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Authors: Christopher Reich
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thirty-two.”
Tank tried to read the release, but his eyes sucked and the light was too low anyway.
“Did I miss anything?”
“You’ll find everything we have there. There’ll be a follow-up conference sometime tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.” Tank reached his car and Burroughs opened the door for him. Tank looked at him for a second, then climbed in and closed the door. “Thanks again, detective. Appreciate it.”
“Say, Tank, where do you live?”
“Tarrytown,” he said as he started the engine. “Why do you ask?”
“You may not be making it home tonight.”
“What do you mean? Car runs fine. Secret is to change the oil every two thousand miles.”
The hotshot had stepped away from the car and stood with hands on his hips. “Sir, would you turn the car off?”
Tank dug his chin into his neck. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Just do as I say, sir. Turn off your engine and step out of the vehicle.”
“But…” Tank looked down. It was then that he saw the fifth of Cuervo lying on the seat beside him.
“Now, Mr. Potter. You’re under arrest for driving while intoxicated.”
10
It was late when Mary returned home. She parked in the front drive and stayed behind the wheel after she cut the engine. Through the front window she could see the girls watching television. For the rest of their lives they would remember that they were watching
Survivor
when their mother came home and informed them of their father’s death.
Mary got out of the car and managed a few steps toward the house before stopping. The front door was twenty feet and a mile away.
Mountains don’t get smaller for looking at them
.
Mary listened to the buzzing of the cicadas, the murmur of the television, the cycling of the air conditioning on and off. One more minute of innocence. One more minute of not knowing. One more minute of not feeling like she did.
Jessie spotted her car and jumped up from the couch. Grace rose, too. Both hurried to the front door, eager to learn why she was home so late. Their children’s sense had warned them that something was wrong. They had no idea.
Jessie opened the door. “Mom, what were you doing just standing there?”
Mary started up the walk. “Coming, peanut.”
Grace pushed her way in front of her older sister. “Where’s Daddy?”
11
The next morning Mary sat on the edge of her bed reading the newspaper. The headline read “FBI Agent Killed in Dripping Springs Shoot-Out.”
“Veteran Special Agent Joseph T. Grant was killed yesterday in the line of duty. The shooting took place at approximately 3:15 p.m. outside of Dripping Springs on the grounds of the former Flying V Ranch. FBI spokesperson Donald G. Bennett stated that Grant was interviewing an informant deemed cooperative and unthreatening when the informant drew a weapon and shot Grant in the chest. The informant, whose name is being withheld due to the sensitive nature of the ongoing investigation, also died at the scene. Grant recently transferred to Austin from Sacramento, where he had been the assistant special agent in charge.”
A color picture ran above the fold. It showed Joe’s car with the windshield shattered, shot through. On the ground, visible between the milling law enforcement officers, lay a body draped by a sheet. The informant, identity unknown.
Mary stared at the photo, trying to imagine what had happened, how Joe had allowed an informant to get the drop on him. She looked closer. The informant lay several steps away from Joe’s car. From the pool of blood on the ground near his head, it appeared that he had been shot there, not in the car. Questions formed in her mind. Discrepancies with Bennett’s nervous and contradictory explanation.
She could hear Joe’s voice, snippets of the message. “Everything’s copacetic. Tell Sid. He’s one of the good guys.”
So there were
bad guys
?
The door to her bedroom opened. A curvy, attractive woman dressed in yoga tights and a lululemon
Tank tried to read the release, but his eyes sucked and the light was too low anyway.
“Did I miss anything?”
“You’ll find everything we have there. There’ll be a follow-up conference sometime tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.” Tank reached his car and Burroughs opened the door for him. Tank looked at him for a second, then climbed in and closed the door. “Thanks again, detective. Appreciate it.”
“Say, Tank, where do you live?”
“Tarrytown,” he said as he started the engine. “Why do you ask?”
“You may not be making it home tonight.”
“What do you mean? Car runs fine. Secret is to change the oil every two thousand miles.”
The hotshot had stepped away from the car and stood with hands on his hips. “Sir, would you turn the car off?”
Tank dug his chin into his neck. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Just do as I say, sir. Turn off your engine and step out of the vehicle.”
“But…” Tank looked down. It was then that he saw the fifth of Cuervo lying on the seat beside him.
“Now, Mr. Potter. You’re under arrest for driving while intoxicated.”
10
It was late when Mary returned home. She parked in the front drive and stayed behind the wheel after she cut the engine. Through the front window she could see the girls watching television. For the rest of their lives they would remember that they were watching
Survivor
when their mother came home and informed them of their father’s death.
Mary got out of the car and managed a few steps toward the house before stopping. The front door was twenty feet and a mile away.
Mountains don’t get smaller for looking at them
.
Mary listened to the buzzing of the cicadas, the murmur of the television, the cycling of the air conditioning on and off. One more minute of innocence. One more minute of not knowing. One more minute of not feeling like she did.
Jessie spotted her car and jumped up from the couch. Grace rose, too. Both hurried to the front door, eager to learn why she was home so late. Their children’s sense had warned them that something was wrong. They had no idea.
Jessie opened the door. “Mom, what were you doing just standing there?”
Mary started up the walk. “Coming, peanut.”
Grace pushed her way in front of her older sister. “Where’s Daddy?”
11
The next morning Mary sat on the edge of her bed reading the newspaper. The headline read “FBI Agent Killed in Dripping Springs Shoot-Out.”
“Veteran Special Agent Joseph T. Grant was killed yesterday in the line of duty. The shooting took place at approximately 3:15 p.m. outside of Dripping Springs on the grounds of the former Flying V Ranch. FBI spokesperson Donald G. Bennett stated that Grant was interviewing an informant deemed cooperative and unthreatening when the informant drew a weapon and shot Grant in the chest. The informant, whose name is being withheld due to the sensitive nature of the ongoing investigation, also died at the scene. Grant recently transferred to Austin from Sacramento, where he had been the assistant special agent in charge.”
A color picture ran above the fold. It showed Joe’s car with the windshield shattered, shot through. On the ground, visible between the milling law enforcement officers, lay a body draped by a sheet. The informant, identity unknown.
Mary stared at the photo, trying to imagine what had happened, how Joe had allowed an informant to get the drop on him. She looked closer. The informant lay several steps away from Joe’s car. From the pool of blood on the ground near his head, it appeared that he had been shot there, not in the car. Questions formed in her mind. Discrepancies with Bennett’s nervous and contradictory explanation.
She could hear Joe’s voice, snippets of the message. “Everything’s copacetic. Tell Sid. He’s one of the good guys.”
So there were
bad guys
?
The door to her bedroom opened. A curvy, attractive woman dressed in yoga tights and a lululemon
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