Adobe Flats (11 page)

twenty

The diner was hot
even though the sun was almost down. The full-length windows meant the sun had been blazing across the vinyl booths for most of the day. The smell of coffee and hot plastic filled the room. Hunter Athey was right. Sarah Hellstrom should invest in air conditioning.

Grant came through the door at a measured pace. Years as a cop and a soldier told him never to go barging through a door in a conflict situation, especially if you don't know the enemy's strength or position. Grant didn't know either of them, so he entered the diner with hooded eyes and flexed muscles.

Sarah was alone behind the counter.

The rest of the diner was empty.

Grant felt relieved but didn't relax. He'd learned over the years to trust his instincts, and his instincts told him something was wrong. His first priority was to check on Sarah. She turned to face him as he crossed towards the counter. The espresso machine was gleaming, its chrome boiler shiny enough to see your face in. Sarah folded the tea towel she'd been using and glanced through the window.

“I see you're still having trouble with other people's cars.”

The words were light but there was tension in her voice.

Grant went with the flow. “Back roads and hillbillies. Dangerous combination.”

“We don't have hillbillies in Texas.”

“And you don't have moss either.”

Sarah nodded but didn't smile. “Too dry for moss. No hills for hillbillies.”

“I didn't want to sound racist.”

“Saying it like it is isn't racist.”

“Okay, then. Couple of Mexicans took exception to me stepping in on a friend of theirs.”

“What did he do?”

“Burned his wife on a stove. Bruised her arms.”

Sarah shuddered. She resisted touching the bruises under her sleeve. “That just makes him a man, then. Not a Mexican.”

There was bite in her tone. A complete change to when she'd loaned him the car. He didn't have her down as a man hater even though she had plenty of reason to be judgmental. Grant changed the subject.

“Coffee machine working today?”

Meaning was she going to serve him or make an excuse? She didn't make an excuse. Without asking what he wanted, she began to make a latte. Expert hands worked the steam pipes and the coffee grounds. The milk frothed and the coffee poured, leaving a brown swirl across the top of his cream. She didn't put a lid on his paper cup.

Grant sat on a stool at the counter and slid the money across.

Sarah didn't argue, ringing it into the cash register.

An uneasy silence developed. Grant looked at the woman who'd mopped his spillage but didn't press her to speak. This town had a way of crushing people's spirits. He just didn't think Sarah Hellstrom was the crushable type. That was easy for Grant to think. He was a stranger in town. Whatever happened, he would be moving on like a rolling stone gathering no moss. Sarah would have to live here after he'd gone. She'd already rejected his suggestion that America had plenty of room for her elsewhere.

His eyes watched Sarah but they saw a lot more. The gleaming chrome boiler behind her reflected everything. A convex mirror on the rest of the diner. He sensed movement even before he saw it. The utility room door opened to his right. The front door opened to his left. Two men, one through each door. They walked tall and moved slow. Measured steps on either side of Grant.

The cowboy from the
hotel sat on the stool to Grant's right. The man who'd been sitting out front of the hotel with him stood behind him, arms folded across his chest, standing guard. Grant sipped his coffee and put the cup back on the counter. Steam drifted like smoke from a burning cigarette.

Nobody spoke.

Sarah held her breath.

Grant let his out in a long, steady exhale.

The cowboy swung his stool to face Grant. “You're in my seat.”

Grant looked at the cowboy while keeping half an eye on the other fella. “Is this like me being in your room at the hotel?”

“Just like that.”

“You block booked this seat as well?”

“It's my favorite.”

The different route to getting a job with Macready. Opportunity knocked. Grant wasn't ready to take it yet. He moved to the next stool and slid his coffee along the counter. The cowboy moved onto the vacant stool and shuffled his backside to get comfortable. It didn't work. He looked at Grant's stool instead.

“This ain't comfy anymore. I think I like that one.”

Grant could see the pattern developing. The bullies' rulebook on playground intimidation. He let his shoulders sag as if deflated but used the chrome boiler to keep an eye on the big fella behind him. Grant stood and picked up his coffee. Followed the playbook he'd seen in numerous movies.

