Adobe Flats (23 page)

forty-three

The rain had stopped.
That was the only good thing. It was still gloomy and overcast. The wind still whipped the clouds across the sky. The windmill atop the well still creaked as it spun like a Spitfire's propeller. Or a helicopter's rotor.

Grant pulled into the turnaround in front of the burned-out hacienda and parked. The jeep was angled towards him next to the well. Open ground lay between them like a showdown at high noon. Grant turned off the engine and got out of the pickup. Tripp Macready got out of the jeep. He was alone. There was no sign of Sarah.

The smell of burned wood was stronger after the rain. Like cigarette butts in a wet ashtray. It was as if the fire had only recently been put out. As if Macready had only just torched the house that Pilar Cruz grew up in. The desert smelled different too. Grant couldn't put his finger on it. Not as dry and parched. That much was obvious. What wasn't so obvious was Macready's intentions.

Grant took two steps towards the Texan.

“Nice of you to wait.”

Macready didn't move.

“Well, I figured you'd be coming. Why put it off?”

“You reckoned this was the place, huh?”

“It's why you came to Texas. Right?”

“It's where I came to visit. Not why.”

“To see a broken-down Mexican you'd never met before.”

Grant could feel his pulse beginning to race.

Macready turned the screw.

“Father to a fallen hero.”

Grant clenched his teeth but kept quiet.

Macready noticed the muscles of Grant's jaw tense and knew he was winning.

“I've been doing my research. So you came to Absolution looking for peace.”

Grant flexed his neck one way and then the other. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He slowed his heart rate. Relaxed his muscles. Refused to let Tripp Macready wind him up. Keeping his voice calm, he took a step towards the surly Texan.

“There is no peace. Only acceptance. Then you move on.”

Macready hardened his stare.

“I'm from Texas, and I am not so accepting. And you are gonna pay.”

He stepped away from the jeep, the machete hanging loose from one hand. He began to twirl the blade in a sweeping arc. Slowly, like a martial artist going into his warm-up routine. The cutting edge was bright in the gloom. It stood out against the man in black's clothing.

Grant didn't take his eyes off Macready's stare. The twirling blade was a secondary consideration. If he was going to attack, the first sign would come from the eyes. Grant used his peripheral vision to check the jeep and the surrounding area. No movement. No Sarah. That was worrying.

Grant took another step towards Macready and tried to buy some time.

“One thing I've got to say about Texas. The welcome has been consistent.”

He hooked his thumbs into his belt, fingers covering the heavy buckle.

“About as friendly as the one those Mexicans got who visited the Alamo.”

Macready moved sideways, away from the well. The machete began to twirl faster. Smooth and deadly.

“They weren't invited.”

Another step sideways.

“And neither were you.”

Grant didn't sidestep in the opposite direction. He moved towards Macready. The secrets of facing a man with a knife were to either keep your distance or get in close, inside the fighting arc. Keeping your distance meant you were safe from being cut, but it didn't get your man. Grant was like the Mounties. He always got his man. Deft fingers unbuckled his belt.

“How do you know?”

The twirling blade stopped.

“I know Doc Cruz didn't invite you.”

Grant let the belt fall open and shrugged the tattered orange windcheater off his shoulders.

“His daughter did.”

Macready tightened his grip on the machete.

“That must have been just before she died.”

He smiled.

“You're not having much luck with girlfriends, are you?”

Grant noticed the rope for the first time. Fastened to the back of the jeep and extending to the well. Stretched tight.

Macready nodded.

“I've been researching Yorkshire too. Want to know what I learned?”

Grant forced his eyes
away from the rope. Thunder rumbled in the distance to the north as the storm moved on past Absolution. The clouds overhead were still moving fast but weren't as dark as before. There was a hint of brightness in the sky. There was nothing bright about the confrontation at Adobe Flats. At this stage, keeping Macready talking was the best defense. Grant kept his voice soft and even.

“If you wanted the recipe for Yorkshire pudding, you should have asked.”

Macready's voice feigned friendliness but couldn't disguise its hard edge.

“There's more to Yorkshire than Eccles cake and Yorkshire pudding.”

