell out of there without being noticed.

He waited until they were looking the other way, and then he slipped down the hallway, found another exit, and a few minutes later, sped out of town in Dale Walsh's old black Cadillac.

 

A
S SOON AS HE WAS FAR ENOUGH
from town to feel confident he wasn't being pursued, Cage pulled off on a side road and sat with the engine idling while he went through the contents of the glove box. He found nothing inside that indicated how he could get in touch with Dale Walsh's next of kin. He stuffed the odds and ends back inside the compartment along with Dale's .38. Then he got out and walked back to the trunk.

There was a small suitcase inside, along with a silver briefcase. Thumbing open the latches of the metal case, Cage raised the lid and whistled.

Inside he found a pair of custom-made AMT Hardballers fitted with silencers, a stack of cash and a large envelope containing a photograph of a woman and a typewritten note which read:
5 grand now, the other 5 when the bitch is dead.

People person my ass,
Cage thought.

The more miles Cage put between himself and the dead hit man, the more he thought about the woman in the photograph. Her image had started to haunt him.

He kept telling himself it was not his concern. He had his own problems to deal with. Best thing to do was stick to his latest plan, which was to get to El Paso as quickly as he could.

Once there, he'd catch a flight back to Dallas where he still had contacts in law enforcement that he trusted, and even a few friends in high places that might be able to help him get out of this mess in one piece.

Besides, he didn't know the name of Dale Walsh's target, so how was he supposed to warn her?

He didn't know her name, but he had a pretty good idea where she lived. Walsh had said he was on his way to Jericho Pass to see a man about a job.

Cage drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. So what should he do?

Just get to El Paso and figure out the rest when you arrive. Only thing you can do. This isn't your problem.

Besides, Walsh could have been lying about Jericho
Pass. Would a hit man really be so brazen about his destination?

Maybe, if he hadn't planned on Cage outliving him.

Earlier, Cage had put the Caddy's top up because it made him feel less exposed. Now he turned on the radio, hoping some music would take his mind off that photograph.

But it was hard to get a woman like that out of his head. Whoever she was, she was a damn fine-looking woman. Not that appearances mattered, but Cage couldn't help admiring all that black glossy hair, those shiny full lips. And her eyes. Man, he'd always been a sucker for dark, soulful eyes.

And someone wanted her dead. Ten-thousand-dollars-worth of dead.

When Cage finally saw the exit for Jericho Pass, he wondered if it was an omen, good or bad, that the song playing on the radio was ELO's “Showdown.”

 

B
Y THE TIME
C
AGE LOCATED
the sheriff's office, he'd formulated a new plan. He'd leave the briefcase and everything inside—the guns, money and photograph—in a prominent spot at the station, along with a note that he'd already composed in his head.

There's a photograph of a woman inside this briefcase. Someone hired a hit man to kill her. He's dead, but they might send someone else. Better find her and warn her ASAP.

Cage was still a cop at heart, so leaving a note and then slipping away like a thief in the night went against his grain.

But he didn't know how else to handle the situation.
He couldn't afford to show his face inside a police station, let alone be interrogated by whoever happened to be on duty. He knew how that would work. He'd face a barrage of questions he mostly couldn't answer and then they'd throw him in a holding cell until they could check out his story.

And once they ran his prints and started making official inquiries…
good night, Irene.
The dirtbags from San Miguel would know exactly where to find him.

So, the warning had to be issued anonymously. There was just no way around it that he could see.

Besides, he didn't know anything more than what he'd tell them in the note. His message, along with the guns, money and the note that spelled out the transaction should be enough to convince the authorities that the woman in the photograph was in imminent danger.

After he scribbled the warning on the back of a receipt he'd dug out of the glove box, Cage got out of the car, opened the trunk and grabbed the briefcase.

The parking lot in front of the one-story brick station was nearly empty. This time of night, he'd counted on a scaled-down force. He'd be able to leave the case and note near the entrance, then hightail it out of town—

“Hey, you!”

