Justice for None: Texas Justice Book #1 (34 page)

59

Hockley’
s
phone rang as the axe arced down toward Val’s ankle, its blade a liquid shimmer in the flashlight’s weak glow. Everyone in the basement, including Jasper, flinched at the shrill trill of the phone. Jasper’s head came up and his aim went awry. He drove the axe blade haft-deep into the soil just inches from Val’s right foot. Jasper cursed and jerked the blade free, shooting Laroy a reproachful glare.

Laroy held up a finger at Jasper as he pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked the caller ID. He put the phone to his ear, but he didn’t offer a greeting. He just listened silently for ten seconds then said, “Bring her down,” and clicked off. He was smiling as he stowed the phone. The muscle under his eye had stopped twitching.

Jasper hefted the axe again, but Laroy shook his head.

“Put the axe away, Deaf,” he said. “We won’t be needing it.”

Jasper didn’t even look Laroy’s way; his eyes stayed on Val.

“If you’re feeling a touch squeamish just take your ass upstairs, Cap’n,” he said. But Val wasn’t paying attention to Jasper anymore, or the axe. His brain had locked in on what Laroy had just said into the phone: ‘Bring
her
down.’ Val had a good idea of who the
‘her’
was.

The fear and pain Val had been enduring was nothing compared to the sudden terror that flooded his limbs with a watery weakness, but he had been behind the gun too long to succumb to it. His old companion, a cold, violent rage, raced through him. His forearms tensed against the shackles, the cuffs carving deep into the already raw flesh of his wrists. Only the foot Jasper had planted on his right leg kept him from lunging up in a suicidal attack.

“Let her go, Laroy,” Val said through clenched teeth. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Laroy shook his head. He was still smiling. “You had your chance.”

“I’ll tell you where the gold is, but you have to let her go. You have to—” Val stopped mid-word as footsteps padded across the living room floor above his head. Dust sifted down from the cobwebbed rafters as the footsteps continued down the hallway to the basement door.

Victoria appeared at the top of the steps. Behind her was a slender, dark-haired man Val had never seen before. They came down the stairs in tandem, the slender guy on Victoria’s heels. He had a revolver in one hand and a club in the other. Victoria was pale, her hair a greasy tangle. A fresh bruise had been added to her forehead and her nose was bloody, but her eyes were dry and her chin was up. And then she saw her husband and tears welled in her eyes. Val couldn’t handle that. He jerked his eyes away and looked up at Hockley. The sheriff’s captain was smiling down at him, waiting.

Suddenly Val felt incredibly weary. The defiant rush of anger ebbed from his blood as quickly as it had come, leaving him weak, like a shark washed ashore to suffocate. He slumped back against the wall. There was only one thing he could do for Victoria now: buy her an easy death.

“You’re going to need a shovel,” he said. “The gold’s buried in the septic tank next door.”

60

From
the top of the basement steps, Victoria could see very little of the room below, just shadowy silhouettes outlined by the glow of a pair of flashlights. Logan/Parker nudged her from behind and she went down the stairs, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. She recognized Laroy and then Jasper Smith, but she was halfway to the bottom before she spotted Valentine sitting on the dirt floor, his shirtfront dark with dried blood, his complexion ashen. He looked near death, but he managed to give her a wan smile before he turned his gaze up at Laroy Hockley.

When Val spoke, his voice was thick and slurred, barely audible. “You’re going to need a shovel. The gold’s buried in the septic tank next door.”

Those words hit Victoria like a wrecking ball. They were the final brick pulled from the foundation of her life. The whole structure tilted then collapsed. There was only one way Val could be certain of the location of the Suttons’ stash, only one conclusion that could be drawn: Val
had
stolen the cash. After executing Lamar and Lemuel Sutton.

“You promised two bullets, Laroy,” Valentine said as she stared at him as if she were seeing him for the first time, as if he was a stranger. A killer and a thief. A wave of nausea almost staggered her.

Laroy nodded. “You got it.” Laroy looked happy, almost gleeful. “As soon as I get the cash.” He turned to Jasper Smith. “Is that shovel still down here, Deaf?”

Jasper nodded mutely and crossed to the open area beneath the steps, leering at Victoria as he passed her. Smith’s teeth were broken-off shards, his face battered black and blue, but it was the gnarled crucifix-shaped brands marking his torso that made her blanch. They looked like melted plastic in the glow of the flashlight.

“I know I ain’t as pretty as I once was,” Jasper said, waving a hand at his face. “I got your husband to thank for that.”

“I’ve seen your mug shots,” Victoria snapped, regaining her composure. “You were never pretty.”