“Eccles is in Greater Manchester.”

Macready dismissed the interruption with a wave of the machete.

“But you've got a dark side. Over there in the English countryside.”

Grant kept his dark side under control. Not prepared to unleash the fury until he was certain where Sarah was. Macready used the machete as a pointer, punctuating each piece of information with a little jab of the blade.

First jab.

“It was the training ground for the 7/7 bombers. Bradford University teaching them how to blow up trains and buses in London. I bet they didn't advertise that as part of the curriculum.”

Second jab.

“You had that American who shot the cop at Christmas.”

“Boxing Day. David Bieber. The American.”

“Still an English cop killed by an American. A bit like here.”

“Cats and old men for you.”

“I'm not finished yet. I want you to feel at home.”

The hard edge still behind the conversational tone.

“What was Yorkshire's biggest claim to fame, do you think?”

A rhetorical question. Grant didn't answer.

“Got to be the Yorkshire Ripper, wouldn't you say?”

Grant was getting worried for Sarah now, if Macready was going to use Peter Sutcliffe as inspiration for punishing Grant. Grant kept quiet. Macready did not. The Texan made sure Grant got the point.

“Killer of prostitutes and loose women. How many was it?”

Grant kept half an eye on the rope while focusing on the machete.

“I didn't count.”

Macready pointed the blade to his stomach, then made a gutting movement.

“A lot. Between 1975 and 1980. With a hammer and a knife.”

He carefully ran a finger along the cutting edge.

“Makes you feel kinda homesick, don't it?”

Grant wrapped the windcheater around his forearm for protection and flexed his shoulders. He scrutinized the gleaming length of the machete. It was clean; there was no blood. If Macready had wanted to make a point using the ripper, he'd have left Sarah's blood dripping from the blade. That meant he hadn't cut her yet. He'd made his intentions clear, though. Mentioning the man from Hanging Garden Lane was just setting the scene. The Texan was going to gut Sarah like a fish, and he wanted Grant to know about it beforehand. That's what Grant reckoned from all this talk.

Grant was wrong.

Macready sidestepped some more, already halfway around a semicircle from the jeep. Grant didn't mirror his movements. This wasn't two boxers in the ring sizing each other up before closing in for the fight. Grant took two paces towards the twirling machete and raised his covered forearm as protection. He brought his other hand across his waist. This was going to happen soon, and it was going to happen fast. Grant put added steel in his voice.

“You going to shit or get off the pot?”

The blade stopped spinning. Macready stood still. He feigned disappointment.

“There's no need for that kind of talk. I haven't got to the good part yet.”

He glanced at the blade, then back at Grant.

“I could never do that to Sarah. I'm just pointing out that Yorkshire isn't all it's made out to be. All that rain. It must cultivate the inner darkness.”

He held a hand out, palm upwards.

“But it's stopped now, so let's talk about that other Yorkshire
legend
.”

Grant waited.

Macready drew the moment out before speaking again.

“The Black Panther.”

Grant knew where this was going and what it meant for Sarah. “In the '70s. Robbed post offices.”

Macready nodded.

“Shot people.”

The clouds slowed in their race across the sky. They began to thin and let watery sunshine filter through. The hacienda brightened in the background. The windmill atop the well slowed down. Grant looked towards the jeep, still dripping water from its river crossing. He spoke almost absentmindedly.

“Branched out into kidnapping and ransom.”

Macready looked pleased that Grant had made the connection.

“Kidnapped Leslie Whittle in 1975.”

The sun broke through the clouds and shards of light glinted off the jeep, picking out the weave of the rope all the way to the well. The rope thrummed with tension. Macready nodded.

“And hung her from a wire in a drainage shaft.”

forty-four

Grant moved fast but
not fast enough. He darted towards the jeep. Macready blocked his path. Two quick swipes of the machete forced Grant back. The fancy twirling movements were over; this was the business end of the knife fight.

Grant couldn't stop Sean Connery's voice playing in his mind. “Just like a wop. Brings a knife to a gunfight.”

