Ranger: Book 1: A Humble Beginning Page 4

  Janice suddenly remembered her rent was due in a few days. And her tips had been pretty abysmal of late.

  “Say, this bond agent of yours. Is he offering any kind of reward for these guys?”

  Tom, who’d been spinning the tail, turned to Randy and asked him, “What do you think? Do you think old Saul would cut loose some money for our friend here if her information led us to our guys?”

  Randy shrugged.

  “Well, I don’t know. We’d have to ask him. But I’m pretty sure he’ll be tickled pink to get his guys back. And you know Saul. He can be a very generous man when he’s happy.”

  Tom smiled and agreed.

  “Yes, sirree. A very generous man indeed.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Janice said. “I’ve seen several guys, like the ones you describe. They dress like everybody else but they drive new Silverados and Ram trucks. Diamond studs in their ears and Rolex watches. Not the fake ones either. Their English is lousy. They usually have to point at the pictures on the menu to tell me what they want. And they usually pay with fifty dollar bills and run us out of change.

  “They don’t come in here but a couple of times a week or so. But how about if the next time I see ‘em I sneak outside for a smoke and write down their license plate numbers for you. And see what direction they go when they driv e off. Would that help?”

  “Sure it would, ma’am. We’ll check back in a couple of days.”

  Chapter 10

  It was actually four days before the Rangers made it back to Belton. They were asked to provide backup to a team serving warrants down Abilene way. And a Ranger never refuses a call for help from one of their own.

  Janice was antsy when they walked in and sat at the same table.

  She took their drink order, but gave no indication she’d ever seen either of them before. Didn’t even make eye contact.

  Not with the Rangers, anyway. But her eyes kept flitting to a booth in the corner where four hombres were seated, laughing and conversing loudly in rapid Spanish.

  Their boots were a dead giveaway. Ranger Tom had told her about the fancy watches and shiny new pickups. But it never occurred to him to mention the boots.

  Most of Janice’s Hispanic customers were farm hands or ranch hands. It was easy to tell the difference. The farm hands wore tennis shoes or sneakers. Not Nikes or Reeboks. But department store brands. Cheap ones, for lack of a better term.

  They were more suited for working in the fields all day long, stripping cotton from thorny plants in muddy fields in hundred degree heat.

  But soft shoes weren’t suited for working a ranch. And any rancher worth his salt wouldn’t allow them.

  A ranch environment was much different than a farming operation, both in the types of duties involved and hazards faced.

  A soft sneaker wouldn’t protect a worker’s foot if it got stomped on by a steer. But a sturdy leather boot might. A man hopping off a hay wagon after feeding a herd might turn his ankle in a running shoe. He was less likely to in a boot.

  And there was a certain tradition among ranchers that was equally as important as efficiency and safety. A ranch hand should look and act like a ranch hand. Not like a damn city-slicker or a ragamuffin.

  There wasn’t a ranch owner in the county who’d cotton to a hand wearing sweat pants and sneakers. All the hands knew this, so blue jeans and boots were the norm.

  So it was easy to tell, while walking around town, which of the brown-skinned laborers worked in farming and which worked on ranches. The county had roughly an equal share of both.

  It wasn’t so easy to tell which of the workers were legal and which ones weren’t. And it didn’t really matter. The crops had to be brought in, the steers had to be wrangled. Farmers and ranchers in this area didn’t cotton to the federal, or even the state government telling them who they could and couldn’t hire. They didn’t much care if a man had a green card or not. They only cared whether he did his job. They paid in cash and asked no questions. It had been that way in Texas for generations, and would likely stay that way.

  While it was easy to tell which brown-skinned men in Belton were ranch hands, it was easier to tell that the men at the booth in Janice’s diner weren’t.

  Tom had forgotten to mention the boots. The difference was easy to spot.

  A ranch hand’s boots were cheap. A no-frills brand. And they were creased and dirty and worn. And just as likely their seams were embedded with cow shit.

  The boots at the booth were altogether different.

  They were made of alligator and rattlesnake. The pointed toes were much more pronounced, almost sharp enough to cut someone’s throat. They were spit-shined, and had never been within half a mile of cow shit at any time, nor were they likely to ever be.

  Most telling, though, was the style.

  These boots were lined with silver trim, not unlike the chrome on an old Chevy.

  It was a style of boots made in Mexico, for Mexicans. They were hard to find in ranching country, because they were too fancy for ranch work. They were simply too flimsy to stand up to the task.

  Randy and Tom knew why Janice was nervous.

  The men they’d asked about… the men Janice promised to watch out for… were having a good time just thirty feet away from them.

  Randy gave no hint he knew, just as she’d given no hint they were there.

  “Hello, miss. I’d just like a Dr. Pepper to go. In a bottle, please. And a bag of salted peanuts.”

  She looked over to Tom.

  “I’ll have a coke, also in a bottle. And no nuts for me. That’s just too weird for this cowboy.”

  Chapter 11

  Randy opened the small packet of peanuts and dumped them into his bottle of Dr. Pepper. They caused it to fizz slightly, but it wasn’t in danger of overflowing the bottle.

