Rain Gods (31 page)

And Hackberry Holland, walking toward the restroom, squeezing between the diners, saw in the corner of his eye the man in the straw gardener’s hat wrestling open a gym bag by his foot, ripping a thirty-inch-long object loose from a tangle of underwear and shirts and socks. As Hackberry stared in disbelief, as though watching a slow-motion film that had nothing to do with reality, he saw that the object was a cut-down pump shotgun, the hacksawed steel still bright from the cut, loose shotgun shells spilling out of the gym bag onto the floor.

His next thoughts flashed across his mind in under a second, in the way that a BB arches into space and disappears:

Where had he seen the man’s face?

In a photo, maybe.

Except the face in the photo had an orange beard of the kind a Nordic seafarer might have.

Was this how it ended, with a flash from a shotgun muzzle and a burst of light inside the skull before the report ever reached his ears?

Hackberry tilted a table upward, spilling food and plates onto the floor, and flung it at the man in the gardener’s hat, who was raising the shotgun toward Hackberry’s chest. The first discharge blew a shower of splinters and shreds of red-and-white-checkered cloth all over Hackberry’s shoulder and left arm and down the side of his pants.

No one in the room moved. Instead, they looked stunned, shrunken, frozen inside clear plastic, as though a sonic boom had temporarily deafened them. Hackberry got his revolver free of its holster just as he heard the shooter jack another round into the chamber of his weapon. The second blast went high, over the top of the table. Glass caved out of the front window into the parking lot. Only then did people begin screaming, some trying to hide under tables or behind the booths. Someone kicked open a fire exit, setting off an alarm. The boys from the church bus had piled over one another into the men’s room, their faces stretched tight with fear.

Hackberry was crouched behind the table and a wood post, a bent fork or spoon biting through the cloth of his trousers into his knee. He pointed his revolver through a space between the table and the wood post and let off two rounds in the direction of the shooter, the .45’s frame kicking upward in his hand. He fired again and saw stuffing from a booth floating like chicken feathers in the gloom. He heard the shooter work the pump on his twelve-gauge and a spent shell casing clink and roll on a hard surface.

Hackberry hung on to the post and pulled himself erect, a tree of pain blooming in his back. He ran for the cover provided by the last booth in the shooter’s row, letting off one round blindly at the shooter, his boots as loud as stones striking a wood surface.

The room became absolutely quiet, as though the air had been sucked out of it. Hackberry rose in a half-crouch and pointed his revolver at the place where the shooter had been. The gym bag was still on the floor. The shooter and the shotgun shells he had spilled from the bag were gone.

Hackberry straightened his back, his weapon still pointed in front of him, the hammer on full cock, the sight on the tip of the barrel trembling slightly with the tension of his grip on the frame. He glanced over his shoulder. Where was Pam? The window behind her booth was blown out, one vinyl seat of the booth and the wedges of glass protrud ing from the window frame painted with red splatter. Hackberry wiped his mouth with his free hand and widened his eyes and tried to think clearly. What was the formal name for the situation? Barricaded suspect? The clinical language didn’t come close to describing the reality.

“Give it up, partner. Nobody has to die here,” he said.

Except for a cough, the muted crying of a woman, and a sound like somebody prizing open a stuck window, the room remained silent.

“He went in the girls’ bathroom,” a burr-headed boy in short pants said from under a table.

A latticework alcove had been built around the entrance to the women’s restroom, obscuring the doorway. Hackberry walked at an angle toward the door, silverware and broken glass crunching under his boots, his eyes locked on the door through the spaces in the latticework.

Had Pam been hit? The second shotgun blast had traveled right across the booth where she had been counting out the tip on the tabletop.

“He’s got a little girl in there. Don’t go in there,” a voice said from behind an overturned chair.

It was the minister in the lavender Roman collar. He was bleeding from his cheek and neck; the heel of one hand sparkled with ground glass. His wife was on her knees beside him, gripping his arm, her body rounded into a ball.

“You saw him?” Hackberry asked.

“He grabbed the girl by the neck and pulled her with him,” the minister said.

“Can you get to the front door?” Hackberry asked.

“Yes, sir,” the minister replied. “I can.”

“When I start into the women’s room, you stand up and take as many people with you as you can. Can you do that for me, sir?”

“You’re going in there?”

“We’ll bring the girl out of there safely. When you get out front, find my deputy. Her name is Pam Tibbs. Tell her exactly what you told me.”

“Who’s the man with the shotgun?”

“His name is Eriksson. My deputy will recognize the name. Better get going, Reverend.”

“You said ‘we.’”

“Sir?”

“You said ‘we’ll’ get the girl out. Who’s ‘we’?”

A moment later, Hackberry closed the distance between himself and the doorway while the minister and his wife began herding a group of twelve to fifteen people toward the front of the restaurant. Hackberry pressed his back against the wall, his revolver pointed upward. He could see the red sunset flowing through the destroyed front window and hear sirens in the distance. “Hear that sound, Eriksson?” he said.

There was a beat. “How’d you make me?”

“I didn’t. If you hadn’t shot at me, I would have walked past you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie?”

Eriksson had no answer. Hackberry remembered that originally, a second man had been sitting in Eriksson’s booth, someone who had probably blown Dodge and left Eriksson to take the fall for both of them.

“Your partner screwed you, bub,” Hackberry said. “Why take his weight? Send the little girl out, and it’ll be taken into consideration. You did security work in Iraq. That’ll be a factor, too. Get a good defense lawyer, and with the right kind of post-traumatic-stress-disorder mambo, you might even skate. It beats eating a two-hundred-and-thirty-grain round from a forty-five.”

“You’re gonna drive me out of this county. You’re gonna get me into Mexico. Or I waste the girl.”

“Maybe I can arrange that.”

