Scarecrow Gods (45 page)

Danny hurried into the bathroom, took the first available stall, latched the door shut and placed his backpack on the coat hook. Sitting down, he brought his feet up off the floor. He gripped his knees loosely. His heart was beating very fast. Concentration was difficult. He didn’t have a lot of time. He failed several times before he finally felt the beginnings of the familiar nothingness creep and consume his body.

The Land of Inside-Out
was the same here as anywhere else and it was easy for him to adjust. Hovering, he searched out and found the small life pad with the faint gold tinting that gave itself away as a dog. He shot for it, merging quickly into a duality. The dog’s nervousness was almost overwhelming. Colored swirls of a thousand scents virtually obscured his vision. The sight made him slightly nauseous as he found the dog trying desperately to see past the colored tendrils, but unable to focus appropriately. The only thing settling the poor animal was the continual stroking from the large woman.

Danny took advantage of the dog’s nervousness. It took a small moment to gain control, but with a small shove he took over. And like the driver at the helm of a high-performance race car, he floored it.

The Yorkshire Terrier leapt from the woman’s lap and ran yipping the entire length of the waiting area. When it reached the floor to ceiling window it spun, sliding until the small furred ass scraped the glass, then shot back the way it had come. Soon, all eyes were upon the woman as she hobbled back and forth, attempting to restrain her crazed animal. Danny could sense the joy the animal felt at this new game, the sensation all the better for his possession. He allowed the animal a modicum of control and thrill as it began leaping up and onto chairs, over people’s laps and between legs.

Soon several people were chasing the dog. A young boy almost caught it, his small quick hand grasping the tail. The dog yelped and spun, nipping to scare the offender away. The boy barely pulled back in time. Danny didn’t give the kid a chance to recover. He shot through the legs and under a length of blue-seats. Out the other side, he scooted by two squealing girls.

Danny sensed the dog tiring, which was just as well. He slowed and ran up to the flight attendant who was trying hard to ignore his yapping.

“Get my Pretty Baby, young man. Don’t let her get away!”

The flight attendant gave her a withering look and stared down at the animal that was circling his feet. “Shouldn’t be bringing animals here anyway. It’s not like you’re blind.” The words were only loud enough for the dog to hear. The flight attendant reached down and Danny allowed the dog to be plucked from its circuit. The man’s grip was too tight. Danny could feel fingernails digging beneath the dog’s long gray hairs. As the flight attendant brought the dog up, he held it at arms length and stared into its eyes.

“Rat,” he hissed.

Almost without Danny’s assistance, the dog let loose with a thin, putrid stream of urine catching the man full upon his chin. As the dog was released to the screams and wails of the flight attendant, Danny returned to himself.

He snatched up his bag and opened the door. Looking neither left or right, he dodged out of the stall and the bathroom. The commotion was to his left, where the flight attendant was now cursing at the dog.

Danny turned right and loped towards the exit. Past a raised shoe shine stand, past a sunglasses store, past two seven foot peppers holding up a sign that read:
El Charro.
The exit sign by the security area was in view as a hand shot out and grasped the back of his collar. Danny felt himself jerked from the ground. A hand smelling faintly of sweat and urine clamped firmly over his mouth.

He felt breath upon his cheek as his captor spoke. “I never did get your name.”

Danny struggled, but was unable to dislodge the man’s grip. He closed his eyes and for a second considered trying to enter
The Land
. The idea was ludicrous, however. He was far too terrified. Opening his eyes, he spied another bathroom up ahead, just to the right of the escalators. It seemed to be their destination.

“You shouldn’t worry about getting away. Nothing’s going to happen to you.” The voice trembled slightly. “I’ll be nice. I promise.”

As Teddy carried Danny into the bathroom, an immense figure in a black suit suddenly blocked the entrance—the man who’d sat next to him on the flight. With a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt, he reached out and smacked the side of his captor’s head. Danny felt the strength of the blow as they were both rocked sideways. The hand struck out again.