“Why don't you tell me where to sit?”

The cowboy switched seats again but didn't speak. After a suitable pause, Grant sat on his original stool. He took a sip of his coffee and put the cup down on the counter, tempting the cowboy to make the next move. The bully couldn't resist. As obvious as the movie this scene came from.

“You forgot your sugar.”

He picked up the sugar dispenser and turned it upside down. The nozzle poured a steady stream into Grant's cup and just kept pouring. When the coffee had turned to hot, runny sludge, he put the sugar back on the counter. The cowboy smirked. The backup man nodded his approval. Grant looked at his latte, then pushed it across the counter.

“Was that your favorite film growing up?”

The question caught the cowboy by surprise.

“Huh?”

“
Bad Day at Black Rock
.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Spencer Tracy as a one-armed man coming to town. Lee Marvin as a cowboy trying to goad him.”

The cowboy thought he'd try being smart.

“The one-armed man that killed Harrison Ford's wife?”

Grant shook his head.

“Different movie. No. Lee Marvin does all that ‘you're in my room' stuff at the hotel. And Ernest Borgnine does the pushing at the diner.”

He turned towards the cowboy.

“Only with ketchup instead of sugar. Same thing, though—messing with Tracy's food. Chili, not coffee. But much the same. You must have seen it on TV because you're playing it word for word.”

The cowboy let a faint smile play across his lips. “Oh yeah. I think I might have seen it now.”

Grant didn't need the boiler to see. He could watch both men from his position swivelled around on the stool. The bodyguard still had both arms folded across his chest. Good for intimidation but not very clever if you needed to move fast. The part-time deputy was leaning on the counter, aiming for threatening but just proving his lack of knowledge about angles and levers. Like leaning back in his chair at the hotel. Looks cool. Completely impractical.

Grant kept his voice friendly but his eyes turned hard. “You remember how that turned out?”

The smile went from the cowboy's face. In the split second before it happened he obviously did remember how Spencer Tracy had beaten Ernest Borgnine senseless using one arm and leverage. He tried to stand up too late. Grant snatched his cup and threw the sludge into the cowboy's face. Still hot enough to sting, but it was the shock factor Grant was looking for.

The cowboy brought both hands up to his face.

The bodyguard tried to unfold his arms.

Grant leaned back on his stool and used the leverage to swing one leg upwards, aiming the kick between the big fella's legs. The wind left him in a gush and he doubled over, grabbing his balls. Grant sidestepped from his stool and used the big man's forward momentum to grab his head and slam it down onto the stool. Blood and snot exploded from his nose, and he went down hard.

The cowboy's eyes were gummed shut. Grant bent one arm so that the elbow protruded, then slammed the pointed end into the cowboy's face. He went backwards over his stool and landed upside down. It was only loose-limbed shock that saved him from breaking his neck. Grant stamped on his balls for good measure, giving both men the same thing to worry about.

Thirty seconds. Two men down. Both disabled for as long as it would take for their wedding tackle to stop aching. They lay moaning on the floor. Grant leaned down and grabbed the cowboy by the hair.

“And you know the funny thing? Tracy's character was called Macready.”

He let the head go. It banged on the stool's footrest. “So. Take me to your leader.”

It couldn't have gone better. Apart from the look of surprise and disgust on Sarah Hellstrom's face. That wasn't something Grant had planned for. He tried to ignore her as he began reviving the fallen cowboy.

twenty-one

A blazing sunset colored
the end of Grant's second day in Absolution. Scattered clouds along the horizon became torn shreds of golden fire. The sky turned from powder blue to burnt umber, and stars began to blink on the edge of night high up in the darkening stratosphere. The bleached white walls of Macready's compound were painted red by the dying sun as Grant pulled the hearse up to the gates.

The cowboy looked shamefaced in the passenger seat. The other fella had been left at Sixto's. Grant didn't need both of them to prove his point. He sounded the horn, then waited. Thirty seconds later, the gates swung open and Grant drove into the courtyard. The hacienda looked even more like the Alamo in the evening light. Flickering torches burned from brackets on the walls. More for effect than for light, Grant reckoned. Macready seemed to like playing with the Western image.