  Tom watched as Randy took a swig and said, “Tell me again why you do that?”

  “It was just something I watched my dad do when I was a small boy. A lot of his friends did it too. I tried it and liked it, and before I knew it all my friends were doing it too.”

  Tom huffed.

  “Just curious, but did all of your friends accompany you on the same space ship from Planet Weirdo?”

  “Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Like that’s gonna ever happen.”

  “It will. Your curiosity will get the best of you. You’ll see. But when you do, be sure the peanuts are salted. Spanish peanuts are the best. Those are the little round red ones. And be sure you eat them after your Dr. Pepper is finished. They’ll be a bit softer from being moistened, and they’re amazing.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so. You’ll get hooked on it. You’ll start adding them whenever you have a Dr. Pepper. And wherever you go, people will see you do it, and they’ll know two things.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What two things?”

  “First of all, they’ll know you’re a man of above average intelligence. Because those are the only type of men who take the peanut challenge.”

  “I see. And the second thing?”

  “They’ll know you’ve been to West Texas.”

  They got up to leave and left a ten dollar bill on the table to pay their tab.

  As they walked out the door, Randy took his cell phone out of his pocket and pretended to answer a call.

  But there was no one on the other line. As they walked through the parking lot toward their pickup, he scanned the lot and the other vehicles contained in it. He saw one in particular that was his target, and walked slowly past it.

  As he passed it he finished his pretend call and lowered the phone from his ear. Just before he placed it into his pocket, though, he used the phone to snap a photograph of the truck’s license plate.

  “How’d you know that Silverado was their truck,” Tom asked as they were climbing into their own pickup truck.

  “Because it’s clean and it’s tricked out. And because it’s a Chev
y.”

  Randy was a Ford guy himself. Always had been. But even back in high school, when he hung out with his Hispanic friends in the Arnett Benson section of Lubbock, he couldn’t help but notice an irrefutable fact.

  They all preferred Chevrolets.

  He didn’t know why. Maybe it was a tradition passed down from father to son. Maybe they preferred the sleek styling of the Monte Carlos and the Camaros.

  Randy didn’t know. He asked a couple of his friends one day.

  “Hey, how come you guys all drive Chevrolets?”

  Jesse Martinez looked at Luis Castillo, then shrugged his shoulders.

  “Heck, I don’t know. How come all gringos drive Fords?”

  Randy didn’t know.

  “Heck, I don’t know. I guess it just works out that way.”

  “Then why ask why? It’s the way of the world. Pass the peanuts, my friend. I’m all out.”

  The pair got into their own truck and pulled out of the diner. They drove a little farther into the bowels of Belton, down a couple of residential streets and past an ancient public library. Behind the library Randy parked and Tom took a pair of Bushnell binoculars from behind the seat.

  He focused on the diner, almost four blocks away now. The tricked out Chevy Silverado was no longer in view, but it didn’t matter. There was only one way in and out of the parking lot, and he could see the lot’s driveway.

  Now it was just a matter of time.

  Chapter 12

  While they waited the two talked of Ranger Mike Waylor, the man who’d been frightened away from Lubbock by Henry Jenkins’ ghost.

  “The major told me you were going to spend the night in the office and check it out for yourself,” Tom asked. “Is that true, or was he just pulling my leg?”

  “I don’t believe I told him I would. I believe I told him I might. It’s a curious tale, and I’m a curious sort by nature. I’d kinda like to see if there’s anything to the story.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Well, I don’t rightly know, Tom. Not really. But I don’t really disbelieve in them either.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Randy winced just a bit.

  “Sorry. What does that mean?”

  “Well, I believe there are a lot of things out there that we just don’t know much about. One theory is as good as the next one, I suppose. At least until it’s proven to be false. As for what happens after death, it’s kinda hard to prove one way or another.”

  “Do you believe in God, Randy?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Don’t you think that by believing in God, then believing in ghosts at the same time is blasphemy?”

  “Not at all. The Bible says that the faithful will die and walk the golden streets of heaven for all eternity. And that sinners will go to a place of eternal damnation. But it doesn’t say when. It doesn’t say immediately after death. It also makes mention of purgatory, or a type of way station. Maybe those who are not righteous enough to be admitted to heaven right away spend time in purgatory while awaiting their eternal fate. Maybe the ghosts we sometimes see on earth are merely residents of purgatory who are awaiting a decision on where their souls will spend eternity.”

  “Hey, they’re on the move.”

  “Yep.”

  Randy turned the Ford’s ignition key and the engine sprang to life.

  Their suspects turned right coming out of the parking lot and headed away from them. Randy pulled away from the library and proceeded in the same direction, but at a slower pace.

  The Rangers had a tail policy which differed from most law enforcement agencies.

  Most agencies had several units involved in a tail. They were able to break off frequently, handing control over to a different car. That car would tail the suspect for a short time, then break off and hand off to a third car. Sometimes there were up to five cars involved, all working closely by radio in a carefully orchestrated process. The end result, when done properly, was to tail the suspect without him suspecting it.