“No, you don’t arrange anything. You do it.”

“How do you want to work that? Want me to bring a vehicle around back and load you and the girl up?”

“No, you put your piece on the floor, slide it to me with your foot, then you walk in with your fingers laced on the back of your neck.”

“That doesn’t sound workable, Eriksson.”

“Maybe you’d like to see her brains floating in the toilet bowl.”

Hackberry heard the voice of a little girl crying. Or rather, the voice of a child whose fear had gone beyond crying into a series of hiccups and constrictions of air in the nostrils and throat, like someone having a seizure. “Be stand-up. Let her go, partner,” Hackberry said.

“You want her? No problem. Kick the piece inside and come in after it. Otherwise, all bets are off. Think I’m jerking your johnson? Stick your head in here.”

Hackberry could hear a dronelike whirring sound in his ears, one he associated with wind blowing out of a blue-black sky across miles of snowy hills and ice splintering under the weight of thousands of advancing Chinese infantry.

“I’ll make it easy for you,” Eriksson said. He opened the bathroom door slightly, allowing Hackberry a brief view of the restroom’s interior. Eriksson was holding the little girl by the neck of her T-shirt while he screwed the cut-down pump into her shoulder bone. “I got nothing to lose,” he said.

“I believe you,” Hackberry said. He stepped backward, opened the cylinder to his revolver, and dumped his four spent rounds and two unfired ones into his palm and threw them clattering across the floor. He squatted, placed his revolver on the floor, and shoved it with one foot into the restroom.

“Walk in behind it,” Eriksson said.

Then Hackberry was in the enclosure with him, staring into the muzzle of the shotgun.

“Go on, little girl,” Eriksson said. “I wasn’t gonna hurt you. I just had to say that.”

“Yes, you were. You hurt me bad,” she said, cupping her hand to one shoulder.

“Get out of here, you little skank,” Eriksson said. He bolted the door behind her, his attention never leaving Hackberry. “Slickered you, motherfucker.”

Hackberry let his eyes become dead and unseeing, let them drift off Eriksson’s face to a spot on the wall. Or perhaps to a patch of red sky that should not have been visible inside a women’s restroom.

“Did you hear me?” Eriksson asked.

“You’re a smart one,” Hackberry said.

“You got that right.”

Then Eriksson seemed to realize something was wrong in his environment, that he had not seen or taken note of something, that in spite of his years of vanquishing his enemies and shaving the odds and orchestrating events so that he always walked away a winner, something had gone terribly wrong. “Get on your cell,” he said.

“What for?”

“What do you mean, what for? Tell your people to stay away from the building. Tell them to bring a car to the back.”

“You’re not getting a car.”

“I’ll get a car or you’ll catch the bus, whichever you prefer.”

“You’re leaving here in cuffs.”

Eriksson took his own cell phone from his pocket and tossed it to Hackberry. It bounced off Hackberry’s chest and fell to the floor. “Pick it up and make the call, Sheriff,” Eriksson said.

“I said you’re a smart one. A smart man is a listener. Listen to what I say and don’t turn around. No, no, keep your eyes on me. You do not want to turn around.”

“Are you senile? I’m holding a shotgun in your face.”

“If you turn around, you’ll lose your head,” Hackberry said. “Look straight ahead. Kneel down and place your weapon on the floor.”

Eriksson’s lips parted. They were dry, caked slightly with mucus. His hands tightened on the twelve-gauge. He crimped his lips, wetting them before he spoke. “This has got a hair trigger. No matter what happens, you’re gonna have a throat full of bucks.”

“Believe what I tell you, Eriksson. Don’t move, don’t back away from me, don’t turn around. If you do any of those things, you will die. I give you my word on that. No one wants to see that happen to you. But it’s your choice. You lower your weapon by the barrel with your left hand and place it on the floor and step away from it.”

“I think you’re a mighty good actor, Sheriff, but I also think you’re full of shit.”

Eriksson stepped backward, out of Hackberry’s reach, turning his line of vision toward a frosted back window that had been wedged open with a tire tool. For just a moment, the aim of his shotgun angled away from Hackberry’s chest. Outside, a huge cloud of orange dust gusted across the sun.

Eriksson’s translucent blue eyes were charged with light. His face seemed to twitch just before he saw Pam Tibbs standing slightly beyond the window ledge, her khaki shirt speckled with taco sauce, her chrome-plated revolver aimed in front of her with both hands. That was when she squeezed the trigger, driving a soft-nosed .357 round through one side of his head and out the other.

15

P
REACHER JACK COLLINS lived at several residences, none of which carried his name on a deed or a rental agreement. One of them was located south of old Highway 90, within sight of the Del Norte Mountains, twenty miles deep into broken desert terrain that looked composed of crushed stone knitted together by the roots of scrub brush and mesquite and cactus that bloomed with bloodred flowers.

On the mountain behind his one-bedroom stucco house was a series of ancient telegraph poles whose wires hung on the ground like strands of black spaghetti. Behind the poles was the gaping opening of a rock-walled root cellar that had been shored up with wood posts and crossbeams that either had collapsed or that insects had reduced to the weightless density of cork.

One starlit night, Preacher had sat in the entrance and watched the desert take on the gray and blue and silver illumination that it seemed to draw down into itself from the sky, as though the sky and the earth worked together to both cool the desert and turn it into a pewter artwork. Then he had realized that a breeze was blowing into his face and flowing over his arms and shoulders and into the excavation at his back. The root cellar was not a root cellar after all. Nor was it a mine. It was a cave, deep and spiraling, one that had probably been formed by water millions of years ago, one that led to the other side of the mountain or a cavern far beneath it. Perhaps early settlers had framed up the walls and ceilings with timbered support, but Preacher was convinced no human hand had contributed to its creation.