“Let go of the boy, asshole.”

Danny saw fury in his savior’s eyes, tempered by something more resolute.

As Teddy fell to his knees and Danny’s feet touched the floor, he twisted out of the man’s clutches.

“Get behind me, kid. Nothing to—Where are you going? I’m a United States Marshal.”

Danny glanced back and saw that the
Marshal
had Teddy’s neck gripped tightly in his left hand while his right hand held open his jacket revealing a silver star encompassed by a silver ring. Instead of slowing, however, Danny sped up.

“Come on,” the Marshal yelled. “Don’t make me chase you! You’re only gonna get yourself hurt out there!”

Danny ignored the words as he leapt down the moving escalator somehow managing not to break his neck. At the bottom, he saw two sliding doors. He ran through as they opened, out into the hellish heat of an Arizona dusk.

* * *

Border Patrol Checkpoint

Near Benson, Arizona

The specially converted bus, replete with the finest in wire-meshed windows, was already half full by 8 PM. In several of the windows faces stared out, the fear of deportation counter-balanced by confusion as they watched Agent Gil Gooly giggle.

Creating a persona wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to do. Too often it was mere pastiche, like the dozens of wanna-be Dirty Harrys firing quips like it was cool. There were some in every bureau and every department. Naw, the trick was to be yourself. For most people that was a boring as hell thing to do, but that was only because the people were boring as hell to begin with.

His own childhood had been anything but boring. He’d spent most of it on the run or hiding from bullies. No one had particularly liked a sickly little boy who wasn’t allowed outside because his parents couldn’t afford new clothes and didn’t want people who might hire them seeing the blue bruises darkening their boy’s skin like a low class tan.

“Stop harassing the natives, Gil.”

“If they were natives, we wouldn’t be kicking them out, now would we?” The Ghoul turned to the newbee Border Patrol Agent. His smile said
hello
, but his eyes said
fuck off
.

“Jesus, Gil. I was just goofing on you is all.”

“That’s Special Agent Gooly to you and I’d appreciate it if you provide the necessary respect.”

The agent, who looked half of his thirty years, stiffened and tried to grin, but it turned sideways as it lost confidence.

“Don’t pay any attention to old Gil here, Jared. He’s had something up his butt for a while now,” said Frank. “If you ever get him on that one good day of the year, you’ll see he’s a good character.”

“Fuck the both of you. All I did was smile at the woman. It’s not like I sniffed her crotch or something else taught in the Border Patrol for Dummies Correspondence Course Program you all graduated from. Don’t be getting so damned territorial.”

“Chill Gil. All’s well.”

“Tell
them
that.”

“What’s your problem, man?” asked Frank. On the upper end of two-hundred pounds, he could easily be mistaken for a retired wrestler or professional football player.

“Shit. I ain’t got no problem.” The Ghoul buttoned up the top two buttons of his blue ATF windbreaker making him look like a gangbanger with his wrap-around shades worn so casually after dark.

“I was at your daughter’s christening. I was at your wife’s funeral. If God knows you better than me, then I’m fucking surprised.”

“Yeah, well…” The Ghoul stepped behind the bus and observed the line of cars stopped at the checkpoint. “So you know me, so what?”

Frank sighed. “Fine. If you want to act like an asshole, then go on. Just stand back and let us do our job, though. If there’s some contraband, then you can join us.”

The Ghoul turned and considered his old friend as he ascended the small flight of stairs to the single-wide trailer. Frank glanced back at his men. Other than Jared who was under the tarp by the base of the stairs, there were three others. One stood at the door to the bus with a shotgun and the other two were inspecting vehicles. Frank glanced his way one more time, frowned as if he’d just bitten into a raw piece of chicken at a Sunday barbecue then let the glass door close.