There was a lot of activity in front of the garages and barrack block. Men packing equipment into canvas bags and strip-cleaning their weapons on blankets spread across the porch. Mercenaries. The ex-military types he'd seen on his last visit. Grant parked the hearse on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Smoke drifted across the patio. At first Grant thought the torches were burning oil, but then he caught a whiff of cooked meat. The barbecue pit was going full tilt. Three men in cooks' whites were turning steaks on the grill and working a rotisserie loaded with skewered birds. Hot fat flared and spat. Portable heaters battled the cool night air, and patio lights illuminated the table where Grant had sat with Macready. Several more tables had been set up around the barbecue pit. Waiters brought out beer coolers and bottles of wine. Heavy candles flickered on the tables. Again, more for effect than illumination.

Macready stood in the doorway to the hacienda.

Grant nudged the cowboy to get out of the hearse, then he did the same. They walked side by side up the patio steps. Macready barked an instruction to one of the waiters, then turned his attention to Grant. The cowboy was limping slightly to avoid crushing his swollen balls. Macready threw him a hard glance and jerked his head in dismissal. The cowboy went inside, leaving the two men to talk. Macready leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms.

“I guess you're not passing through after all.”

Grant stood in front of him. “I found a reason to stick around.”

Macready smiled. “And it's a good reason. She's a beauty, ain't she?”

“When she's not marked up.”

“That is a regret of mine. Scott don't know much about restraint.”

“Just so you know. He touches her again, it'll be me not showing restraint.”

“That's between you and him. Me? I'm only interested in business.”

Grant stepped aside to let a waitress pass. “Party planning? That your business, is it?”

Macready unfolded his arms and pushed off from the doorframe. He walked across to the table and surveyed the preparations. The barbecue pit was spitting fire. The extra tables were set. The only things missing were the guests and the food. Grant followed Macready. The cooked meat made his mouth water. He couldn't help licking his lips. Macready noticed.

“No. I just like to treat my men right. Before going into action. You'd be welcome to join us. If you were one of my men.”

Grant wondered what action he was sending his men into. The mercenaries who were busy preparing for battle. He'd worked with soldiers of fortune before during his army days. He didn't like them. A professional soldier had pride in his regiment and unit. Mercenaries only respected the money. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers when trying to find out what Macready was up to.

“As opposed to being one of your cats.”

“Cats or employees. If they do their job, they've nothing to fear.”

“And what job's that?”

Macready scrutinized Grant as if sizing him up, gauging his strengths and weaknesses. The man in black looking to hire a new hand. Veiled eyes noticing everything. Instead of answering, he asked a question of his own. “I understand you ran into a little trouble near the border.”

“Down that way. Yeah.”

“But not with the border guards.”

“It was a long way from the border.”

“Involving Mexicans though. Right?”

Grant didn't answer, waiting to see where Macready was going with this.

“Friends of Eduardo Cruz?”

Grant noticed a change in tone. Harder. He shrugged as he answered.

“Acquaintances of a patient.”

“Husband of a battered wife is what I heard.”

The head cook stepped back from the barbecue and held up a metal triangle and a stick. He rattled the stick around the frame, signalling that dinner was served. The men across the yard finished what they were doing and began to drift towards the tables. Grant was aware of the approaching menace, but the men seemed more interested in the food than in Grant. He turned back to Macready.

“I can't abide a wife beater. A man or a sleeveless vest.”

Macready ignored Grant's answer.

“Three men with guns. You were unarmed.”

Grant almost said that he used to patrol West Yorkshire with nothing but a stab vest and a baton but stopped himself just in time. Admitting to being a cop didn't seem like the way to go here.

“Just me and the hearse.”

“You acquitted yourself well. You and the hearse. Caused a fair bit of damage though. No burgers and ice cream on the 170 for a while.”

“Maybe they can come here.”

Macready waved a hand towards the barbecue pit. “We don't flip burgers here. We eat real meat.”

Then he pointed at the hearse parked in the shadows. “I don't think Hunter Athey will be too happy with you.”

