The Quest: Countdown to Armageddon: Book 6 (9 page)

-15-

     Rhett turned toward Tom, who was sitting in the front passenger seat of Rhett’s patrol car.

     “Tom, you’re a sheriff. Have you ever heard of Frank Woodard?”

     “No, I haven’t. I’m only the sheriff of Kerr County because no one else wanted the job.”

     Sara interjected from the back seat, “Don’t let him get away with being modest, Rhett. They asked him to be sheriff because he singlehandedly killed the whole infamous Garza gang. Then he put their bodies on display on the outskirts of town as a warning for other outlaws to stay away or meet the same fate. Just like they did in the old west days.”

     Tom said, “Well, that wasn’t
exactly
what happened. But back to Frank Woodard. Who is he?”

     “He used to be the best homicide detective the Bexar County Sheriff’s Office ever had. Won all kinds of awards. He had a reputation for never giving up until his case was solved and he got his man.

     “Anyway, he retired about a year before the blackout and then disappeared. He told his friends he was tired of hunting men, and wanted to spend the rest of his life hunting white tailed deer and catching large mouthed bass instead.

     “Nobody saw him after that. It turned out that he and his wife Eva sold their home, bought an RV, and spent their time driving around the United States. They made it their goal to visit every state in the union. And to catch a fish or shoot a deer in each one.

     Tom turned around and asked Scarlett, “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can ask him to get to the point, is there?”

     Scarlett smiled.

     “Nope. Rhett believes the more words, the better. Why explain something in a sentence or two when you can milk it for several paragraphs?”

     Rhett was undeterred by their badgering.

     “Anyway, as I was saying, they just finished a fishing trip in Louisiana and were on their way to Cloudcroft, New Mexico. But they stopped in San Antonio on the way to visit their son and daughter in law, and to celebrate the birth of their new grandson.

     “As luck would have it, they were in San Antonio when the blackout happened and they got stuck here with everybody else.

     “Chief Martinez and Frank were good friends and made contact after the blackout. When half of the SAPD homicide unit left town or committed suicide, and the other half died from the plague, the chief was in a bind and he knew it.

     “But the chief wouldn’t tell Frank how bad he was needed. He wouldn’t ask him to come out of retirement just because the chief was in a pickle.

     “Then, a few months later, the plague took Frank’s son, daughter-in-law and grandson. Frank was an emotional wreck. Eva met with the chief without Frank’s knowledge and told the chief that Frank’s grief was killing him. He needed something to do to occupy his time.

     “So the chief changed his mind and asked Frank to come out of retirement and work for the SAPD.

     “Frank’s had his plate pretty full, him being the only homicide detective in the whole city and all. But he’s been solving nearly all of his cases.

     “Until John Castro got shot, that is. Chief Martinez asked Frank to put all his other cases on hold for now so he can focus on John’s case.”

     Tom stated the obvious.

     “But John’s case isn’t a homicide. He survived.”

     “Yes. But just barely. And it turns out that you investigate a murder and an attempted murder exactly the same way. At least according to Frank Woodard. He said the evidence doesn’t change just because nobody died.”

     “Well, I’m glad he’s on the case. Does he have any leads?”

     “Not that he’s sharing. At least not with me. And what’s odd is that the chief isn’t talking either.”

     “That doesn’t necessarily mean much. In my experience police chiefs are generally men who don’t talk about active investigations.”

     “Oh, not this chief. Not normally, anyway. Chief Martinez is very highly regarded among the men on the force, partly because he treats us as equals. He always says that he has no secrets, and if we have a question, all we have to do is ask.

     “But every time we ask him how the investigation is going, he gets a sour look on his face and says he can’t talk about it.

     “Rumors are flying around the department that a cop did it.”

     Sara’s jaw dropped.

     “A cop? Really? Why do they think that?”

     “Remember, Sara, it’s only a rumor. Rumors fly pretty fast around here. Especially since the chief isn’t sharing any information and we have to jump to our own conclusions.”

-16-

     Robbie Benton was in turmoil. To say that things hadn’t gone according to plan would have been a terrible understatement.

     By now, nine days after John Castro was shot, he should be at the Castro house every evening, consoling sweet Hannah and her daughters. Telling them everything would be alright. That everything happens for a reason. That God Himself needed John more than they did.

     By now, nine days after John bled to death in that dusty field of flowers, Robbie was supposed to have solved the case. He was supposed to have spent days questioning anyone and everyone who might possibly have been close enough to hear the gunshots.

     And he’d have found the killer, too.

     The killer would have been a drifter. Ragged and unkempt and covered with tattoos.

     Prison tattoos.

     They were all over the place these days. Robbie encountered them on a regular basis. Most had troubled pasts, but were behaving themselves now.

     But not Robbie’s patsy.

     Robbie would find one who’d been to prison. A convicted felon.

