Feast Day of Fools (Hackberry Holland 3)

“Well, I appreciate your telling me this. But I can’t control what this man does or doesn’t do.”

“It’s not all about you, Ms. Ling. Believe it or not, we’d like to get this guy in custody,” Pam said. “Collins wears suits and fedoras he buys from the Goodwill. His face looks like it was stung by bumblebees. See anybody like that around?”

“No, I haven’t. Otherwise I would have told you.”

“Sure? So far you haven’t been very forthcoming,” Pam said.

“Madam, what did I just say?”

“You can call me Chief Deputy Tibbs, thank you.”

“I’d like to invite you in,” Anton Ling said to Hackberry. “But I have to go to San Antonio. Some of our people are in jail.”

“Your people?” Pam said.

“Yes, that’s what I call them. They’re destitute, cheated out of their money by coyotes, hunted by nativist snipers, and generally treated as though they’re subhuman. The particular woman I’m going to try to bail out watched her two-year-old daughter die of a rattlesnake bite in the desert.”

“I think Pam was just asking a question, Miss Anton,” Hackberry said.

“No, she was making a statement. She’s done it several times now.”

“Why is it we have to keep coming out here to protect you from yourself? To be honest, it’s getting to be a drag,” Pam said.

“Then your problem can be easily solved. Just leave and don’t bother to come back.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Pam said.

Hackberry was not listening. The thunderheads had blotted out the sun, dropping the countryside into shadow. He had turned his head toward the southeast, where the wind was whipping dust off the hilltops and riffling the mesquite that grew down the slopes. His eyes fixed on a spot where rain had started to tumble out of the sky and a muted sound like crackling foil seemed to leak from the clouds. Hackberry opened and closed his mouth to clear his ears and listen to the sound that had started and now had stopped.

“What is it?” Pam said.

“Somebody was firing a machine gun,” he replied.

“I didn’t hear it,” she said.

Because you were too busy talking, he thought. But he didn’t say it. “You drive. Good-bye, Miss Anton. Thank you for your time.”

“I’ll follow you,” she said.

“That’s not a good idea,” he said.

“My property line goes right through the hills. I have a right to know who’s on my land.”

“In this case, you don’t. Stay here, please. Don’t make me ask you again,” he said.

He got in the passenger side of the cruiser and closed the door, not looking back, then glanced in the outside mirror. Anton Ling was already getting into a skinned-up pale blue truck seamed with rust, the front bumper secured by baling wire. “This stuff has to stop, Pam,” he said.

“Tell her,” Pam said.

“You two are more alike than you think.”

“Which two?”

“You and Miss Anton. Who else?”

“Yeah?” she said, giving him a look. “We’ll talk more about that later.”

“No, we won’t. You’ll drive and not speak for me to others when we’re conducting an investigation.”