Jasper laughed.

Parker spoke from behind her. “We don’t have much time, Laroy,” he said. “Jack Birch is on his way.”

Laroy lost the smile. “Just Jack?”

Parker shrugged. “I think so. I think Mrs. Justice and Lieutenant Birch went off the reservation on this one. Trying to cover for him,” he jerked his chin at Val. “They wouldn’t have called in the rest of the cops.”

“I can handle the lieutenant,” a woman spoke from the shadows to the left of the stairs, startling Victoria, who hadn’t noticed her standing there in the darkness. “I can decoy him away. There’s no need to kill him,” she added as she stepped forward into the light, a pistol dangling from her right hand. She had a second pistol shoved down into the waistband of her slacks,

Victoria recognized her, though they had never formally met. She was a DPD Gang Unit detective named Sally Gruene. But what the hell was Gruene doing there? The answer seemed obvious enough. Chasing the money, just like everyone else in the room, including Valentine.

“What about Herby Lubbock?” Laroy asked Logan, ignoring Gruene. “I didn’t hear anything on the radio about that after I left his place.”

“The Channel 11 news said the house burned to the ground. It’ll probably be a day or more before they even find the bodies.” Parker said then fished around in his pocket and produced the folded-over PAC paperwork. “But Mrs. Justice had this.” He tossed the packet to Laroy.

Laroy shuffled through the paperwork before glancing up. He grinned at Parker. “I might not have to run after all. We hand this to Swisher,” he waved the paperwork, “and get rid of Jack and the Justices here and we’re all home free. Nolan can make up any kind of story he wants, no one will argue with him. I might just end up a hero. A
rich
hero.”

That comment elicited a sarcastic chuckle out of Jasper Smith. The ex-con came back into the circle of light, a shovel in one hand, the axe in the other. “Just when I was starting to think you was half-smart,” he said. “You better find you a nice warm rock to hide under until that money runs out. The State of Texas ain’t half as stupid as you and Sheriff Swisher.”

Laroy’s smile snuffed out. He snarled at Jasper, “Shut up, Deaf. Do what you’re told and leave the thinking to me.”

Jasper smiled and nodded amiably. “Why, sure,” he said. “Sure, Cap’n, whatever you say.”

Laroy glanced back at Parker. “There’s only one road in from the highway. Park my car across it and lay up in the weeds with the shotgun. Put all eight rounds into the front seat. Don’t play around with Jack. He’s killed almost as many men as our friend Vicious here.”

“Laroy,” Gruene began. “Killing these two makes sense, but Lieutenant Birch is—”

“Shut up, Sally,” Laroy said without even looking Gruene’s way. Her mouth snapped closed and her eyes filled with reproach. “It’s not your concern. Parker will handle Jack.”

Valentine’s head came up. “You send this guy after Jack and you’ll be down one asshole,” he said. “If you’re lucky, maybe Jack will kill you, too. Abby has a lot of friends down in Huntsville. You’re not going to like prison much,”

Laroy grimaced. “You think I killed Abby? I thought you were a homicide detective?” he said. “I had nothing to do with Abby’s murder. But I sure didn’t cry any tears when she ended up dead. More money for me.”

“Then who killed her?” Val asked.

Laroy shook his head again. “I don’t know and I don’t care. I never met the woman until three weeks ago. She got busted for assault on a deputy. She was drunk off her ass and talking about the money you stole from her brothers.” Laroy shrugged. “Fifteen million was too much to pass up. I put her in an interrogation room and, after a little persuasion, she gave me Sheriff Swisher’s bag man, Herby Lubbock. Herby gave me Sheriff Swisher, Garland Sutton, Jasper, and Agent Parker here. I convinced them that we should all be partners. That we should squeeze you until we saw green.”

“What does Nolan Swisher have to do with this?” Val said, obviously confused, though Victoria knew exactly what Laroy was saying. It was the final confirmation, as if she needed it, that Sheriff Swisher was behind Abby and Rankin’s murders and God knew how many more.

Laroy nodded. “Nolan has some issues with campaign financing.” He shrugged and was about to say more when he noticed Parker still standing behind Victoria.

“What are you still doing here? Get moving!” he barked.

Wordlessly, Parker turned and trotted up the steps. Victoria heard him cross the living room fast and head out into the night. Out to ambush Jack Birch. And there was nothing she could do about it.

Laroy looked at Jasper. “Let’s get him on his feet,” he said then turned to Gruene. “You stay here with Victoria.”

Gruene silently nodded, her expression slack, worn out, like something carved from warm wax.