     Better yet, a convicted felon who’d done hard time for violent offenses.

     Convicted felons weren’t supposed to carry handguns in the State of Texas. Not even after the world went black and chaos reigned.

     But Robbie’s patsy would.

     Robbie’s plan was to find such a person a few days after John’s murder, wandering the streets and alleyways of southwest San Antonio looking for food or water.

     Then to stop and question the man at gunpoint, in the guise of investigating a recent string of robberies.

     And after he was satisfied that the man fit his bill, he’d gun him down at close range.

     He’d swear to Chief Martinez that the killing was justified. That the dead man pulled a gun on him. But that Robbie was just a little bit faster. His aim was just a little more true.

     Moreover, he’d claim that just before the shooting, just before the drifter died, that he’d boasted of shooting a cop down in cold blood a few days before.

     Robbie would describe in detail the little boy’s glee in the drifter’s voice. The wicked cackle, not unlike an old witch’s. The wild look in his eyes that told Robbie he was insane.

     The chief would believe him, of course. He’d have no reason not to. Robbie was, after all, a highly respected member of San Antonio’s finest and a pillar of the community. Not quite in the same league as John Castro. John had always been everybody’s idol, placed upon the highest pedestal by his adoring fans and a grateful city.

     But Robbie, as the hero who’d solved John’s murder, would take a huge step forward in taking John’s place on that highest of pedestals.

     Especially since he not only solved the crime, but administered justice to the bastard who did it.

     That’s the way it was supposed to have gone down.

     But Robbie had screwed up from the beginning. And he kept screwing up.

     By the end of the day of John’s shooting, Robbie was supposed to be at Hannah’s house, consoling her for the husband she’d lost.

     And playing the hero role, taking her hand and swearing, with God as his witness, that he’d find those responsible and bring them to justice to pay for the dastardly deed.

     But his finger had twitched just a bit. Imperceptibly. But it was enough to ruin his first shot.

     And he misjudged how fast John would drop to the ground. That’s what caused his second shot to be off as well.

     So instead of a shot into the center of John’s head and another through his heart, he’d fired a shot which broke John’s skull but didn’t penetrate it.

     And another that had just barely missed his heart.

     Yes, they’d done their damage.

     Both shots had wreaked havoc upon John’s body, leaving him in grave condition. But he wasn’t supposed to have survived.

     That was merely Robbie’s first mistake. There were many more to follow.

     He’d waited too long to join the other officers at the scene of the shooting. He wanted it to appear that he was miles away when the shots rang out.

     But because he took too long to get to the scene, and had to make it appear he was interested before breaking away to go and notify Hannah, Chief Martinez beat him to the punch.

     “I’ll go do the notification,” Martinez told the assembled officers. “You men stay here and find the son of a bitch who did this.”

     And somewhere in the melee, Robbie noticed that he’d lost one of the shell casings.

     That wasn’t a major problem, in and of itself. By leaving to notify John’s family, the chief had unwittingly done Robbie a favor. He freed Robbie up to search for the sniper’s nest, and look for evidence.

     Of course, it took Robbie no time at all to find the would-be assassin’s nest. He, after all, knew exactly where it was.

     But the piece of brass he was looking for wasn’t there.

     It was nowhere to be found.

     That bothered Robbie, but not greatly. Several other officers had joined him on that hilltop looking for evidence, and none of them had found the casing either.

     And even if they had, there was no longer a crime lab to match it up to Robbie’s rifle. And he’d been careful to wear latex gloves when he loaded the magazine. So there were no fingerprints to be had, even if the lab did exist.

     By far the greatest mistake Robbie made that day, and the one most likely to cause him problems, was that he didn’t notice Luther Brown walking down the street toward John Castro when he fired his bullets into John’s body.

     He’d left behind a witness.

-17-

     Robbie had a pretty good idea who his witness was, even though he’d never seen him.

     In his hurry to leave the scene of his crime, Robbie had neglected to scan the area in case anyone had wandered into the scene.

     And if he had, he likely wouldn’t have seen Luther anyway. For Luther had gone to ground at the sound of the first shot, shielded from Robbie’s view by several trees, buildings and abandoned cars.

     Robbie, in fact, had been just as surprised as everyone else to hear Luther’s plaintive cries for help come over the police radio.

     And even though he’d never seen Luther either before or after the shooting, there was something about Luther’s voice. Something he couldn’t put a finger on, exactly. But which made Luther’s voice very distinctive among the other black men who occupied that part of the city.

     Robbie had stopped Luther three or four times in recent months for various things. He’d never been guilty of any crimes. But Robbie saw that as part of his job. The stopping of lost souls for routine questioning, that is.

     And to his credit, Robbie didn’t just stop old black men.

     Anyone wandering the streets was subject to his call to stop and explain what they were doing there and what they were up to.