Texas Sicario (Arlo Baines Book 2) Page 21

  Miguel and I sat on a curb. While we waited, I tore a dozen or so cups into tiny pieces, adding them to the diesel fuel. The petroleum product melted the Styrofoam, forming a flammable jelly.

  Homemade napalm.

  Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the front seat of Throckmorton’s Suburban. Miguel sat in the rear, the gas can in the cargo area.

  “What have you fellows been up to since we had breakfast?” Throckmorton said.

  “A little of this, a little of that.” I buckled the seat belt.

  “There’s a multiple homicide south of here on Fisher Road. You know anything about that?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Frank Vega’s place, sounds like.” He shifted in his seat.

  “What we talked about before. It’s over.” I paused. “For the moment.”

  He stared out the window but didn’t speak.

  “Can you give us a ride?” I asked.

  “Do I look like one o’ them U-bear drivers?” He smiled.

  I smiled back. A small measure of the tension from the last few weeks began to dissipate. We weren’t safe yet, not by a long shot, but all the immediate threats had been eliminated.

  All but one.

  “Bus station?” he asked.

  “I need to make a stop first.”

  Most gun shops are built to be secure, burglar bars on the windows, concrete pillars in front of the doors, that sort of thing.

  Stodghill’s place was no different. From past visits, I knew he’d even installed reinforced, fireproof walls between his operation and the other two businesses, the modeling studio and the print shop. The walls went all the way to the ceiling, which was reinforced and fireproof as well, just in case someone tried to access his area from the crawl space or the roof.

  In effect, his shop was one large fireproof safe, designed to keep disaster out.

  The reverse was true as well.

  I asked Throckmorton to stop at the end of the block, told him I could walk the rest of the way. I had already told him that Stodghill had something of mine that was incriminating. I gave him no details, and he didn’t ask for any.

  Miguel reached for the door handle, but I motioned for him to stay put.

  “I never did like that Stodghill guy,” Throckmorton said. “Sold anything to anybody.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  Throckmorton pointed to the back. “What’s with the gas can?”

  I shrugged.

  Neither of us spoke for a few moments.

  “How you planning on getting in?” he asked.

  “Ring the bell? See what happens.”

  Not the best plan but the only one I had at the moment.

  “You really think that’s going to work?” He pulled away from the curb.

  Miguel stayed in the Suburban, which was idling at the edge of the parking lot.

  I stood to one side of the metal door, gas can in one hand, out of view of the camera.

  Throckmorton pushed the buzzer and stood so the video system could see him, his badge gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  The solenoid clicked, and I walked in behind Throckmorton.

  Stodghill stood behind the counter. The place was empty otherwise.

  He smiled until he saw me. “What the hell?”

  “Howdy,” Throckmorton said. “You’re under arrest.”

  “For what?”

  “For being a shitass. We’ll worry about the specifics later.” He motioned for him to come out from behind the counter.

  Stodghill did so reluctantly, staring at me as he walked.

  Throckmorton said, “Put your hands on your head.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Throckmorton grabbed his arm and threw him facedown on one of the counters. He searched him, removing three pistols: one in his waistband, another in a shoulder holster, a third affixed to his ankle.

  He then cuffed the man and placed him on the floor, legs spread.

  “You need me, I’ll be outside.” He left.

  Stodghill stared at me, lips curled into a sneer.

  After the door shut, I said, “Is anyone else here?”

  He didn’t reply for a moment. Then he shook his head.

  I searched anyway, found no one else.

  The area immediately behind the front was a storeroom full of boxed-up weapons, mostly long guns marked PRIVATE SALES, the first of the stock for the new venture at the Aztec Bazaar.

  There were also crates of ammunition and several gun safes. Behind that was a small apartment—a single bedroom, a sitting area, and a kitchen. The bed was neatly made and the kitchen sparkling clean.

  A sad scene, this man’s life. Lonely, living amid weapons of destruction, many of which were destined for use by a drug cartel.

  I wondered how he had gotten to this point in his existence. Did people think my life was sad as well? I didn’t spend much time pondering any of that.

  Back in the front, I dribbled about half the homemade napalm over a shelf full of ammunition. The ammo was beneath a rack of long guns.

  Stodghill watched. “What are you doing?”

  After thinking about it for a moment, I stepped back into the storeroom and emptied the gas can over the stack of guns destined for private sales.

  I went back to the front.

  The store also sold reloading supplies, various powders and primers and bullets used to make your own ammunition.