Jasper transferred the axe to his left hand, bundling it with the shovel, then stooped and took a fistful of Val’s shirtfront. Val gasped in pain and his complexion went two shades paler as he was hauled erect by the brutally strong ex-con.

“Let go of him, you son of a bitch,” Victoria hissed, She took a quick step toward Jasper, her hands coming up into fists. “Don’t you—”

Gruene stepped into Victoria’s path, blocking the way, the pistol in her hand held at hip level, her index finger on the trigger, her eyes as dark and dead as a voodoo doll.

“Sally,” Laroy barked. “Lower that weapon! Nobody gets killed until we have the cash.”

Gruene nodded, but it was a long moment before she finally lowered the pistol and stepped away.

Laroy and Jasper hustled Valentine toward the stairs, dragging him along like a sack of laundry. Victoria knew this was the last time she would ever see her husband. She turned to him as he passed, grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop.

“I love you,” she said. That was the one kernel of truth in a marriage that had been built on lies and deception. In this last moment it was all she had to cling to. All that mattered.

Val grinned, a sudden flash of light in his bloodless face. “I know,” he said, giving her his usual smart-ass reply. It was almost funny this time.
Almost.
Quickly, she ducked in and kissed him on the lips just as Jasper jerked him away, toward the stairs. She watched Valentine disappear up the steps. At the top he turned back and looked at her one last time before Jasper shoved him through doorway.

Victoria turned back to Gruene.

“So you’re Victoria,” Gruene said, her voice as lifeless as her expression. She raised the pistol, aimed it at Victoria’s forehead and cocked the hammer. “I’ve heard
so
much about you.
Too much.”

61

Victoria’s
kiss lingered on Val’s lips as he slogged up the stairs, bracketed front and rear by Jasper and Hockley. He looked back down at her one last time from the doorway at the top, but he could barely see her face in the dimness of the basement, just a white oval, like a child lost down a well. That last glimpse broke his heart cleanly in two. And then Jasper prodded him in the back, getting him moving again, down the hallway, through the living room and out into the humidity of the sweltering night.

The sodden heat sucked away what little strength Val had left. Still, he managed to go down the porch steps unassisted, his eyes panning across the darkened landscape of empty lots and decaying houses. The leaves of the trees that filled the yard stirred listlessly in a wan breeze that smelled of dust; nothing else moved.

But Jack Birch was coming…

That thought gave Val some hope, but not much. Jack was walking directly into an ambush. Even if he got past Logan and the shotgun, there was still Smith, Hockley and Gruene to contend with. Three highly motivated and heavily armed killers. And, thanks to his loyalty to Val, Jack was all alone. Val’s vision went dark around the edges. Handcuffed or not, he decided, he was going to do
something.
He had to help even the odds for Jack.

Jasper paused at the edge of the driveway, stepped aside and ushered Val forward to take the lead. Val trudged across the lawn toward the redbud hedge, Behind him, Jasper began to whistle tunelessly. It took Val a moment to recognize the song as ‘Dixie.’

As Val slipped through a gap in the redbud hedge, Hockley stepped close and jammed a pistol into Val’s kidney. Even with a handcuffed and wounded man, Hockley was taking no chances. That was bad news for Val. It left him no room to maneuver. And time was running out.

Val stopped on the other side of the hedge.

Hockley flicked on the flashlight. “Where?” was all he said.

Valentine nodded mutely at the shallow depression over the septic tank. Hockley panned the light over the spot then said to Jasper, “We’ll take turns digging. You go first.”

Jasper didn’t argue, though he shot Laroy an angry glance. He stepped around them, the shovel in his hands, and crossed to the septic tank. His feet made a hollow thump as he stepped down into the depression. Jasper flexed his knees and bounced up and down. Wood splintered and cracked beneath his boot heels and Jasper hopped back out again.

“It’s just plywood under there,” he said, looking over at Val. “You laid a chunk of plywood over fifteen million dollars?”

Val shook his head. “Not me. Lamar.”

Jasper frowned. “You saw him put it here?”

Val shook his head again, taking the opportunity to shift his feet, putting a little distance between himself and Hockley, a matter of inches.

“How do you know it’s even down there?” Jasper asked.

Val shrugged. “I don’t. Not for sure. It’s the only place no one ever looked.”

“Are you saying this is a
guess?”
Hockley demanded.

Val shrugged again. “Yeah, but don’t worry, I’m on a roll of good luck. Last week I guessed three of the seven Power Ball numbers. And on Monday I found twenty bucks in the pocket of some old jeans. So—” That was as far as he got before Hockley viciously chopped down on his wounded shoulder with the pistol, driving Val to his knees.

