Hauck got to a knee and forced himself up to his feet. Every time he put pressure on his arm to balance, he winced, pain shooting through him.
“But that’s all she had. Sad, huh? We’re closing her up. You see those trucks?” He motioned to two large round-bellied trucks. “Filled with cement. Enough to go down about a thousand feet below the water table and plug this mother up so that even a worm wouldn’t have enough to breathe. Starting to get the picture now …? That’s what Mr. McKay meant by no one will find you for a hundred years. Maybe a thousand. Tomorrow, you’ll be like a fossil. What do you think of that, Mr. Hauck?” He pushed Hauck over to the wellhead, its pump sucking up the last barrels of whatever the old well had to give, its hydraulic coils dropping loosely below the bobbing horse head, up and down.
Ka-chung. Ka-chung.
“A hundred years from now there’ll be some earthquake, or some reason to go down into this old chute, and it’ll be like, who the fuck is this? You might even be famous. Kinda gets you thinking, right …?”
Hauck stood there, covered in blood and dirt, his right arm slumped. The opening in the wellhead was about three feet in diameter. Just enough for a body if the pumping tubes were removed. The area was protected by a circular railing. A beeper began to sound and suddenly the cap began to widen—McKay clearly at the controls—until it grew to around four feet wide, enough for a body to be stuffed down.
The signal stopped.
“Well, I’d like to say it all just ends here with you and we could all just go home and be done with it …” Robertson knelt and opened the well cap. “But, of course, that’s not the way it goes.”
Hauck said, “What do you mean?”
“I mean the girl, of course. Your niece. Or whatever she is. Cute one, though.”
“Just let her alone,” Hauck said. “Let it end with me.”
“Well, wish I could. But it’s all gone on a bit far for that now. Anyway, already in the works, I’m afraid, bro.” He kind of winked, clearly enjoying the moment. “I thought that might be a thought you wanted to carry with you to where you’re heading next.” Robertson grinned, pushing up the brim of his army cap with the tip of his gun. “You didn’t think we could just let her go now, after what happened, did you, ol’ buddy?”
A well of anger and futility rose up deep inside Hauck. He balled his fists and dug his wrists against the binds, helpless. “Sonovabitch. Don’t.”
“Too late now. That man’s in a real tight squeeze, I would say. That ol’ sheriff there. Seems like what I told him applies to you as well. You all should’ve thought about all this a bit more carefully before you jumped in headfirst. Know what I mean …”
The horse head pump went down, belching steam. The hydraulic cables drooped as well, hanging loosely. Watching it, Hauck made the mental count to three before the pump went up again. One of the floodlights attached to the trestle canted over Hauck’s shoulder, making a bright white cone on the ground.
“Anyway, I’ve run out of things to say, bro. You got anything …?”
Hauck had been to the edge several times, but had always managed to find a way. He looked back at Robertson.
“I didn’t think so, bro.”
“One thing …”
“What’s that?”
The horse head bobbed up and down. Ka-chung. Ka-chung.
One, two, three seconds …
Hauck took a step sideways in front of the light.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Chief Riddick sat in his office at well past nine that night. He waited glumly for the call. He hadn’t spent the full evening here in years, but this wasn’t like other times. Other times, they’d deal with fires, floods, twisters. Even the time Tom Early’s son went off the handle and killed four people, making the national news.
This time was different, though.
Before, they all banded together against what was happening and everyone knew what to do. Those days everyone here seemed to share the same principles. This time it was like the slow creep of water over an alluvial plain. The bitter taste in your gut of being bought off. The slow erosion of your principles.
Like the river’s bed: One day there’s water there; the next there’s not.
He couldn’t remember when it first began. Maybe when that fancy new town hall was built. Or when the squadron of shiny new Broncos his men we’re riding around in was first proposed, financed fully by RMM.
Maybe it was the day they all realized that due to the drought and the land, their town was drying up.
He’d known Chuck Watkins thirty years. Shit, he’d once dated his sister back in the day. He was a good man. But good men couldn’t make it rain in July. Good men couldn’t turn a parched patch of brush and dirt into millions.
Riddick knew there was bloodshed out there tonight. He knew bad things had likely happened. He knew that the minute Watkins called. It made his stomach feel as empty as if he hadn’t eaten for days, to hang up on him. No cars to spare right now. We’ll get out to you as soon as we can.
“Jesus, Joe, do you know what’s happening out here …?”
Riddick knew he was leaving him out there to die. Twenty of ten; he looked at his watch. It’d been dark for forty minutes now.
Probably all happened by now.
Any minute he ought to get the call. Then he’d drive out to the ranch. Then he’d go out and bury it all.
His wife, Ann, would be ashamed of him.
There was nothing more he could do.
Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a commotion coming from out in the station. One of his young officers burst in, trying to restrain a group of people behind him that had the feel of a mob. Milt Yarrow was there. And Don Ellis.
And to his total consternation, Chuck Watkins came in.
“What the hell’s going on …?” Riddick barely had time to stand.
“Where is he?” Watkins said.