  The Texas Rangers used a different strategy. It was borne of necessity, for they simply didn’t have enough agents in the field to perform such a maneuver.

  But they did generally work in pairs when on a case.

  The Rangers’ strategy was simple. One suspect vehicle, one Ranger vehicle. But the follow vehicle stayed back until the suspect vehicle was almost out of view, then used a spotter to keep him in sight.

  Since Randy was at the wheel, Tom by default became the spotter. He took the binoculars and focused in on the Chevy, now over half a mile in front of them.

  “Okay, I’ve got good visual. You can back off a little bit more.”

  In the rear view mirror of the suspect’s truck, Randy and Tom were but a speck in the background, blending in with a myriad of other specks. Each time the suspects turned, Tom made note of a landmark at that particular intersection.

  “Turn right at the yellow billboard,” he might say. Or, “Turn left at the 7-Eleven.”

  By giving the driver his marching orders as they went, Tom could keep his eyes on the prize instead of looking around for street signs.

  Another aspect of the Rangers’ tail policy was for the driver to stay in contact with local authorities by radio, generally on a secure tactical channel, to keep the locals advised of their tail.

  Randy and Tom chose not to do that in this case since the local police chief, Ron Bennett, was suspected to be part of the problem.

  That being the case, there would be no local backup should Randy and Tom run into trouble. The local cops didn’t even know they were here. They were on their own, in every sense of the word, and they knew it.

  So they needed to be careful.

  The suspect vehicle pulled to the shoulder of Highway 87 and put on its blinker, signaling its intent to turn onto Farm to Market Road 1348.

  Farm to Market roads were seldom traveled, except by the farmers and ranchers who lived or worked down that particular road. Any vehicle at all which traveled down the road would be looked at with suspicion. A strange vehicle nobody could identify would be even more suspect.

  Tom gave Randy his updated instructions.

  “Fall back more. Traffic is thinning out. Slow down and turn at the third telephone pole on the right.”

  Then the Rangers got lucky.

  As Tom watched through the binoculars, their suspects turned onto FM 1348, then took a hard left after a quarter mile onto a private road.

  Tom had no idea where he was. But he knew the suspects were on a private road because their truck was kicking up a cloud of dust.

  They were driving up the long caliche driveway of a rural ranch house.

  “Scratch that,” Tom said. “They’re home. Forget the right turn. Go up a few miles and turn around. We’ll go back to Lubbock and spend some time on SLEN.”

  As they continued on Highway 87, a quarter mile away from and adjacent to the ranch house, Tom continued to watch the pickup. He saw it come to a stop and four men exiting. They walked to the front of the house and were climbing its steps when Tom lost visual.

  Seven minutes later, after they turned around and headed south toward Lubbock, he noted that the pickup was still in the yard but the men were nowhere in sight.

  Their prey had gone home to roost.

  Chapter 13

  SLEN, or Secure Law Enforcement Network, was the Texas Ranger’s go-to source for information on anything and everything.

  Randy rolled his office chair over to the terminal and logged in, Tom looking over his shoulder.

  Step one was to identify the ranch where their suspects were hanging out.

  They had no address. But they didn’t really need one. Addresses were for amateurs, and they were part of the elite law enforcement body for the finest state in the union.

  Randy clicked on the icon for satellite images.

  First he got an overview of the Texas panhandle, then zoomed in slightly on State Highway 87. He f
ollowed it north of Lubbock and north of Plainview, then zoomed in on a tiny speck.

  The town of Belton.

  There wasn’t much to the town, even when one was there. The view from an orbiting satellite reflected even less. It would have been easy for Randy to overlook the tiny town as just a cluster of trees and tiny buildings in a vast sea of nothingness, were Randy not sure exactly where to look.

  He zoomed in.

  He saw the diner where Janice was probably fuming, wondering why they’d taken off in such a hurry.

  He spotted the oak tree beside the old public library. The one they’d parked under while waiting for the Silverado to emerge from the parking lot.

  He followed Highway 87 north until he found Farm to Market Road 1348, and the mysterious ranch house just off of it.

  And there, as clear as could be, was the Silverado pickup, parked in roughly the same place they’d seen it pull up earlier.

  Randy looked in the corner of the screen to see how old the satellite image was. It was dated July tenth. Two weeks before.

  Whether they belonged at the ranch house legally, or had occupied it by force, they’d been there at least two weeks.

  He knocked down the tab and clicked on another icon, this time for a Department of Motor Vehicle search. This one was a link to a national database, and he typed “Texas” into the search field to narrow his search.

  A new screen popped up. The background showed an armadillo crossing a rural highway in what looked to be the big bend region of Texas. In the background was a field of Texas Bluebonnets. Randy’s mother’s favorite flowers and still one of the prettiest Randy had ever seen.

  He typed in “CWB-966” and transmitted.

  Five seconds later he was reading information about the Silverado’s registered owner, a man named Ronald Smith, at 1755 Spencer Avenue in Amarillo, Texas.

  He doubted that one of the Hispanic men at the diner was named Ronald Smith. And the ranch house where he and Tom had last seen the suspects definitely wasn’t in Amarillo.