At the sound of the male voice behind him, Cage hesitated but didn't turn.

“Hey, I said wait up!”

Cage glanced over his shoulder. A uniformed deputy came hurrying across the well-lit parking lot toward him.

Cage's first instinct was to climb back in the car and try to take off before the guy caught up with him. But the
last thing he needed was a nasty confrontation, especially one in which the outcome might not be in his favor.

The deputy had at least a couple of inches and twenty pounds on him, the kind of fellow who would have looked downright menacing even without the huge firearm strapped to his thigh. Cage was exhausted and his knee hurt like a son of a bitch. But even on a good day, he wasn't so sure he'd able to take this guy in a fair fight.

“Are you talking to me?” he asked in the most nonthreatening tone he could muster.

“Yeah, I'm talking to you.”

But the deputy grinned when he said it and not in a puffed-up, arrogant,
I'll show this out-of-town clown who's boss
kind of way, either. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Cage.

Which was…strange.

When the deputy drew closer, he said, “Dale Walsh, right? I would have known you anywhere!”

Cage was completely taken aback. Before he could say anything, the deputy thrust out his hand. “Sam Dickerson. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Charlie Dickerson's my uncle. Man, he's been singing your praises ever since y'all met at that San Antonio conference a while back.”

“Good to hear,” Cage muttered as he shook the man's hand.

“I guess you're wondering how I recognized you,” Deputy Dickerson said, still with that idiotic grin on his face.

“Thought did cross my mind.”

“This baby right here, is how.” The beaming deputy
nodded toward the Cadillac. “Uncle C said you had the best-looking Eldorado Biarritz he ever did see, and, man, oh man, he wasn't lying. This thing is a work of art.” He ran his hand lovingly over the mile-high tailfin. “Looks just like a damn rocket. Less than fifteen hundred of these beauties were built in 1959. But I'm guessing you already knew that.”

“Yeah, she's something, all right,” Cage said.

The deputy chuckled. “That's an understatement if I ever heard one. You'll have to pardon my drool, but I'm a classic car buff from way back. Me and Uncle C both. He's got a '57 Corvette he's been working on for years. Me, I'm more of a Thunderbird man.”

Cage thought of the car he'd had to abandon in the desert. Not a classic by any means, but he was still sorry to let it go. It was highly doubtful the vehicle would still be there if and when he ever ventured back that way.

Sam Dickerson rubbed his hands together. “I'd dearly love to take a gander at that 345 under the hood, but I imagine the sheriff's expecting you inside, right?”

Cage murmured something unintelligible as he glanced toward the front of the station. His encounter with Deputy Dickerson was playing hell with his plan.

“I guess you heard about Uncle C.” Dickerson started walking toward the station and Cage didn't know what else to do but follow. “Throat cancer. I guess that's what happens when you chew tobacco for as long as he did. I can't ever remember seeing him without a chaw.”

“Well, here's hoping he makes a speedy recovery,” Cage said. Even though his knee was on fire, he gritted his teeth and made sure he didn't limp.

“Oh, he'll pull through all right. He's a tough old bird. But he's got a long row to hoe, that's for damn sure.” The deputy opened the glass door to the station. “Maybe I should warn you about something. The acting sheriff is female,” he said. “I hope you're not bothered by that sort of thing.”

“Nope, not a problem.” Cage couldn't care less about the sex of the new sheriff. His only concern at the moment was how best to disentangle himself from this latest complication. “Male chauvinism is so last century.”

The deputy laughed good-naturedly at the lame quip. “We may be a little behind the times out here, but nobody can deny this gal has some serious chops. She used to work for the TBI. That's basically the state version of the FBI.”

“I'm familiar with the TBI,” Cage said. “Impressive credentials.”

He had only a brief impression of a large room divided into cubicles and filled with desks before Deputy Dickerson ushered him over to a glass-fronted office to the right. Cage didn't see anyone inside, but the deputy knocked anyway, then opened the door.