  I opened a can of powder and ran a trail from the napalm covering the ammunition to a spot by the front door.

  “What the hell do you want, Arlo?”

  I didn’t say anything, thinking that should have been pretty obvious. I rummaged around in a drawer by the cash register until I found a book of matches.

  “For God’s sake, have you lost your mind?” Stodghill struggled against the cuffs.

  I stood by the front door, matches in hand. “Where’s my Glock?”

  His eyes went wide.

  I tore a match from the book.

  “You wouldn’t.” He paused. “You can’t.”

  “Yeah, I would.”

  “Bullshit. You’re not a murderer.”

  I lit the match.

  “The middle safe.” He rattled off the combination. “That’s where your gun is.”

  I blew out the match and left him there. In the back, I opened the safe.

  The manila envelope was on a shelf in the middle, next to several pistol boxes. I looked inside, saw my Glock and the paperwork. I tucked the envelope under my arm and went back to the front.

  “Let me go,” he said. “You have what you came for.”

  I stared at his face for a long moment, giving him the cop glare.

  He stared back, trying to be tough. After a few seconds, he looked away and began to hyperventilate.

  “Give me the combos to the other safes.”

  He shook his head, eyes fearful.

  I lit a match.

  “Please,” he said. “You got what you came for.”

  I held out the match.

  The flame burned closer to my fingers.

  “Ow,” I said. “That’s getting hot.”

  “All right, all right.” He sighed.

  I blew out the match, and he gave me the information. I entered the storeroom and opened the other safes, leaving their contents exposed.

  Back in the front room, I pulled the matches from my pocket.

  “What do you want now?” he asked. “What else is there?”

  “Nothing.” I paused. “Everyone but you is dead.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Frank and Quinn. Pax. Javier.”

  His face turned white. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Maybe. That’s up to you.” I pulled him to his feet. “If you tell anybody about me or Throckmorton, you’re a dead man. I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth.”

  He realized what was about to happen. “Please don’t do this. The store, it’s all I have.”


  I shoved him out the door. Then I lit a match.

  Throckmorton took me to a bridge over White Rock Lake where I stripped the Glock and threw the pieces as far as possible in opposite directions. Then he dropped us off at the bus station downtown, the same place where Javier and I had found Miguel.

  “Where you headed?” he asked.

  “You really want to know?”

  He shook his head and looked at Miguel. “You take care of yourself, OK, partner?”

  The boy nodded.

  “You too, Arlo. Be safe.”

  I thanked him for all he had done, and then Miguel and I entered the station.

  The next bus going anywhere north was at 6:30 p.m., a little over an hour from now, heading for Tulsa with stops in Ardmore and Oklahoma City.

  I bought two tickets, and we went next door to McDonald’s.

  After we’d eaten, we sat in the terminal and waited for our bus to be called.

  A few minutes later, Miguel looked at me. “Do you think Javier is still alive?”

  I didn’t speak, unsure how to answer. Finally, I shook my head.

  He nodded but didn’t speak.

  “He stayed behind so we could get away,” I said.

  Miguel slipped his hand into mine.

  “Javier was a good man,” I said.

  The boy leaned against my shoulder. A moment later, he was asleep.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Creating a work of fiction is a group experience. The raw material may have been mine, but the end result is a communal effort, thanks to a dedicated group of professionals who are as much responsible for what you hold in your hand as the author is. To that end, I would like to thank everybody at Thomas & Mercer: Dennelle Catlett, David Downing, Gracie Doyle, Megha Parekh, and Sarah Shaw. Also, many thanks to Richard Abate for helping make this book possible at the outset.

  For their help with the manuscript, I would like to offer my gratitude to Jan Blankenship, Victoria Calder, Paul Coggins, Peggy Fleming, Alison Hunsicker, Fanchon Henneberger, Brooke Malouf, Clif Nixon, David Norman, Glenna Whitley, and Max Wright.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2013 Nick McWhirter

  Harry Hunsicker is the former executive vice president of the Mystery Writers of America and the author of seven crime thrillers, including The Devil’s Country, the first Arlo Baines novel, and the Jon Cantrell and Lee Henry Oswald series. His work has been short-listed for both the Shamus and Thriller Awards. Hunsicker’s story “West of Nowhere,” originally published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, was selected for inclusion in the anthology The Best American Mystery Stories 2011. For more about Harry, visit him at www.harryhunsicker.com.