Chapter 20
We left the FOB and headed east, using the GPS and a pin given to us by the CBP supervisor. On the console between us was
The road curved and soon we were driving right along the border fence, passing some crossing point that had a CBP outpost
in the form of a trailer next to it.
I said, “Looks to be about twenty miles.”
She nodded, then started fiddling with the radio, saying, “We should have paid extra for the Sirius stations.”
I laughed and said, “Pretty fast thinking with that FLETC line.”
She grinned at me and said, “Well, I knew if push came to shove you were going to try to come up with some BS on the fly,
forcing me to try to keep up. I figured it would be better if at least one of us bothered to develop the cover a little bit.”
I said, “Touché,” because that’s exactly what I was doing.
She said, “What are we going to do if we find the car? Go to the reservation police and ask them about it?”
I said, “I don’t know. Let’s see what we find first. Maybe I’ll throw this badge around a little.”
“That’s not a real badge here.”
“They don’t know that.”
“No, I mean even if it was a real badge, it holds no weight here.”
“Well, let’s see what happens.”
We passed by a couple of trailers, then crossed a dirt road with dilapidated row houses of cinderblock snaking down it. We
kept going and came upon the first modern structure I’d seen—a rec center with a ballfield, swimming pool, and a Santa Fe–style
building that appeared to be the newest construction within two hundred miles.
We drove by it, the wind causing dust devils to swirl in the baseball field, then passed a gas station and a convenience store.
We went by a Catholic church offset from the road, and then were on open highway again, the desert extending out left and
right.
I looked at the GPS and said, “Whoa. That was it. That’s the town.”
She slowed down and said, “That wasn’t a town. It was a couple of buildings.”
“Well, according to this, that was the town.”
She pulled over, turned around, and we went back, this time much more slowly. We reached the church, and it looked deserted.
In fact, the entire place looked deserted.
We kept going, and I noticed signs of life. Someone was pumping fuel at the gas station, eyeballing us. Jennifer continued
driving and we passed the convenience store, a sign above it saying, “Menagers Dam Groceries.” Next to it was another sign
proclaiming, “Rainy’s Bar and Grill,” with an arrow pointing to the grocery store entrance. Out front were two pickup trucks.
I noticed neither had a license plate, so maybe the CBP wasn’t bullshitting me about the Crown Vic.
We went past the grocery, and in between the pickups, hidden from our earlier angle, was our vehicle. Or at least what appeared
to be our vehicle.
I’d already studied the picture from Chet, looking for anything identifiable, and had noticed that the rear bumper was dinged
on the passenger side. Something had hit it, or someone had backed into something at one time or another, leaving a crack
and a triangle of plastic missing.
I said, “Pull into the convenience store.”
She did, and I got out, walking to the trucks. I went by the first one, glanced down at the car in between, and saw the clipped bumper. The car matched.
I went back to Jennifer and said, “That’s it.”
“So what now?”
“Let’s go inside and just ask. Maybe this won’t be that hard. All we want to do is talk to the man who owns it. Maybe not
being reservation police will work in our favor if we tell him we don’t give a crap about anything illegal he’s doing.”
“What if he’s with the guys who killed Marley?”
“I don’t think that’s the case. It’s too much of a stretch to say an Indian from the TO went to Utah, killed Marley, freed
the Ghost and came back here. I’m having problems believing it was a biker gang, but a Native American biker gang? No way. He might know them, though. Maybe he got rid of the van for them and doesn’t know what it’s all about.”
She looked across the street and I followed her gaze. The guy fueling his truck had finished, but he hadn’t moved on. He just
stood there, watching us with a cell phone to his ear.
She said, “You know we’re all alone out here. All by ourselves.”
I said, “Come on. We’re still in the United States. This isn’t Beirut we’re penetrating. Let’s go check it out. Worst case,
maybe we can get a souvenir.”
She exhaled and said, “Okay, but don’t push anything.”
I reached under the seat, saying, “I won’t. Don’t forget your gun.”
She whipped her head to me, saying, “What?”
I clipped in my appendix holster holding my Staccato, covered it with my shirt and said, “What, what? Boy Scout motto: Be
Prepared.”
I walked to the front of the grocery store without waiting to hear her retort, but I could tell she was muttering hateful
things as she situated her own weapon. I held the door until she caught up.
We went inside, finding a place that reminded me of one of those old Stuckey’s stores alongside the freeway, before Buc-ee’s came along and put them all out of business.
