When Bell walked into the cafe on Tuesday morning it was just daylight. He got his paper and went to his table in the corner. The men he passed at the big table nodded to him and said Sheriff. The waitress brought him his coffee and went back to the kitchen and ordered his eggs. He sat stirring the coffee with his spoon although there was nothing to stir since he drank it black. The Haskins boy's picture was on the front page of the Austin paper. Bell read, shaking his head. His wife was twenty years old. You know what you could do for her? Not a damn thing. Lamar had never lost a man in twenty some odd years. This is what he would remember. This is what he'd be remembered for.
She came with his eggs and he folded the paper and laid it by.
He took Wendell with him and they drove down to the Desert Aire and stood at the door while Wendell knocked.
Look at the lock, Bell said.
Wendell drew his pistol and opened the door. Sheriff's department, he called.
There aint nobody here.
No reason not to be careful.
That's right. No reason in the world.
They walked in and stood. Wendell would have holstered his pistol but Bell stopped him. Let's just keep to that careful routine, he said.
Yessir.
He walked over and picked up a small brass slug off of the carpet and held it up.
What's that? said Wendell.
Cylinder out of the lock.
Bell passed his hand over the plywood of the room-divider. Here's where it hit at, he said. He balanced the piece of brass in his palm and looked toward the door. You could weigh this thing and measure the distance and the drop and calculate the speed.
I expect you could.
Pretty good speed.
Yessir. Pretty good speed.
They walked through the rooms. What do you think, Sheriff?
I believe they've done lit a shuck.
I do too.
Kindly in a hurry about it, too.
Yep.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and looked in and shut it again. He looked in the freezer.
So when was he here, Sheriff?
Hard to say. We might of just missed him.
You think this boy has got any notion of the sorts of sons of bitches that are huntin him?
I dont know. He ought to. He seen the same things I seen and it made a impression on me.
They're in a world of trouble, aint they?
Yes they are.
Bell walked back into the livingroom. He sat on the sofa. Wendell stood in the doorway. He was still holding the revolver in his hand. What are you thinkin? he said.
Bell shook his head. He didnt look up.
By Wednesday half of the State of Texas was on its way to Sanderson. Bell sat at his table in the cafe and read the news. He lowered the paper and looked up. A man about thirty years old that he'd never seen before was standing there. He introduced himself as a reporter for the San Antonio Light. What's all this about, Sheriff? he said.
It appears to be a huntin accident.
Hunting accident?
Yessir.
How could it be a hunting accident? You're pulling my leg.
Let me ask you somethin.
All right.
Last year nineteen felony charges were filed in the Terrell County Court. How many of those would you say were not drug related?
I dont know.
Two. In the meantime I got a county the size of Delaware that is full of people who need my help. What do you think about that?
I dont know.
I dont either. Now I just need to eat my breakfast here. I got kindly a full day ahead.
He and Torbert drove out in Torbert's four wheel drive truck. All was as they'd left it. They parked a ways from Moss's truck and waited. It's ten, Torbert said.
What?
It's ten. Deceased. We forgot about old Wyrick. It's ten.
Bell nodded. That we know about, he said.
Yessir. That we know about.
The helicopter arrived and circled and set down in a whirl of dust out on the bajada. Nobody got out. They were waiting for the dust to blow away. Bell and Torbert watched the rotor winding down.
The DEA agent's name was McIntyre. Bell knew him slightly and liked him about well enough to nod to. He got out with a clipboard in his hand and walked toward them. He was dressed in boots and hat and a Carhartt canvas jacket and he looked all right until he opened his mouth.
Sheriff Bell, he said.
Agent McIntyre.
What vehicle is this?
It's a '72 Ford pickup.
McIntyre stood looking out down the bajada. He tapped the clipboard against his leg. He looked at Bell. I'm happy to know that, he said. White in color.
I'd say white. Yes.
Could use a set of tires.
He went over and walked around the truck. He wrote on his clipboard. He looked inside. He folded the seat forward and looked in the back.
Who cut the tires?
Bell was standing with his hands in his back pockets. He leaned and spat. Deputy Hays here believes it was done by a rival party.
Rival party.
Yessir.
I thought these vehicles were all shot up.
They are.
But not this one.
Not this one.
McIntyre looked toward the chopper and he looked down the bajada toward the other vehicles. Can I get a ride down there with you?
Sure you can.
They walked toward Torbert's truck. The agent looked at Bell and he tapped the clipboard against his leg. You dont intend to make this easy, do you?