Yeah, it was an impressive mess of shit The Ghoul had stumbled upon when he’d found the body of the Border Patrol Agent. Not only were his own superiors unhappy with his sudden prominence, but that high-priced Phoenix lawyer seemed to be taking a personal dislike to him. And their case? They were trying to say that The Ghoul, along with the Border Patrol and several other governmental agencies, were in a conspiracy to violate the First Amendment Rights of the leader and congregation of The Church of the Resurrection.

Now, it seemed as if the situation had turned Waco on them and he was being personally blamed. In addition, the Border Patrol was investigating The Ghoul’s possible involvement with the illegal detainment and rape of three illegals that had occurred with the complicity of Agent Emilio Ortega, recently of the Javelina Grotto Ortegas.

So far, the ATF was standing behind him in his denial of these allegations, but it seemed only a matter of time before they joined the rest of the universe by queueing up in the
Let’s Fuck With The Ghoul
Line.

Although the allegations were patently untrue, his duties had been curtailed to pulling time at the best known Border Patrol Checkpoint this side of Niagara Falls.
It’ll keep you out of trouble and give you an alibi if anything else happens
, his boss had said.

Whatever.

The vehicles were beginning to get backed up. The agents manning the checkpoint were in a heated discussion with an older woman whose pickup was pulling a small U-Haul trailer. She seemed as
Apple Pie
as anyone. By looking at her, you’d never suspect her of transporting illegals, believing the trailer probably contained a spring’s worth of Stewed Tomatoes and canned jams being transported to the Farmer’s Market in Tucson.

But the unofficial motto of the Border Patrol was
Trust No One
.

“You touch that trailer, young man, and I’m gonna have your badge. I’m an American citizen and I got my rights.”

The Ghoul began to reevaluate his previous opinion. She might look
Apple Pie
from a distance, but the closer he came to her, the more wrinkles in bad places he noticed. Her voice was the result of too many whisky nights, whispering into the darkness when the bottle was empty and friends were far away. No apple pie here, more like apple schnapps.

“Sorry, Ma’am, but I need to check this trailer. It’s nothing to worry about. So if you have the key, you need to unlock it.” The young man grinned. “But if by chance you’ve lost it, we have a set of bolt cutters right over here. We can open it up for you quicker than I can count to ten.”

“I don’t think you heard me—”

“So what’ll it be, Ma’am?” asked the agent ignoring the woman’s comments. “Your key or my universal key?”

The woman stared from one agent to the other, then at the rear door of the trailer, secured with a heavy duty brass padlock. Her shoulders sagged and she aged a dozen years. “I ain’t got a key,” she whispered.

The Ghoul growled deep in his throat. He knew exactly why not.

He remembering the night he’d found the rented truck with a flat tire on the side of the road five years ago. It was the flies buzzing from a rent in the corner of the box that’d been the first indication of trouble. The second was the smell. When he and a highway patrol agent finally managed to break into the back of the truck, they’d found the bloated bodies of thirteen
Wanna-be Americans
, dead from asphyxiation and the super-heated convection of the man-made oven. An hour later they’d found the driver, rolling a new tire down the side of the highway, stumbling drunk from his time spent at the Triple T Truckstop Bar. He’d gotten the flat at noon. He told them he would have opened the trailer, but he didn’t have a key. The big Bossman had the key, he’d said—the man who financed his brown slaves to enter into American servitude for a dozen years.

The Ghoul and the Highway Patrol discovered later the man lived in a 4,000 square foot house in the foothills near Scottsdale. The Ghoul never did get the key, but he made sure the house was confiscated after he beat the man for resisting arrest.

Yeah, the woman wasn’t what she seemed. As the Border Patrol Agent strode over with the bolt cutters, a tan pickup truck pulling an identical trailer several cars farther back swerved out of line. The engine revved to red-line as the driver gunned it through a wooden barricade and over half a dozen orange warning cones. The only choice the driver had was to aim the ton and a half of metal into oncoming traffic and pray.