Texas True (21 page)

Sky shook his head. “If Bull was here tonight, he just might change his mind. If I'd left well enough alone—if I hadn't brought Lute here and hadn't looked for that bullet, maybe Beau wouldn't be in so much trouble.”

“Beau's troubles aren't your fault. And beating yourself up won't change what Bull left you or the fact that he'd want you to have it.”

“Then you take this.” Sky thrust the envelope toward the old man. “You can give it back to me later.”

“And when will that be, you mule-headed young whippersnapper?”

“I'll let you know.”

With a mutter of protest, Jasper took the envelope and tucked it under his arm. Restless now, Sky rose, stretched, and walked down the porch steps.

“Where you goin'?” Jasper called after him.

“Just around.”

Fishing the keys out of his pocket, Sky headed for the shed where he kept his truck.

T
he Blue Coyote was humming tonight. Customers crowded the bar, clamoring for drinks and watching the NBA game that blared from the big-screen TV. The plump young waitress, her dyed black hair gelled into spikes, bustled among the tables, her tray balanced shoulder high. Perspiration made a dark streak down the back of her lavender T-shirt.

From the corner booth, Sky nursed his beer and watched the action. He had stopped by Haskell Trucking on his way into town, hoping Lute might be back. But he'd found the place closed. A look through the chain-link fence had revealed no sign of the big rig Lute had supposedly driven to Mexico.

Sky spotted Stella weaving her way among the tables with a foaming glass of beer in one hand. Her striking green eyes were looking directly at him.

“Hello, Blue Eyes. Mind if I join you?”

“I'd be honored.” Sky knew how to charm if he needed to.

She slid the full glass toward him. “I've been watching you for the past hour. You haven't drunk enough of that cheap stuff to make it worth your coming in here. This one's on me. Drink up.”

“Thanks.” Sky took a sip. “Not bad.”

She fixed her riveting gaze on him. “You're Lute's cousin, aren't you?”

“That's right. I actually came into town to find him. Since I take it you're his boss now, can you tell me when he'll be back?”

Something flickered in her eyes. “Is that really why you're here? Last time you came in, before you left with that redheaded princess, I saw you taking pictures.”

“You don't miss a thing, do you?”

Her gaze narrowed. “Mind telling me what you were up to?”

Sometimes, when backed into a corner, the truth was the simplest way out. “I was taking a photo of your bartender. Beau wanted to have the DEA run a facial-recognition scan.”

“And did they learn anything?” One painted eyebrow slithered upward.

“They did. Not that there was much to learn, but we did find out he's your brother.”

“I'd have told you that if you'd asked me.” Stella's crimson-nailed finger traced the damp ring the glass had left on the table. “Nicky's not a bad boy, just a little wild. Since I took him under my wing, he's straightened out fine. He'll do whatever I tell him to—but in case you're wondering, that doesn't include murder. Not Slade's and not that poor girl's. Nicky's not your killer.”

“Any idea who is?”

“My money's on Beau Tyler. He had motive, means, and opportunity, all in spades. And if it wasn't Beau, I'd bet on that stuck-up little widow of Slade's
—Doctor
Haskell, as she likes to be called.”

“Natalie?” Sky frowned in surprise. “She was on a call the night Slade died. Besides, she hates guns.”

“She wouldn't have been working
all
night. And just because she hates guns, or pretends to, doesn't mean she couldn't use one. Think about it. The divorce would've taken time, and the property settlement would've been a fight all the way. She saw a chance to ditch her husband fast, grab everything he owned, and hook up with the rich rancher she'd never gotten over.”

“And what about the girl?” Sky's mind refused to process the notion that Natalie could be a murderer.

“Jess?” Stella chuckled. “Oh, that part's easy enough. Slade was humping that girl every chance he got. Jealousy's a right powerful motivator. And it could've made her mad enough to go after Slade, too. Motive, means, and opportunity. That lady had it all, including a safe full of guns right in her house.”

“What about Lute?” he asked, changing the subject.

Stella tucked a lock of wine-colored hair behind one ear. “No way. The kid was plain moon-eyed over Jess. And Slade was like a big brother to him. Lute worshipped the man. Even if he'd had the stomach for it, he had no reason to kill either of them.”