Rows of everything from candy bars and toilet paper to jars of honey and bags of beef jerky, with a cooler in back full of beer and soda.
An older lady was behind the counter manning an ancient cash register, looking at us like we were from a different planet.
In the back, next to a blanket covering a doorway, was a sign proclaiming “Rainy’s,” with an arrow pointing at the blanket.
Beyond the doorway, in a corner, was a rawhide-looking guy sitting in a chair, scrolling his phone.
He looked up when we entered, then tapped something on the cell. I went to the counter and said, “Excuse me, but would you
happen to know who owns that Crown Vic outside? We accidentally hit it and I’d like to talk to the owner.”
She said nothing, just looking at me with what might have been fear. I said, “Did you understand me?”
The man in the back said, “She don’t speak no English.”
I knew that was bullshit, but played along, saying, “Oh, okay, well, like I was telling her, I accidentally backed into a
Crown Vic outside and I’d like to pay whoever owns it for the damage. Is that you?”
He stood up and said, “Nope. Not me. That’d be Chief, and he’s at the bar.”
I said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
I turned to Jennifer and said, “Told you this would be easy.”
She didn’t look like she thought any of this was easy. I said, “Why don’t you stay out here and get us some stuff for the
road while I go talk to the guy in the bar.”
Now she looked positively alarmed, saying, “Why?”
I glanced at the guy in the chair and said, “Because it might not be easy.”
Loud enough for the mute cashier and the chair guy to hear, I said, “Get me a couple of Cokes and a bag of jerky. I’ll be
right back.”
I walked to the man in the chair and said, “Chief’s in there?”
He nodded. I parted the blanket trying to see inside, but the brightness of the grocery store overwhelmed the gloom of the bar.
I stepped through, gave my eyes a second to adjust, and then saw what was basically the inside of a Conex shipping container turned into a drinking establishment.
I wasn’t sure if somehow the word “grill” had been lost in translation, because there was no sign of a kitchen or any tables to eat at even if it was brought in from outside.
There was a vintage card table in the corner, the felt stained and torn, the single bulb hanging above harshly lighting four
men seated around it. Running the length of the wall was a surprisingly ornate carved wooden bar, no seats or stools, but
it was complete with a brass rail at the bottom and nasty-looking spittoons. Behind it was a skinny old man with a full beard
and long, white hair. The only illumination around the bar was from a few neon beer signs hanging behind him and various holes
in the walls and roof letting in sunlight like little lasers.
The men at the table all stopped playing cards and just stared at me. I ignored them for a second and went up to the bar.
The old bartender said, “Help you?”
I repeated my story about the Crown Vic, and one of the men at the table said, “I’m Chief.”
I turned to them, seeing a huge guy with a full head of hair and a sharp goatee stand up. To his left was a stocky man with
a long ponytail and a cleft palate, giving his face a twisted appearance. On his right were the remaining two, both young
guys, one with a crew cut and one wearing a beat-up John Deere trucker hat, cleaning his nails with an old-school lock-back
buck knife.
I went up to the giant guy and said, “You’re Chief?”
He nodded. The one thing I didn’t want to do was have some conversation about a stolen van with three other thugs listening.
I decided to separate him, starting with a little humor.
“You guys call this place Rainy’s because it’s named after someone, or because this is the only place in town that’s ever
wet?”
Nobody smiled. So much for that.
The two young guys stood up, going behind me to the bar, leaving the cleft palate guy as the only one seated. The only one
who wasn’t an immediate threat.
I didn’t like the other guys behind me, but didn’t want to show any hesitation. One thing was for sure: if this turned violent, I’d have to take out Chief first, because he was the greatest threat, which posed a problem, because he was also the one guy I needed to question.
I said, “Hey, look, I clipped your car outside. Can you come on out with me and take a look? Tell me what you think the damages
are worth? I’ll pay you for it.”
I heard footsteps behind me, coming fast. I managed to turn halfway, my hand snaking to my weapon, when I caught the movement
of a club in the corner of my eye, whipping towards my head. I managed to get my hand halfway up, deflecting the blow, but
it still came in, knocking the hell out of me.
Someone swept my legs out from under me and I hit the floor, feeling a hand jerking on my holster. I snapped a punch blindly,
connecting with something hard. I heard a scream, but felt my weapon come free.
I crabbed onto my back, and saw the giant guy coming in.