The Dryline. Jack Grubbs
was unsure of why Tom wanted to see Juan’s body. Still, she returned to the corpse and pulled the sheet down to the pubic hair.
Don and Elam stepped back in silent unison. Tom studied Juan carefully. After a short look at Juan’s trunk and arms, Tom moved alongside Juan’s head; he studied the obvious fatal injury. The puncture wound had been worked on by the staff but was clearly visible. He noticed the quarter-sized hole at the temple and what appeared to be a rough, three-inch-long bruise extending diagonally down from the puncture. The skin was lacerated over half the length of the bruise. He took out his notepad and started to write. Ten minutes later they thanked Mary Otter for her help and left.
Tom didn’t speak until they reached Elam’s car. “Let’s head back out to the tower.”
“Hell, Tom,” said Elam, “I’m up to my neck with Juan’s death. Why go back out there?”
“Because I need to find an anchor bolt or something else that would puncture Juan’s skull like that.” He added, “Then we’ve got to get back to the airfield with two hours of sunlight still left.”
They headed toward County Road 128.
Six
Tuesday Afternoon,
December 29
Houston, Texas
Concurrent with Tom and Don’s approach to Conroe in the Grumman Tiger, a conversation played out in the presidential suite of Wellington Oil and Exploration.
“And you killed him? You fucking killed him?”
“Mr. Miles, you tell me to get rid of him.” Carlos, void of bravado, sweated profusely. “I try to do what you want, so I did. I didn’t want to kill him, just scare him to quit work. The hammer twisted in my hand.”
“But you did, you stupid prick!” Bart Miles stood up and walked around the mahogany desk to where Carlos stood. Bart, his face no more than six inches away from Carlos, spoke viciously to the trembling man. In a fair fight, Carlos could destroy Bart Miles. Bart continued, “Ever heard of a broken leg?” He rammed his finger into Carlos’s chest several times. “All we needed was a simple broken leg. Just threaten the guy. Tell him what you’d do to his family if he didn’t quit. Is that so hard?”
Carlos whispered, “I’m sorry, Mr. Miles, I… I didn’t mean to. I thought—”
Bart cut him off. “Shut up. Just shut up.”
Bart, short of stature, looked up at the tall Mexican man. He shook his head back and forth while inhaling and exhaling. Small sponges of spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. He started after Carlos again. “What about the other two? How are you going to keep their mouths shut?”
“They always do what I tell them to do. They won’t say nothing to nobody.”
Bart stepped back and walked to his window overlooking downtown Houston. He scratched at a small scab on the back of his plump neck, playing out problems and plans in his head. Frank Milsap, the chief financial officer, sat placidly in a large burgundy couch, a cup of coffee on the table to his front.
Bart turned back to Carlos and spoke. “You damn well better get hired by those people or your ass is in bigger trouble than you can handle.” He walked back to his desk.
Carlos stood motionless in front of the desk. “I will, Mr. Miles. And my men…”
Bart ignored Carlos, saying, “Get back out there and get hired. Then let me know. Now, get the hell out of here.” He dismissively motioned toward the door.
Carlos nodded without speaking, then turned around and walked toward the door.
Two steps before Carlos got to the door, Bart called to him. “Carlos.”
Carlos turned back and looked at Bart.
Bart spoke quietly, but with deafening tone. “If you or your two stupid helpers screw up, your life won’t be worth a plug nickel.”
They stared at each other. Then Carlos walked out.
“Bart, this is bad shit. We didn’t need to hire him in the first place.” Frank lifted his feet to the coffee table, a mannerism that had always bothered Bart. He continued. “At some point soon, we are going to have to deal with them. Not very pretty,” Frank said and hesitated for a second. “And not very smart.”
“I don’t need a fucking lecture from you. We needed someone on the inside, and Carlos costs us chicken feed. We’ll take care of them when the time comes.” He sat down across the coffee table from Frank. “Once we have patent rights to the Donelam oil system, we’ll get rid of them.”
Frank shifted his feet, hands sliding behind his head. He stared quizzically at the ceiling. “When do we meet with the guy who built it?” Frank could control his emotions far better than Bart. Frank and Bart shared one major similarity: both were amoral.
“Tomorrow afternoon. Actually, we’ll be dealing with two of them. The one who appears to be the lead partner will be meeting with us. He talks as though he’s the one who makes the decisions. The other guy is an engineer who did most of the design.”
Frank squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled loudly. “Where in the hell do you run into these people?” He shook his head.
Bart did not respond.
Frank switched legs, keeping them on Bart’s table. Irritating as hell. He proceeded in a new direction. “You never did tell me how you got involved with this company and this extraction system. What’s the source?”
“An old friend told me. She said these two had something that might make Wellington a fortune,” Bart paused, looking directly into Frank’s eyes, “or, if we don’t own it, wipe us out.”
Bart did not mention any names. But the population of candidates for giving the information had been cut down significantly. The source was a woman.
Later that night, Tom, Don, and Susie ate tacos and drank beer in front of the roaring fire while the television droned on in the background.
“It’s just that he died in a strange way,” said Tom. “I couldn’t find an anchor bolt or other protrusion that explains his wound.” Tom, half-buried in plush cushions, stared into the fire. He spoke to no one in particular, saying, “He didn’t have any other broken bones and there was very little blood. Strange.”
Susie tried, very unsuccessfully, to divide her attention between the TV and the conversation of the two men. As time went on, her attention focused solely on Tom. From deep inside, Susie Seiler recoiled at the Second Coming of the Beast.
“You know me. Got to sort everything out. Again, it’s a strange way to die.” Tom changed the subject. “So, you want to go over your plans in detail? Or how about tomorrow afternoon? I have a meeting in Houston tomorrow morning.”
Tom looked over at this brother sitting in an overstuffed, down-filled club chair. Don’s eyes were shut. Tom waved at Susie. Time for bed.
Seven
Wednesday, December 30
Broken Wing Ranch
Tom buzzed the house and then turned south toward Houston and Hobby Airport. Don moaned, sighed while stretching both arms and legs as best he could, and cursed his need for the bathroom. He lifted the covers and maneuvered his body to the side