“Whatever's going on with Lute, I need to talk to him, and I'm getting worried. What if he's in some kind of trouble?”

A beat of silence passed before she spoke. “Relax. I was worried about Lute, too, but he's fine. He called this morning to tell me he's on his way back. Evidently he had a little too much fun at that ranch. Something about a fiesta and a girl.” Her laugh was brittle, without humor. Sky sensed she was annoyed with Lute's delay. “I'll tell him you came by,” she said. “But I can't promise he'll call you. I get the impression things aren't too cozy between you two.”

She glanced around the crowded bar. “Nice talking to you, Blue Eyes, but it's time I was getting back to my customers. Stick around as long as you like.”

“Wait.” Sky stopped her as she rose and turned to walk away. “The boy is family, and I'm doing my best to deal with him,” he said. “Would you answer one question for me?”

“Depends.” Her expression had turned cautious. “You can ask. That doesn't mean I have to answer.”

“Why Lute? He was a washout at the ranch, so lazy and irresponsible that he got himself fired. Why put a kid with no experience in charge of your trucking business when you've got other employees who could do the job better?”

She looked startled for an instant. Then a slow smile spread across her heavily made-up face. “Maybe because he isn't really the one in charge.”

With that she walked away, her ample rump doing a shimmy beneath her tight denim skirt.

Sky lingered another fifteen minutes for appearance's sake, sipping his beer and mulling over what Stella had told him—or rather, what she
hadn't
told him.

He was on his way to the parking lot when it struck him—the real answer to the question he'd asked her.

Lute hadn't been hired and promoted because he was competent, or even because Stella liked him. There was only one reason he could have been given Slade's old job.

He was expendable.

 

The AC had gone out on the truck. Sweating buckets in the ninety-five-degree heat, Lute had stripped down to his cutoff denim shorts. The road between that nowhere Mexican ranch and the U.S. border had to be the hottest damned stretch on the planet—dry yellow grass, blistering sun, and molten asphalt that stank in the heat.

At least he had plenty of water to drink. He should have furnished more water for the nineteen Mexicans hiding behind the extra hay bales in the trailer. They'd be even hotter back there than he was in the cab. But never mind, he'd be crossing into the good old USA toward evening. Once he got across the bridge into Eagle Pass, he'd find a quiet spot, crack the rear door, and turn them loose. They could find their own water.

Stella had warned him not to transport illegals. Human cargo was too risky, she'd said. Too many things could go wrong. But Stella wouldn't have to know. He had her usual supply of high-grade heroin and cocaine loaded and sealed in the truck's spare gas tank—the cartel's payment for the guns he'd delivered to the ranch. Lute knew better than to touch the drugs. He would have to account to Stella for every ounce. But when he'd found out how much cash he could make smuggling passengers across the border—all of it his to keep—the temptation had been too much to resist.

Despite the sweltering day, he was in high spirits. What Stella was paying him for this run was a pittance compared to what he could make on the side. A thousand dollars apiece from those Mexicans in the back, paid in advance. The thought of that thick wad of cash hidden inside the dashboard, and what it would buy, was enough to make his head spin.

But that was just the beginning. He'd hit it off pretty well with Don Ignacio, the owner of the cattle ranch. They'd gotten to talking, and Lute had discovered the man was a fancier of fine horses.

When Lute had casually asked what Don Ignacio would pay for a trailer load of first-rate Texas cow ponies, along with one flawless palomino stud colt, the rich man's eyes had lit with interest. The cow ponies would be useful, of course, he'd replied, and he would be willing to pay a good price for them. But owning a magnificent palomino stallion had long been a dream of his. If the colt was truly as splendid as Lute had described, and if Lute could get it to the ranch in good condition, Don Ignacio had quoted a figure that made Lute stifle a gasp, inflating his dreams of wealth like a hot-air balloon.

The risk of loading a trailer with Tyler ponies and trying to get them across the border might be too great. But the palomino would be well worth the trouble. Sedated, the foal would be easy enough to smuggle in a truckload of hay or other cargo, but only if he had the skill, or the luck, to drug the precious little creature without killing it, especially given the heat. Again, risk was a big issue here.

A better plan would be to take the mare along to keep her foal calm and fed. With the right official-looking paperwork, making the transfer look like a legal sale, the pair could be hauled openly, in a comfortable trailer. Too bad he hadn't thought of asking the Mexican rancher about that before he left. Now he'd have to find his own way around the problem.