Lightning careened off the interior of Val’s skull. He gasped for air as he swayed on his knees, keeping a seasick sort of balance - until Hockley kicked him in the side.

Val went over like a bowling pin, crashing back-first into the redbud shrubs behind him, falling through dried-out limbs that clawed and gouged him like a bobcat mauling a rabbit. He ended in a half-sitting position, his butt on the ground, his upper body in the shrubbery. Fresh blood oozed from a half dozen cuts and scrapes, adding to the cornucopia of pain. And, judging by the way Hockley was glaring down at him, aiming his pistol at Val’s forehead, there was more pain to come.

“Now, don’t go killing him, Cap’n,” Jasper Smith said. “We got an understanding, remember?”

Hockley didn’t respond, but he slowly lowered the pistol.

“Just dig the thing up so we can get out of here, Jasper,” he said, his eyes remaining on Val.

“That’s fine,” Jasper said, stepping down onto the grass-covered plywood again. “Just don’t disremember our agreement.” Smith gave Val a wink. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Val wasn’t going to get the quick bullet that Hockley had promised him. Jasper had his own plans for Valentine and they didn’t include an easy death.

Jasper used his heel to drive the shovel into the dirt. Another hollow thump. Smith looked over his shoulder at Hockley. “Ain’t more than a few inches of dirt over this,” he said. “How you figure the cops missed it?”

Good question, Val thought, though he knew the answer. He remembered the smell that had permeated the crime scene, a stomach-rolling stench that had seemed to burrow into the fibers of your lungs. With the Honduran workers living next door, more than a dozen men in all, the tank had overflowed turning this low spots into a fetid swamp of raw sewage. Or so the cops had thought. No one had ever considered the possibility that it was actually a pile of gold coins and cash that had overflowed the tank.

“Just dig it up,” Hockley repeated.

Jasper didn’t immediately obey. For a moment he just leaned on the shovel and stared at Hockley. Finally, he nodded once to himself, turned and lifted a shovelful of dirt. He tossed it onto the ground at Hockley’s feet, speckling Hockley’s boat shoes with dark earth.

Hockley’s jaw went rigid, but he said nothing, he just shook the dirt off and took a step backward.

Jasper pitched dirt wildly over his shoulder, the shovel booming hollowly off the plywood again and again, the smell of raw sewage growing stronger with every scoop. A smell that was as dense as sea fog by the time Jasper had uncovered a rough circle of blackened wood.

“Christ the savior, that’s ripe,” Jasper said as he wedged the shovel blade under the edge of the plywood. He was breathing through his mouth, his bare shoulders slick with sweat. He heaved against the shovel’s handle and the rotten panel cracked and bulged then splintered straight down the middle. Jasper pitched the shovel aside, stooped, grabbed one half of the plywood, and hauled it out of the way. It took him another minute of digging to free the second half.

“Gimme the flashlight,” he said, waggling his fingers impatiently. Hockley handed the light over and Jasper aimed it into the pit. He played it around for a minute, but said nothing.

“Well?” Hockley finally demanded.

Jasper shrugged. “There’s what looks like a pile of garbage bags,” he said, then stepped forward and hopped down three feet, landing hard atop something that clanked. Only his head and shoulders poked up past the lip of the septic tank. He shifted his feet and squatted down out of sight. A moment later a metallic jangle came from the pit and Jasper thrust his head back up, grinning, his face streaked with gray muck. He tossed something at Hockley who caught it one handed and held it up to the light.

“Son of a bitch,” Hockley said as he stared with an almost dazed expression at a tarnished gold coin. “I’m rich.”

Jasper lost the grin. “
We’re
rich, Cap’n,” he said pointedly, the edge in his voice as sharp as the blade of a prison shank. He stooped back down out of sight, his voice muffled as he added, “Holster that hog-leg and help me get this stuff up out of here. Mr. Justice ain’t going nowhere.”

Hockley holstered his pistol and hunkered down on the lip of the pit. Together he and Jasper wrestled a clanking canvas bag emblazoned with an Adidas logo up onto the edge of the pit. The once white bag was soiled a filthy brown-green. The smell of effluent coalesced and deepened. A physical presence, like a dirty fist shoved down your throat. The smell turned Hockley green. He gagged then turned his head and vomited into the grass, again and again until he was dry heaving.

Finally Jasper lost patience. “You know, I ain’t exactly having a good time down here my own self,” he said. “If you can pull your ass together for five minutes we can be done with this.”

