I pointed the revolver at him. “Drop the gun, amigo!”

He coughed again, blinked the dust out of his eyes. “Puerco!”

“I said drop it.”

He fired way over my head. I pulled the trigger four times, red blotches sprouting across his chest. He twitched a little before collapsing to his knees, hovered there a moment, then toppled over.

I stood there breathing hard a moment, everything so quiet except the splashing from the bathroom where a pipe had torn loose. The place smelled like cordite and plaster dust and blood and the big-rig’s overheated engine. Another smell too, permeating the mix. Somebody’s bowels had let go.

I felt nauseated, backed out of the motel room, careful not to trip over rubble. Outside I gulped clean air. The lights were on in the motel office, so I headed that way. I didn’t hurry.

Inside at the front desk, Myrtle McCarthy was coming out of the back room, wearing a blue terrycloth robe, rubbing her eyes and putting her glasses on. She got a load of me and flinched. I could smell gin ten steps away.

“You okay, Toby?”

“I’ll live, Miss McCarthy. Just wanted to let you know there’s been a little trouble. You might want to call your insurance people in the morning.”

She looked past me at the big-rig still parked halfway into the motel room. “Hell and blood, how’d that happen?”

“It’s a long story, ma’am. I’m afraid those Mexicans are dead.”

“The one in the other room too?”

One of my eyebrows went up and made a question mark out of itself. “Other room?”

“They took two rooms right next to each other when they checked in.”

“Can you let me have the pass key, ma’am?”

She reached under the counter, came out with a key on a big green keychain, a picture of the Mona Lisa on it. She hesitated a second before handing it over.

I took the key. “I’ll be right back.”

I walked back down the line of rooms, a little faster this time. There were no lights on in the room next to the one I’d wrecked. I put the key in, turned the knob and went in fast at a crouch.

The room shook with two quick pops of gunfire, white flashes form the center of the darkness. The bullets chewed plaster off the wall an inch from my face. I went low, fired twice without aiming. When I squeezed the trigger a third time, I heard click.

“Fuck!”

I tossed the revolver away and threw myself in the direction of the flashes. Another shot went off, and I felt the heat of the blast on my face. I barreled into a body and we both went over. The guy was smaller than I expected. I ended up on top, punched down as hard as I could, felt and heard the smack of flesh. I punched again. I felt for his hands, found the pistol and grabbed it.

I stood, panting, backed up against the wall and flipped on the light switch. The gun in my hand was a silver .25 automatic. A little, inaccurate piece of crap. You’d need to shove the thing straight up your target’s nose to hit anything. I looked at my opponent and saw I’d just punched the shit out of a woman. My mother would have been disappointed. I wouldn’t lose any sleep. The bitch had tried to shoot me, after all.

She was a light skinned Mexican, maybe twenty-nine or thirty years old, big wads of brown hair piled on her head, messed up a little from sleeping. I figured she’d been in bed since she wore only black panties. Her breasts stood up for themselves, big but not drooping, thin waist, long legs. She worked herself into a crouch, then stood slowly, keeping her eyes on me the whole time, like a cat trying to decide between fight or flight.

I kept her own automatic pointed at her chest, retrieved my revolver and shoved it back in the holster.

We looked at each other a few seconds. I didn’t exactly know what to do with her.

“Are you going to arrest me now, cowboy?” One side of her mouth curled into a sly smile. She had only a light accent.

“You are so fucking under arrest.”

She trailed a finger under one of her breasts. “Like this? You’re going to take me in naked?”

“Get something on. You reach for anything other than clothes, and I’ll unload this toy pistol on you.”

She did it slowly, like she wasn’t bothered at all. She slipped a cottony dress with a tight floral pattern over her head, stepped into a pair of stringy sandals.

She held out her hands. “You want to cuff me.”

I didn’t have any cuffs, but I mumbled out the Miranda rights. I’d memorized them, had even practiced them in front of a mirror.

I’d killed at least four men that I knew of, but she was the first person in my career as a deputy that I’d ever arrested.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The big-rig made a hell of a racket backing out over the rubble, scraping bottom, getting caught up on whatever I didn’t care to think about. The rig stalled, and I cranked it again, fought to get the thing into gear.

“Are you sure you know how to drive one of these?” She sat in the passenger seat, legs crossed, her hands bound by a power cord I’d ripped from a lamp.

I ignored her, bullied the truck into first gear and headed back to town. There was a pretty bad rattle somewhere under the hood and a grinding sound coming from the brakes. Roy would be pissed. Tough shit.

“What is my charge?” she asked.

“What?”

“You have to charge me with something if you arrest me.”

I thought about that a second. “Well, you shot at me for starters.”

“You broke into my room. Self defense.”

“Aiding and abetting the smuggling of illegal aliens. That specific enough for you?” I popped a Winston into my mouth and lit it.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Sure you don’t. You talk better English than the others.”

“I went to University of Texas El Paso for an accounting degree.”

“Hey, I bet you’re in charge of the smuggling. The ring leader. Big boss.”

“They don’t let women be in charge of anything where I come from. Can I have one of those?”

I leaned over and stuck a cigarette in her mouth, lit it for her.

“I want a lawyer,” she said.

That made me crack up laughing. Hard.

“This cord is too tight around my wrists.”

“Get used to it.”

She frowned. “Stupid redneck cowboy. You are in far over your head.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Soon you will see.” She smirked, puffed the Winston.

“You know what I think? I think you shook that sweet little ass of yours in front of Luke Jordan and got him killed. Who did it? Your boyfriend maybe. Who’s your boyfriend, Miss Thing? That honcho in the fancy black shirt, I’m guessing.”

“He’s my brother.”

“He’s dead.”

And that shut her up pretty good and quick.

I parked the rig in front of the stationhouse, hauled in the Mexican gal by the elbow. I was hoping Karl would be there, but the place was empty. I untied her and shoved her into one of the holding cells.

“Wait.” She came to the front of the cell, grabbed the bars and pinned me with a hard stare. “Did you mean it? He’s dead?”

“Yes.” I didn’t feel like rubbing it in, but I didn’t apologize either.

Her hand shot out, and she raked me across the face with her nails.

I jumped back, the flesh on my left cheek stinging.

“I will kill you,” she shrieked. “If it’s the last thing I do, I will see you writhing on the ground in agony. I will put a knife in your belly!” Her face was a mask of wild, animal rage.

“Lady, shut up.”

I slumped at the desk, found a box of tissue and began dabbing at my fresh scratches. She kept cursing at me in Mexican. She seemed pretty earnest about whatever she was saying.

I reloaded my revolver again and stuck the woman’s little automatic in my belt.

I picked up the phone to call Molly, but it was dead. I checked the line, made sure it was plugged into the wall. I went into the back room and tried the phone hanging on the wall next to the lockers. It was dead too.