But the horses could wait. Right now Lute had more pressing concerns. The road marker he'd just passed indicated that the border was 200 kilometers away. According to Lute's math, that translated to roughly 120 miles, or a couple more hours of driving.

It would be dusk by the time he reached the border. All to the good. The guards would be nearing the end of their shifts. They'd be tired, less alert, and the fading light would make it harder to spot suspicious details. But the most dangerous part of the trip lay ahead. He would have to be prepared.

Getting into Mexico had been easy. The guards on the Mexican side of the border had recognized the Haskell rig that hauled hay south to the remote ranch. They'd glanced at Lute's paperwork, stamped it, and waved him on. But getting back into the U.S., with the border patrol on constant watch for smugglers, was trickier.

Stella's contact had done a good job with the fake U.S. passport he carried. Lute was entitled to a real one, but with no registered copy of his birth certificate available, the red tape was more bother than it was worth. His other documents—his trucker's license, the registration, and the insurance on the rig—were genuine and shouldn't be a problem. Lute had all the paperwork handy, ready to present on demand.

The illegal cargo was a different matter. But Lute would hopefully have a hidden ace. One of the guards, a Texan named Albert Sanchez, was tight with Stella. She passed him a generous tip every time he “inspected” one of her returning trucks. The cash was waiting for him now, folded into a sandwich bag and tucked under the floor mat on the passenger side of the truck.

Stella had assured Lute that Albert would do his job. The only tricky part would be timing the truck's arrival at the border to catch Albert's shift and choosing the line that would take him through Albert's station.

There were two bridges, with border stations, crossing the Rio Grande into Eagle Pass. The larger Camino Real International Bridge had one lane for big commercial trucks and multiple lanes for passenger vehicles. But Albert worked on the other, smaller bridge. The mid-sized Haskell rig was okay to pass here, but, unfortunately, it was more likely to be singled out for inspection.

When Lute had last phoned Stella, the word from Albert had been that he would be working that evening when the truck reached the border. But that had been yesterday. Arranging for his human cargo had taken Lute an extra day. Knowing that the delay would make Stella suspicious, he hadn't called her back.

So now, where the border was concerned, he was pretty much flying blind.

Lute shoved a lock of greasy hair out of his face. His mouth formed a string of obscenities, the sound of them lost in the roar of the engine. There was still a chance he'd find Albert and make it through the crossing. But what if he'd screwed up
—really
screwed up?

Getting caught with a truck full of drugs and illegal immigrants could land him in federal prison for years. Ditching the truck and crossing on foot would at least save his skin. Stella would be pissed about the drugs, but the truck was insured, and anything would be better than getting arrested. He'd have to make up a cover story, but it wouldn't be the first time.

With a backup plan in place, Lute felt better. He drove until he could see the lights of Piedras Negras through the murky dusk. Passing into the town, which he knew well enough, he found a
supermercado
with a big parking lot, less than half a mile from the bridge. He parked at the outer edge, switched off the engine, and yanked his T-shirt back over his head.

Taking the documents for the truck, the roll of bills from under the dashboard, and the cash for Sanchez, he stuffed the papers in his jeans and the cash in his boots. If he walked to the bridge and found Albert working, he would come back and get the truck. Otherwise, he would just keep walking.

As an afterthought, he took the jugs of drinking water he'd brought along and walked around to the back of the trailer. Unlocking the door, he raised it a few inches and tossed the jugs into the darkness. Scrambling sounds and the mutter of voices told him his passengers had survived the long, hot day. Lowering the door, he left it unlocked so it could be raised from the inside. If he didn't come back, they would figure it out. They might even be smart enough to look for the hidden drugs.

Even with his boots stuffed full of money, it didn't take him long to walk to the bridge. The Mexicans waved him through when he flashed his passport. Why should they care who was leaving their country? He hung back as he approached the U.S. entry lanes. He'd seen a photo of Albert Sanchez, but none of the guards on duty looked anything like the man. Some of them even had dogs, burly German shepherds sniffing every vehicle.

Trying to look casual, Lute sauntered up to one of the guards, a husky red-haired man who shot him a questioning glare.