Torch flames reflected off the windows, highlighting the one that was missing and the bullet holes punched in the bodywork. Grant looked at the damage, then turned back towards Macready. “I filled it up, though.”

Macready's smile didn't reach his eyes. “I heard about that too. Petrol fumes and coffee stains just follow you around.”

That wasn't a question so Grant didn't answer. Macready stopped smiling. “You and other people's vehicles don't mix either.”

“It's not me. Other folk seem to have a problem with that.”

Macready stuck his hands in his pockets and studied Grant. He let out a sigh and appeared to make a decision. The smile was back on his face.

“That's as maybe, but it relates directly to what I propose. If I was to offer you a seat at my table. And gainful employment.”

Grant waited for the proposal.

Macready let the moment stretch a beat before continuing.

“You ain't too good with foreign cars and hearses, that's a fact. What are you like driving a truck?”

Texas claimed its steaks
were the best in the world. Grant had heard that claim before. In Adelaide they considered Australian beef to be the best. He'd had a steak in Denver once, and they reckoned Colorado beef was the best. Whatever the truth, one thing was for certain: Texas steaks were the biggest he'd ever eaten. Thick and wide and melt-in-your-mouth gorgeous. Throw in a few fries and a side of coleslaw and this could almost be the perfect meal.

Apart from the company.

There wasn't much small talk, and nobody got too friendly. There was none of that laughing and joking associated with most dinner parties, and nobody drank too much. The beer cooler was there for everyone, or wine if that was their choice. The men surrounding Grant drank one or the other but only one drink each. Nobody was going to get drunk on the eve of combat. These guys might be mercenaries, but they were observing military discipline. Polite in the presence of strangers. Not too friendly with the new man. He remembered that from his army days. Replacements died early. Nobody wanted to get too friendly with them. Grant wondered who he was replacing. Not the cat, he hoped.

Music played in the background, some middle-of-the-road, easy listening stuff. Knives and forks clattered on plates. Ice clinked in glasses of water, served as a side order with the beer and the food. People talked in small groups. There was some backslapping and a few raised voices but nothing too energetic. It was a scene Grant had seen many times during his military career and not too infrequently in the Westerns he'd watched growing up. If this were a spaghetti Western, Clint Eastwood would be sitting quietly while the Italians roared with laughter and badly lip-synced dialogue. The head villain would bring out a suit of armor and use it for target practice while the Man with No Name pretended to get drunk.

Macready didn't bring out a suit of armor. Grant didn't pretend to get drunk. Nobody was getting drunk tonight. There was work to be done. Trouble was, apart from knowing he was going to be driving a truck, Grant didn't know what that work would be. It involved heavily armed men and big lorries and the cover of darkness. That was all he knew.

Melted wax ran down the sides of the candles like blood and pooled across the table. The flames flickered in the still night air. The wall-mounted torches did the same. One by one the soldiers finished their last supper and pushed empty plates away. They drained their beers and swilled it down with iced water. Even the music became quieter. Preparations were almost over.

Macready waved a hand.

Waitresses cleared the tables.

Grant took a drink of water and slid his glass across the table. Light reflected off the flat, calm surface like a puddle in a footprint. A low, dull noise began to compete with the music, as if the bass was turned up too loud. The smooth, calm surface in Grant's glass broke up as vibration shook the ground. Concentric circles in the confines of the glass. The noise grew louder. A noise that seemed to be coming from everywhere and yet from no direction in particular. It changed from an aimless muttering into something more solid. The sound of big, throaty engines coming from outside the compound walls.

Macready stood and everyone fell silent.

“Grab your gear, boys. Time to saddle up.”

The mercenaries collected their equipment and moved towards a dried-out wooden door in the compound's side wall. Grant followed, awaiting instructions. The door led to the outside near the abandoned athletics track. There were no streetlamps. The Christmas Mountains in the distance were picked out by moonlight and starshine. The trucks parked in line along the finishing straight were thrown into silhouette. Big desert-camouflaged military trucks, their unit insignia standing out in the cold blue light. They weren't army surplus. They were still in service. This was an army-approved operation.