MIDNIGHT QUEST: A Short 'Men of Midnight' Novel (13 page)

On another wall were a couple of antique guns mounted on boards behind glass and a small bookcase with legal texts. The third wall had wanted posters—not only of men wanted by the state of Texas but also the FBI’s Most Wanted.

Constable sat down behind his desk and motioned Jacko to sit in the visitor’s chair. Constable leaned back in his swivel chair, hands linked behind his neck. Body language as relaxed as it gets.

“So, Mr. Jackman, what brings you to Cross?”

Jacko kept an even voice. “I lived here from 1980, when I was born, until 1997, when I joined the Navy. I was friends with the sheriff then, Kurt Pendleton.”

Constable’s hands unlinked and he straightened in his chair.

Jacko frowned. “What? Is he—is he dead?”

As a kid, Pendleton had seemed ancient to Jacko, but he must have only been in his forties, which would make him about seventy now. Not that old, nowadays. But cops led dangerous lives. Not as dangerous as soldiers, but almost. In general, cops lived about twenty years less than civilians.

“No, sir. Pendleton isn’t dead, though some might question that. He’s in a home.” Constable sighed, tapped his temple. “Not quite…right. Up here. He was making big mistakes, forgetting things. The city council relieved him and gave the job to my predecessor, who retired five years ago. Pendleton is in a special care home near Las Vegas. His son made the arrangements, or so I heard. I never met the man myself. Sorry.”

Okay. Las Vegas. It was doable, on his way back to Portland. It would probably be sad to see Chief Pendleton now, a broken-down old man missing a few dots from his dice. But Pendleton had been good to Jacko back in the day. Maybe Jacko could leave some money with his caregivers, ease the old guy’s life. Jacko was on a quest to wrestle his past to the ground. Seeing the old sheriff was part of that, he could feel it.

Jacko stood. “I appreciate your help, sir. Do you happen to know the name of that home where Sheriff Pendleton is now?”

The Sheriff frowned. “I don’t, actually. But I can try to find out. If you’ll wait here, I’ll do my best to get an address for you.” He walked out of his office before Jacko could say anything.

Jacko sat in the sheriff’s office and waited. There were no sounds from the outside world, Cross as dead now as it had been when he was a kid. About the only thing Cross had was sunshine. A shaft of sunlight so strong it looked like it could bear weight shone through a none-too-clean window pane and created a bright rectangle on the linoleum flooring.

He checked the weather in Portland on his cell. Rainy, high of 45 degrees. Cold weather never bothered him, but it did Lauren. She loved sunshine. He’d take her with him when he returned to Rancho San Diego to look at the house. She’d soak up the sunshine and they’d decide together what to do. Sell, keep. He didn’t care. Whatever made Lauren happy.

Maybe they’d toggle over to San Diego and he’d book them into the Del for a few days—the beautiful, old turn-of-the-last-century hotel on Coronado. Right on the beach. She’d love that.

It was an expensive hotel, old-fashioned luxury. When he was a SEAL, training in Coronado, the idea of staying at the Del was about as plausible as a vacation on the moon. One night cost a week’s wages and at the time, Jacko had no savings.

Now, he could probably live at the Del, if he really wanted to. If he didn’t order too much room service.

Man, his life had changed since those days. For the better. And he had Lauren.

Ferocious desire to be back with her exploded in his chest. It felt like scissors and knives—sharp, painful. If he could push a button to get back to her
right now
he would. He’d push that button and leave Cross, Texas, and beam himself straight back to her.

Whatever he thought he’d learn, he’d learned. He was done here. He’d never find out who his father was. That tiny hope that had been at the back of his mind forever was gone.

Sometimes Jacko had had this weird feeling that Pendleton knew who his old man was. Jacko had nothing to base that feeling on, really. Just an odd look and a word or two. But Pendleton had never come out with it, and now, even if he’d known, he probably couldn’t remember. Jacko had never pressed it. If Pendleton didn’t want to tell him, it was probably bad news.

