I checked it out with binoculars before approaching. The house, if you could call it that, sat in desert scrub on the western outskirts of Cargoland and was built from two shipping cargo containers welded together. A dirt track crossed a dry gully and climbed through sand to it. Two clouded Plexiglas windows faced this way. The only door in was locked with a hardened link chain looped through the steel door and wall and held tight with a heavy padlock. Behind the makeshift house was a dusty area with a propane tank and a wood-framed storage building on concrete pads.
“Door hinges are welded on,” Coffina said, like a realtor noting a selling point, which out here translated to “no one is going to kick that door in and steal your shit while you’re gone.”
Solar panels were on the roof. So was an air-conditioning unit. There was Internet and cell coverage. Of course there was. After all, this was the States.
“Did he tell you what he’s doing here?”
“Said he was hiding from his ex-wife’s lawyers.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Naw, but until you showed, I didn’t care why he was here or who was after him. He’s paid up. I’ve got a big deposit and he keeps to himself. Lights are on at night. He’s up then and sleeps in the day. He looks like he’s from around here, but he’s not.” Coffina touched his left ear. “I got hit and this ear doesn’t work well, so I’m not good on accents anymore and can’t tell you anything about where he’s from. But like I said, his license plates were California.”
“You used to be more careful.”
“I’m getting older, Grale.”
“How big a deposit did he give you?”
“Five grand.”
“Hope it’s enough.”
“It’s three times the rent.” Then he got what I meant and said, “If you want in, I’ll cut off the lock he put on. I’ve got the tools to get through anything, so don’t do any damage.”
“What about friends, other people here he associates with?”
“Keeps to himself.”
“You talk to him?”
“Some.”
“So what has he said?”
“Not much. The ex-wife is trying to take all his money. He’s thinking about moving to Mexico. He’s got a kid he misses.”
“A kid?”
“Yeah, like four years old or something.”
“How old does he look?”
“Late thirties, maybe older.”
That fit.
The SWAT helicopter landed in a clearing to the side of the village as armored SWAT vehicles rolled down the washboarded road and emptied out. They were disciplined and fast surrounding Hurin’s place, guns ready, the road sealed. A bullhorn was used to call him out before charges were set, and with a short hard pop, the lock holding the door closed was blown off. The chain slithered to the ground. White smoke drifted away. The door swung open just like in the movies. We watched video feed from the first of the SWAT squad inside, a guy named Olsen. The SWAT commander wouldn’t let me go in with him.
“I’m looking at an open room,” Olsen said, “with nothing on the metal floor except a throw rug, maybe twelve feet long by eight wide. On the east side there’s a workbench running almost the whole length. That looks like his shop. Here, I’ll give you a view of that. There are tools and a couple of shelves, along with an open laptop.”
I nodded and said, “That’s what we’re looking for.”
Olsen again. “To my left is an L-shaped kitchen with wood countertops, drawers, a sink, a small refrigerator, a microwave, and dishes drying in a rack. To my right are a metal-framed cot and two steel shelves welded to the side wall for clothes.”
“Any personal effects?” I asked.
“Looks cleaned out, like he’s gone.”
“Don’t step on the rug or move anything.” I turned to the SWAT commander. “I need to go in.”
“When I tell you that you can, you will,” the SWAT commander said. “Just hang on a little longer.”
Olsen tested for explosive residue on the workbench. He wiped and then radioed.
“I’ve got residue.”
The SWAT commander turned to me and nodded. I put on a suit, joined Olsen, and two other SWAT agents scoured the exterior and shined flashlights underneath. The steel building had been jacked up on one end to level it and there was some room underneath.
In front of the workbench along the wall, I squatted down and swept a flashlight beam along the underside of the bench and over the wiring and cords. A power cord was plugged into the laptop but nothing else. I straightened and, without moving, worked along the ceiling with the light, then moved into the kitchen and took inventory. The cooking area was small: a stove with a propane hookup, a small stainless sink, four or five feet of countertop and open shelving with a handful of glasses and plates. We weren’t going to open the refrigerator yet.
My flashlight beam caught spiderwebs in a wall-hung furnace, and I felt disappointment that we’d missed him, and not by much. The bed was a folding cot stripped to the mattress. No covers or pillow, no clothes, no toothbrush, shoes, anything. We missed him and needed to find him and fast.