“Sheriff Steele? Dale Walsh just got here. Detective Walsh, I should say.”

Detective
Walsh?

Cage was thrown for another loop. Had Dale Walsh been both a lawman and a hit man?

Well, that just figured, didn't it?

Cage mentally berated himself for his stupidity. Had he really expected just to breeze in here, dump the briefcase and its problems in someone else's lap, then
blow town before anyone caught on to him? That would have been too easy. And it would have taken no small element of luck.

Of course,
Dale Walsh was both hit man and cop.
Of course,
Deputy Fife over there had had to drive up at precisely the same moment that Cage had picked to dump the case.
Of course,
the guy's uncle, the sheriff, had told him all about Walsh's Caddy. And
of course,
OF COURSE, Dale Walsh was expected here in Jericho Pass, apparently on some kind of official business.

Which, no doubt, would have provided excellent cover while he located his target and carried out the hit. But what it did for Cage was make it near impossible for him to walk out of this place without coming clean. And the moment he did that, he was likely a dead man.

This was all starting to seem like a bad joke, he decided. The whole bizarre setup reeked of divine retribution. He'd been no angel in the past, but this?
Come on.

The deputy moved back from the door so that Cage could enter the office. He stepped inside, then froze as the chair behind the desk rotated and a woman got up to greet him.

He took one look at the glossy hair and shiny lips, those dark, soulful eyes, and his heart gave a strange little flip.

She was the woman whose photograph was in the metal briefcase he carried at his side, along with the guns, the cash and a note which read:
5 grand now, and the other 5 when the bitch is dead.

Cage shot a glance skyward.

You gotta be kiddin' me.

 

D
ALE
W
ALSH WASN'T EXACTLY
what Grace had been expecting. From Charlie Dickerson's description, she'd thought he'd be a little older. Early forties, at least. This man looked only a year or two older than she.

Not that it mattered. And not that she had to speculate. If everything worked out, Grace would learn all she needed to know about Dale Walsh from the paperwork he'd be required to fill out and from the background check she'd order on him.

But from Charlie's notes alone, she'd already gleaned that Walsh had an impressive record with the Galveston Police Department. Of course, that didn't mean he'd have the right stuff for what he'd be dealing with out here. The counties and communities along the border had their own special set of problems.

The official story on Walsh would come later, but for now, Grace wanted to rely on her instincts. She'd always been a big believer in first impressions, so she tried to size him up in the split second it took for her to round the desk and offer her hand.

He was tall and a little on the lean side, though she suspected there might be some serious muscles hidden by the long sleeves of his shirt. He looked strong and capable, and she appreciated the way he gripped her hand as he looked her straight in the eyes.

“I'm Grace Steele,” she said. “We were expecting you a little earlier, Detective Walsh.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Sheriff. I apologize for being so late. And for my appearance.” He brushed off his dusty pants. “I ran into a little trouble out on the road. Had some cell phone problems, too, so I couldn't call
ahead and let you know when to expect me. I hope you didn't wait around on my account.”

“I'm almost always here this late, so no harm done.” She waved toward the chair across from her desk. “Have a seat.”

Deputy Dickerson said from the doorway, “Catch you later, Dale.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said with a brief wave.

Grace noticed that Walsh waited until she'd taken a seat behind the desk before he sat. Carefully, he placed his briefcase on the floor beside his chair.

“You heard about Charlie Dickerson, I suppose?”

He nodded. “Sam and I were just talking about that. It's a real shame. Charlie's a good guy.”

“He sure thinks highly of you.”

“Well…that's always nice to hear.”

Now that she'd had time to study him, Grace realized he was a little older than she'd first thought. Probably not yet forty, but getting close to it for sure. His brown hair looked to be receding at a pretty good clip, and the lines in his face had deepened to grooves at the corners of his eyes.