He might just as well have said, “Just like a tyke. Brings a folded coat to a knife fight.” Except Grant didn't just have a folded coat. Using his free hand, he pulled the belt out of its loops. He dangled the heavy buckle almost to the ground and swung it gently from side to side.

Macready didn't look worried. He feigned a lunge with the machete.

Grant didn't react to the feint.

Macready jerked his head towards the well.

“She's on a ledge halfway down.”

He put one hand around his throat, tilted his neck, and stuck his tongue out.

“One slip and she's gone.”

He straightened up and swung the blade in a narrow arc in front of him.

“You know how that worked out for Leslie Whittle.”

Grant knew. Leslie Whittle had been hung down the drainage shaft by a wire around the neck. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her feet barely held firm on a narrow ledge halfway down. Neilson aborted the ransom pickup atop the well, and the police didn't do a full search until the following day. Leslie must have slipped off the ledge. She was found dangling in the void.

Macready saw the recognition on Grant's face and smiled.

“Of course she was down there longer than Sarah has been. So far.”

He swished the machete. Twice.

“You could save her. If you can get past me.”

Another swish of the blade for effect.

“A one-man mob with a machete.”

Grant focused on Macready's eyes, but he was conscious of the rope. He could practically feel the tension pulling the weave tight. The rope jerked—just a small movement but enough to send shock waves racing through Grant's body. The rope settled down again. It didn't stretch tighter. She hadn't fallen off the ledge, but she was moving. That was dangerous.

Macready continued to push Grant's buttons.

“A bit like your other girlfriend. Only you can't shoot this one.”

That was enough. If Grant had kept the gun, he'd have shot Macready and saved the girl. Absolution for having killed the woman he loved. Instead he began to twirl the belt, the heavy buckle swishing through the air. Macready knew he had the upper hand. No point bringing a belt to a knife fight. He flashed the machete in two crisscross swipes intended to open Grant's chest. The second swing had a longer follow through. Too long.

Grant unleashed the belt. It wrapped around Macready's knife hand, and Grant tugged down hard. He moved inside the fighting arc and stamped on Macready's knee. The leg buckled. Grant slammed the heel of one hand into Macready's throat, and it was game over.

Macready dropped to the ground, coughing blood.

Grant snatched the machete and dashed to the well.

The wind finally dropped to a gentle breeze. The clouds became thin and wispy. The hot Texas sun was burning them off like mist on a summer's morning. Adobe Flats was transformed by the downpour. Parched foliage that had looked dry and brown now burst into life. Vibrant greens picked out the surrounding countryside, and spots of color blossomed around the foot of the well. Desert blooms that had just been waiting for sustenance. Like flowers growing on graves in a hot, dusty township halfway around the world.

Grant hoped the well hadn't turned into a grave.

He grabbed the wooden cover and flicked it open. Pipes from the windmill ran down the center of the shaft. The windmill blades squeaked as they slowed in the breeze. The rope was tight across the stone rim. Grant could feel it throbbing beneath his hand. He leaned forward and looked over the edge.

Sarah Hellstrom was a shadowy presence six feet down the shaft. Sunlight beating across the turnaround didn't extend more than a few feet into the well. Grant could make out the rope and the pipes and the top of Sarah's head. The noose had pulled tight around her neck, but that was the extent of Macready's knot-tying skills. The cord he'd used to fasten her hands dangled from one wrist, unpicked by deft fingers and sharp focus. The focus didn't extend to being able to untie the noose. Her weight at the end of the rope meant there wasn't enough slack. She reached up with one hand but missed the rope and almost fell off the ledge.

The rope twanged like it had before, vibrating all the way to the jeep. Grant doubled over the retaining wall and shoved a hand out but couldn't reach. Sarah teetered on the edge of slipping. Grant did the only thing he could: grabbed the rope and tugged. Sarah regained her balance, but the rope tightened around her throat. A gurgling death rattle echoed up the shaft.

Grant shouted into the void. “Still.”

The sound of his voice calmed Sarah down. The choking lack of air did not. Her face was bright red going on purple. Her cheeks were puffed out like a blowfish. Soon her tongue would swell and protrude. There was no time. Grant anchored his feet as best he could at the base of the wall and leaned into the darkness.