There was just no way to track his dad down and it was probably better that way. Who knew who he was? Some druggie asshole drifter who’d passed through town at a moment when his mom could barely remember to eat let alone take care of birth control. She’d had her tubes tied after giving birth to him.

At least part of his heritage wasn’t druggie asshole, if you didn’t count his mom. Which he didn’t. Her getting hooked was because she’d had undiagnosed ADD and his grandparents had been too naïve to recognize the signs. So she’d fallen into the ugly black hole of addiction, a place too horrible for life, like an airless, sunless planet.

But her side of the family was
normal
. His kid wasn’t going to be born with two heads and fangs. And of course there was Lauren, who was perfect, and was giving their baby her genes, too.

Their baby. Jesus, he was having a
kid.
It finally settled inside him, the full weight of this. He’d been too freaked to grasp it, hold it, look at it. He did so now, this idea that had been too hot to handle, too fucking scary to deal with.

A baby.

A tiny little defenseless creature who would depend on them for everything. And they’d do it. Fuck yeah. He and Lauren would do it. They’d take this little thing and love it and protect it and watch it grow into a strong adult, and they’d be with the kid every step of the way.

Lauren’s parents hadn’t been too hot either. Her father had been weak and had dilapidated the family money before kicking the bucket and her mom had then married a Florida mobster. Lauren hadn’t been loved and protected—though there’d been plenty of money—and she’d done okay. Lauren was the finest woman he’d ever met and ASI was lousy with fine women. Neither he nor Lauren had had good parenting and they’d turned out all right. In Lauren’s case, more than all right.

So they could do this.

Yeah. Oh yeah.

Get back to Lauren,
Jacko thought, the fastest route possible. The digging was over. He’d found out some good things, and he was ready to go back home. He’d get some flak from Metal and Joe and Jack, and his bosses would look at him squint-eyed, the way they’d done in the military when you didn’t complete your run in the allotted time. Of course, in civilian life they couldn’t command him to drop to the grinder and pump out 150.

They’d find a way to make him pay. Overtime, maybe. That was fine. Jacko knew there would be a price. Nothing came free. He could do overtime, no question.

So where the fuck was the sheriff? Jacko didn’t need him. Felicity could run Pendleton down in under a minute. He’d give the sheriff another five minutes, then he was gone and the hell with him.

But the sheriff came back in two minutes, shaking his head, looking sorry. “Mr. Jackman,” he said, walking through the door into his office. “I do apologize. I can’t find anyone who knows where Pendleton’s rest home is. Maybe if you wouldn’t mind staying till after lunch, I can ask Charlie when she comes in for the afternoon shift. She’s not answering her cell.”

He was frowning.

“No problem,” Jacko said easily, rising. It was all suddenly too much. Wasting time in this dusty office in a backwater town where he’d been miserably unhappy. There was nothing for him here and he was sorry he’d come. He couldn’t wait to escape, to get back to Lauren. “But I need to get going. ”

The sheriff cocked his head. “Say, you never did say where you live now. If you have a card on you, I’ll call when I get the name of the facility. Be a pleasure to do my predecessor a solid.”

“I’m out of business cards,” Jacko lied. He didn’t want to leave any ties behind. He was done with Cross and would never come back. He’d find out what he needed to know his own way. “So, thanks for your help.” He stuck out his hand.

“Sorry to see you go.” The sheriff took it almost reluctantly. “Didn’t even get a chance to offer coffee. Ours isn’t bad. Crew took up a collection and we got ourselves a fancy coffeemaker.”

“Another time.”
Meaning never.
Jacko gave a brief smile and walked out the door. He paused on the steps leaving the sheriff’s office and looked up and down the street. Some of the buildings he remembered from the bad old days, some were new but already in disrepair. Nothing here held any good memories for him. This was a place from a long-ago past that had nothing to do with him now.

He made his way down the steps, got into his SUV and headed north, happy to be leaving Cross behind him forever.

