“I asked Bedford the same question. He said a trucker saw a car with a government tag parked by the shack just before the flames went up. Bedford figured if the feds set fire to it, there was a reason. He thought maybe it was a stopover place for illegals.”
“So why is Bedford calling us now?”
“He started wondering why this guy Roark didn’t ask about the arson incidents involving wildfires. Like what was the big deal with a shack? This morning he called Austin and was told nobody by the name of Garland Roark worked at the Department of Public Safety.”
“That’s because he’s dead,” Hackberry said.
“You knew him?”
“Garland Roark was the author of Wake of the Red Witch. Jack Collins likes to appropriate the names of famous writers. He used the name of B. Traven, the author of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, on several legal documents. Jack is quite the jokester when he’s not murdering people.”
“You want me to get Bedford on the phone?”
“Forget Bedford. Call Ethan Riser and fill him in. If he’s not in, leave the information on his voice mail.”
“Shouldn’t you do that?”
“I’m done pulling Ethan’s biscuits out of the fire,” Hackberry replied. “Ask Pam to come in here, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, Pam Tibbs tapped on the doorjamb.
“Jack Collins knows the feds burned him out,” Hackberry said.
“Is Riser aware of this?”
“He will be. You have any suggestions?”
She shrugged. “Not really. Collins is going to square it.”
“You and I know that. But we’re the only law enforcement personnel around here who have dealt with him head-on.”
“So maybe Riser will learn a lesson and not be such a smart-ass.”
“We’re not going to let Collins make this county his personal killing ground.”
She took a box of Altoids out of her shirt pocket and put one on her tongue. “Why did you want to talk to me, Hack?”
“You know how Collins thinks.”
“You’re asking me what his next move will be?” she said.
“I thought you might have an opinion, since he tried to machine-gun you.”
“That’s not a subject I’m flippant about.”
“Neither am I,” he said.
“Collins hunts like a cougar,” she said. “He’ll go to the water hole and wait for his prey.”
“Where’s the water hole?”
“Wherever he thinks the feds will show up,” Pam replied.
“Where would that be?”
“You already know where.”
“Tell me.”
“The Asian woman gave refuge to Noie Barnum. The feds are probably watching her. One way or another, Collins will find that out.”
“Want to take a ride?” Hackberry said.
She looked out the window at the flag popping on the silver pole in front of the building. In the north a line of rain mixed with dust was moving across the hills, but to the south the sky was blue, the early sun already hot and as yellow as egg yolk. “Why ask me? You’re the boss man, aren’t you?” she replied.
Two men driving a black SUV had parked their vehicle behind a knoll and set up a high-powered telescope with a camera attached to it on a flat spot that overlooked the valley where the Asian woman lived. They were both dressed in stonewashed jeans and alpine shoes with lug soles and short-sleeve shirts with many pockets. They were both tan and wore shades and had the body tone of men who swam or ran long distances or trained at martial arts or followed a military discipline in their personal lives. One of them opened a lunch box on a rock and removed a thermos of hot coffee and two ham sandwiches. Both men carried Glocks in black nylon holsters on their belts.
Ten minutes later, a rock bounced down from the knoll. The men turned around but saw nothing out of the ordinary. After they finished their sandwiches and poured themselves a second cup of coffee, they heard the pinging of a guitar string. They turned around and saw a solitary figure sitting on the bleached trunk of an uprooted tree, thirty yards up a wash, his face darkened by the brim of a panama hat stained with soot or grime, a guitar propped on one thigh. He picked at a treble string with his thumbnail while he twisted a tuning peg on the guitar’s head. “Howdy,” he said without looking up.
“Where the hell did you come from?” one of the men in shades said.
“Up yonder, past those boulders,” the seated man replied.
“Mind telling us who you are?”
“Just another pilgrim.”
“Where’s your car, pilgrim?”
“Who says I have one?”
The men in shades looked at each other. “He teleported,” one said.
“You cain’t ever tell. I get around. You ever hear that song by the Beach Boys? It’s called ‘I Get Around,’” the seated man replied.
“I get it. You’ve been shooting the curl off Malibu.”
“There aren’t many places I haven’t been.”
“I dig your threads.”
“This?” the seated man said, pinching his suit coat with two fingers.
“Yeah, I thought it might be an Armani.”
“Could be. You fellows are FBI, aren’t you? Or maybe DEA?” The two men in shades and stonewashed jeans glanced at each other. “Looks like we’ve been made,” one said.
“I can tell because you’re wearing Glocks.”
“What’s your name, asshole?”
The seated man laid his guitar flatly across both thighs, his gaze focused on neutral space, the bumps and knots in his complexion like tan-colored papier-mache. A closed tortoiseshell guitar case lay on the ground by his foot. It was of expensive manufacture, the kind of case that might contain a Martin or vintage Gibson. “I disturb y’all?” the seated man said.
“That guitar looks like a piece of junk.”
“It is,” the seated man replied. “It’s got rust on the strings. They sound like baling wire.”
“So how about playing it somewhere else?”
“Y’all think the government has the right of eminent domain?”
“Of what?”
“The right to burn down someone’s house just because the government takes a mind to.”
“I’ve got an extra sandwich here. You can have it. But you need to eat it downwind.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Somebody gave y’all the right to burn a man’s house and his books and clothes and even his Bible?”
“What’s it take, pal? You want me to bust your guitar over a rock? Do we have to walk you over the hill and put you in your car?”
The seated man set down his guitar, the bottom of the sound box grating in the sand. He rubbed his palms up and down on his thighs, the focus gone from his eyes, his lips compressed, downturned at the corners. The knees of his trousers were shiny from wear. “You boys aren’t much of a challenge.”
“Repeat that?”
The seated man lifted his face, the sunlight shining clearly on it. “You don’t recognize me?”
“Why should we? Who are you supposed to be? Somebody from America’s Most Wanted?”
“How’d you know?”
The two men stared silently at the seated man and the somber expression on his face and the uncut hair on