“Reach up.”

Sarah raised one hand, careful not to overbalance. She couldn't look up to see where she was reaching. Grant stretched down. The hands groped for each other but were two feet apart. Grant stretched even farther.

His left foot slipped on the sandy ground.

Shock sparked through his system, and he jerked backwards.

Sarah whimpered, the sound echoing up the shaft.

Grant caught his breath and changed his footing. Legs apart for a more solid base. He slipped one end of the belt through the buckle and pulled it all the way to the end, forming a manacle just big enough for Sarah to slip her wrist in. He wrapped the loose end around his fist and leaned into the well again.

“Okay. Try again. Slowly. Slip your hand through the loop.”

He was talking just to calm her down, the sound of his voice giving her reassurance. It was obvious what she had to do. The end of the belt dangled above her head. Without looking up she found it with one hand and slipped her wrist through the loop. Held tight and grabbed the strap with her other hand too.

Grant took the weight with his right arm. Muscles screamed in his shoulder. As soon as he felt she was secure, he swung the machete at the rope where it stretched over the wall. The blade was sharp. The swing was heavy. The twang of the rope snapping sounded loud in the silence.

“Now turn.”

Sarah didn't need telling twice. She turned to face the wall of the shaft and used her feet to find grips on the way up. Grant braced his legs and pulled. She came up three feet. He leaned back from the wall and pulled again. Another three feet. Sarah held onto the top of the retaining wall, and Grant leaned over and grabbed the waist of her jeans. One final tug, and she tumbled headlong over the wall.

Grant fell back and sat on the ground. He let out an explosive breath, then loosened the noose from around her neck. The rope had bitten deep, leaving a burn scar that would take months to heal. The belt came loose from her wrist. Her eyes watered as she gasped for air. She coughed and retched and was sick on the flowers around the base of the well.

No one else was coughing.

That was Grant's first thought.

Then Sarah found her voice.

“
Jim
.”

Grant spun around too late. The machete wasn't on the ground where he'd dropped it. It was swinging at his head in a killing arc.

Sunlight glinted off the
blade. It slashed downwards towards where Grant was sitting. Not from very high because Macready was sitting too, his broken knee twisted at an ugly angle. The razor edge had become serrated where it had struck the stone wall when cutting the rope. It wasn't any less sharp as it sliced through the orange windcheater wrapped around Grant's upstretched arm. Blood seeped through the cut. Pain flared.

Grant rolled to one side and spun his legs to face the threat. Standard practice when an officer was on the ground facing a hostile force in a riot situation or a pub fight. Police training school had contingencies for everything. He didn't remember them teaching him how to defend against a machete attack. Get in close. That was all he could think of. Inside the fighting arc. Easier said than done when you were on your back and down to one arm.

The blade swung again. From high to low in a chopping motion. Grant flick-rolled in the opposite direction. One swift movement followed by a straight-legged kick to the chest. His foot slammed Macready backwards. The Texan twisted but his shattered knee couldn't follow. He let out a scream and snarled at Grant. Speckles of slaver dripped from his lips. His face was red. He looked like a rabid dog. He tried to bring his arm back for another strike, but Grant lurched to his knees and gained the higher ground.

The machete arm was in the middle of the backstroke. Grant caught the wrist before it could swing forward. He pulled Macready's arm straight and slammed his elbow down on the Texan's forearm. It snapped just above the wrist, and the machete fell to the ground.

Grant darted forward and whipped the belt around Macready's neck. He knelt behind the Texan and caught the other end of the belt. The cords of Macready's throat stood out as the belt tightened.

Sarah shuffled back against the well. Sunlight haloed around her head. The bright little flowers at the base of the well stood out in another glorious Texas morning. Not flowers on a desert grave. New life in a desolate land.

Grant squeezed tighter. Macready had killed Hunter Athey and tried to kill Sarah. Not to mention the cat. This wasn't a man who deserved mercy. This wasn't a man who would see the inside of an Absolution jail cell. Sometimes justice was more than following the letter of the law. Grant turned his back on Sarah and locked one arm around Macready's neck. He grabbed the Texan's head and prepared to administer summary justice.