Fuck!

Stu Constable opened up his desk drawer and pulled out an old photo. It had been handed to him by his predecessor and Constable had been holding on to it for close to ten years.

Five hundred grand. He was looking at a face that represented five hundred grand. Five hundred thousand dollars was enough to pay his debts, get him out of this shithole and provide a stake in a new business.

He stared at the photo of the man in the photo. Tough-looking guy, cold eyes. He had long graying sideburns and a full head of dark hair. Wearing an ’80s-style shirt with long pointy collars. But none of that was important. What
was
important was that he looked exactly like the man who’d just been in Constable’s office.

The man in the photo had darker skin but that might be an effect of a photo that was over thirty years old. He also had pale eyes. Constable couldn’t tell if the eyes were pale blue or gray. He had hair and the guy who’d just left had a shaved head. Other than that, he looked exactly like the man who’d just been in his office, Jackman. The resemblance was uncanny.

He punched in a number.

“
Sì?”
A male Hispanic voice.

“Hey,” Constable said. Good, the number was still valid. “This is Stuart Constable in Cross, Texas. That guy you want, Dante Jimenez? You still want him, don’t you?”

He started sweating. A lot was riding on this. Five hundred thousand dollars would turn his life right around. Maybe convince his wife to stay with him. She was sick of being a sheriff’s wife in a dump of a town. 500K would be a stake in a new life. He could buy half his brother-in-law’s thriving diving equipment business in Galveston. Get out of this place, finally. Fuck the half-assed cop pension.

“Yeah,” the guttural voice answered. “We still want him. Price has gone down, though. Two hundred grand.”

Constable slumped in his chair.
Fuck!
He waited a second to make sure his voice was cool and calm. Two hundred grand was still a lot of money.

“I think I have a lead.”

“You
think
you have a lead?” the voice asked sharply.

Shit! He couldn’t lose this!

“No, no! I have a lead. A good one.” Constable wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“Stay at this number,” the voice said and disconnected.

Constable listened to empty air then thumbed his cell off.
Stay at this number.
For how long, dammit?

He heaved a sigh. Pointless fooling himself. He’d sit in this fucking broken down chair until he starved and cobwebs covered his body. And it wasn’t like he had something else to do. Cross was dead, day and night. Even the faintest possibility of making some real money—that was enough to keep him where he was.

An hour later, his cell rang.
Unknown number.
Okay. Maybe his request was making its way up through the ranks. Maybe he was going to talk to Gustavo Villalongo himself. No, wait. He’d died in prison years back.

“Talk.” A different voice. Coarse and raspy. A smoker’s voice.

“I have a photo to send. I’ll need an email.”

“A
photo?
What the fuck am I going to do with a photo?”

Sweat broke out across Constable’s forehead. “You’ll understand when you see it. But I need half the money before I send it.”

Silence. “Do you know who this is?”

“Ah—” Now sweat was trickling down his back. “Ca-Carlos Villalongo.” The heir to the Villalongo cartel. It had been the most powerful cartel along the Mexican border, operating both in the States and in Mexico. Until a DEA undercover agent had risen through the ranks to become Gustavo Villalongo’s right-hand man and then smashed the cartel. The old man had been sent to American prison. The Villalongo cartel never recovered and Carlos proved to be a weak leader. But cruel, crueler even than Los Zetas south of the border.

His hatred of the DEA agent who’d put his father in prison was legendary.

Constable gathered his courage. This was his one shot out of his life. Another would never come his way again. “Send me half the money and I will send a photo. If you’re interested, then I’ll tell you how to track the man in that photo.”

“Do you know what will happen to you if you are tricking me?” Carlos Villalongo asked, his voice full of quiet menace.

A minor skirmish with a rising cartel near Laredo had finished with a series of heads on pikes lining a country road. The entire leadership of the cartel. And their women and children lay in a pit, bullets to the backs of their heads having put an end to their misery.