Hockley gagged one more time. His face was slick with sweat and drained of color. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing black ooze across his lips. And then he was gagging again, heaving his guts into the weeds.

The ratcheting sound of Hockley’s vomiting almost covered the rustle of dry leaves behind Valentine. Almost. Val cocked his head to listen. The sharp edges of broken branches gouged into his neck and back. There it was again. The quiet rattle of dead leaves being brushed aside.

“Cap’n?” Smith said, his impatience growing.

“Damn it,” Hockley exploded. “All right.” He turned back to the pit and wrestled the next bag up. Another canvas Adidas bag. And then another. Coins clanked and rattled. Hockley began to grin again, the sound of all that gold overwhelming his revulsion.

Something touched Valentine’s palm. He flinched instinctively, but a hand encircled his wrist and clamped down on the shackle. A small click, more felt than heard, and his hands were no longer joined together. One more click and both bracelets were off.

Val’s heart rate rose to a steady thrum, but he didn’t make a move. He didn’t dare. It had to be Jack behind him. Val had to await an opportunity, give Jack a chance to get in position. He kept his hands behind his back, flexing the fingers of his right hand, getting the circulation going. His left arm wouldn’t budge; it hung like a dead stick from his wounded shoulder.

Val flinched when a gunshot boomed, the flash so close it lit up the hedge around him like a strobe light. There was a grunt of pain and Val could sense the person behind him rising, turning toward the gunfire. Another gunshot lit up the hedge then a third and a fourth spaced so closely that they were like rolling thunder, and a body crashed into the hedge behind Val. Two more shots smashed that body straight through the wall of branches to sprawl face-up beside Val. The man’s legs remained tangled in the hedge as his chest rose and fell in a spastic rhythm. Blood leaked from his mouth, but his eyes were still open. Even in the darkness, Val recognized Slick Hernandez.

Hernandez’s dark clothing had been torn by branches, his shirtfront punctured by a pair of bullets. His face was cut from his fall through the redbuds, his right cheek torn open to the bone. His dark eyes blinked at Val like a gut-shot panther.

“Like an amateur,” he said in a papery whisper. His eyes slid shut and he shuddered and lay still, wilting into the ground.

“Don’t shoot! It’s me! Parker!” The dark haired guy who had brought Victoria to the basement yelled, then stepped hesitantly through the gap in the hedge, his revolver held up sideways in front of his face. He was out of breath, panting, his sweat-drenched shirt clinging to his upper body. “It’s me. Don’t shoot!”

Hockley had hit the ground at the first gunshot. “Shut up, Parker,” he said as he scrambled to his feet. He brushed at the grass and leaves clinging to his shorts and shirt with one filthy hand, smearing himself with the cesspool’s black goo. He didn’t seem to notice. “You’ve already made enough noise.” Hockley swept the flashlight over Slick’s prostrate body, zeroing in on the Hispanic gangster’s face. The anger left his expression, replaced by confusion.

“What the hell?” he said, “That’s Slick Hernandez.”

“Bullshit.” Jasper’s head prairie-dogged up out of the pit. “Hernandez is a Mexican Mafia shooter.”

“I know what he
is,”
Hockley snapped. “What I’d like to know is what
he’s
doing here?”

Val was wondering the same thing. And then, suddenly, it hit him – Slick was repaying a debt. Hernandez’s twisted sense of honor had just earned him six bullets.

Parker stooped down beside the Mexican gangster and took a small caliber revolver out of the weeds at Slick’s feet. It looked like a .22. A professionally machined silencer was affixed to the barrel. A hit-man special. Parker stood with the pistol and looked to Hockley.

“I spotted him going over a fence two streets over, heading this way. I followed, but I lost him. I was running here to warn you when I saw him trying to sneak through the bushes,” Parker paused there to catch his breath. He glanced down at Slick then back at Hockley. “That’s really Hernandez?”

Hockley didn’t answer, he was clearly trying to make some sense of the situation. Then he turned the flashlight on Parker’s face, blinding the man.

“What about Jack Birch?” Hockley demanded. “If he gets past—”

“I never saw Birch, but another cop
did
get past me. A big fat guy in a DPD blue and white,” Parker cut in. “I barricaded the street with your car, just like you said, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even
slow down.
He hit the curb at sixty miles an hour, cut through a yard and was halfway down the block before I even got the shotgun to my shoulder.” Parker’s eyes fell on the canvas bags lying beside the open septic tank and his eyes went wide. “Is that what I think it is?”

Hockley ignored the question. “A fat guy?” he repeated.

Parker nodded, his eyes stuck on the gold. “Guy filled up half the car.”