The Grey Man- Changes Read online

  The old man went back to his office and started working through the official emails. Bucky wanted to put him on a quarterly schedule of instructing at Laredo, and the old man forwarded that one to the sheriff for his approval. Most of the rest were minor or could be delegated, but he sent reminders to both the jail captain and the sheriff on the upcoming inspections/recertification and the need to make sure all the documentation was correct and up to date.

  Eight hours of paperwork later, the old man stretched and groaned. Rolling his shoulders to try to get the kinks out, he got up and headed down to the sheriff’s office. Knocking, he said, “Jose, I’m going bat nuts sitting in the office. I’m going to punch some cows. I need to move them from the pasture they’re in, and get them on some fresh grass.

  The sheriff leaned back. “Do it. There isn’t a lot going on and you’re not more than a radio call away.”

  “Thanks! If you need me just give me a yell on the radio.”

  “Okay, go do it. Who’s up your way today?”

  The old man replied, “Hart is working I-10, so he’s the closest other than city.”

  ***

  Later that evening, in Cozumel-

  Carlos Montoya, slim, silver haired and immaculately dressed; the number two in the Zeta cartel, called Roberto into his office. “Roberto, what have you been able to find out on the murder of Zapata?”

  Roberto, the hulking and scarred enforcer, hung his head. “Jefe, we’ve never been able to locate the two or three white men the Federales saw coming down to the highway, nor have we been able to find the Indians that were with them. It’s like they were swallowed up. There was no hunter’s camp in the forest, and by the time we could sneak somebody across the border, it had rained. It looked like the horse tracks ended at the road, anyway. I can only believe they were somehow connected to the DEA or some other Norte law enforcement. But our spies in the border patrol are not hearing anything.”

  Montoya leaned back, twirling a letter opener. “Roberto, what am I to think? What about that Texas sheriff’s place you killed the women at? Could he be responsible?”

  Roberto replied, “Jefe, maybe. But he would have bragged. Somebody would have heard something. Everyone says he was not even in Texas when the shooting happened. He was apparently teaching in Miami, according to the cleaners working at the CBP offices at the Laredo border patrol station. I have already put out that we would like him dead anyway because he causes us problems on the interstate.”

  “Keep after it, Roberto. We cannot let Zapata’s death go unavenged. You know that as well as I.”

  “Si Jefe, I will continue to search. May I go talk to the other cartels? I want to see if at my level anyone has heard anything.”

  Montoya nodded. “Do so, Roberto. Answers, I want answers. Or a head.” Montoya motioned Roberto to leave as he turned back to his computer. Roberto bowed and left quietly.

  ***

  The old man collected Yogi and headed back out to the car, fully intending to head for the ranch and call it a day. He wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings, lost in thought as he replayed the reports he’d worked on in his mind. Crossing under I-10, he slowed for a second as he thought about stopping for a burger, but realized he’d just eaten an hour before. A motorcycle swerved around him and he casually glanced up at it, thinking about dumb kids following too close. Then he realized the rider on the back was pointing a stubby gun with a long magazine at him and firing fully automatic spraying the front fender and moving toward the windshield. He punched the throttle, swerved into the oncoming traffic lane and grabbed the radio, “Dispatch, shots fired, two on a green dirt bike, northbound on eighteen, in pursuit.”

  Throwing the mic down, he pulled his 1911 and switched it to his left hand as he countered the motorcycle’s movements. More rounds impacted the windshield, and he momentarily shielded his eyes, yelled for Yogi to get down and swerved again. Seeing no one in front of the motorcycle, he took two shots at the motorcycle and thought he missed with both, but caused the shooter on the back to duck.

  Closing quickly, he jinked right and left, preventing the shooter from getting a good shot, even as the biker continued to shoot at the car. Steam began billowing from the front of the car, and the old man floored the gas again. He got to the back of the bike and yanked the wheel to the right, just barely hitting the back wheel as the driver attempted to accelerate away again. The driver lost control and the bike and both riders cartwheeled through the ditch and into the mesquite on the side of the road.

  The old man slid the car to a stop and jumped out, not realizing Yogi was on his heels. Not sure how many rounds he’d fired, he quickly changed magazines, then jumped the ditch and started into the brush. Hearing sirens he realized his radio was going off, and he reached up and keyed the mic, “Car four, two miles north of ten. Bike is in the brush. I’m out of the car.”

  Yogi charged past the old man, growling and running low to the ground. The old man called Yogi, then charged after him, seeing a glint in the brush. Yogi was crouched growling at a body lying underneath the wrecked dirt bike, and not moving. The old man quickly frisked him for a gun and removed a nickel plated .38 Super from his jacket. Telling Yogi to stay, watch, he started backtracking toward the road. He found the second rider crumpled in a ball. He didn’t find the gun, but did find a spare magazine for an Ingram M11 in his jacket. Feeling for a pulse, he didn’t find one and ran back to the first rider.

  He looked over toward the road and saw three cars sliding to a stop, Trooper sergeant Thompson, the sheriff and a city car. He waved, and keyed his mic, “Dispatch, need the morgue wagon and one ambulance out here.”

  The sheriff ran up. “John, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, they missed me Jose and I guess I missed them, until I got the back wheel of the bike with the car. One dead over there.” He pointed to the crumpled body a few yards away. “He was the shooter.” He took the Ingram magazine out of his back pocket and handed it to the sheriff by the edge, “This was in his pocket.” Taking the nickel-plated semi-auto out of his other pocket and handing it over carefully, he added, “This one was in this guy’s jacket.”

  ***

  As it approached midnight, the old man, Sheriff Rodriquez, Ranger Clay Boone, and Trooper Thompson sat in the conference room amid the detritus of coffee cups, Styrofoam dinner containers, scattered papers and evidence bags. Clay corralled a stack of papers and stapled them together saying, “John, I can’t help but think- well, , shit, I know this was an attempted hit on you.” Waving his hand at the two guns, magazines and pocket lint from the two deceased perps, he continued, “Fake ID’s, serial numbers filed off, Ingram converted to full auto, stolen dirt bike, Mexican clothes and shoes; that all points to a hit team. Thankfully, they missed, but your car is shot, in more ways than one. How the hell did you let them get that close?”

  The old man sighed. “Clay, I blew it. I wasn’t paying attention, plain and simple. Thank God, I slowed for those few seconds. If I hadn’t, I don’t think I’d be talking to you right now.”

  Nods around the table showed the old man wasn’t the only one thinking that. The sheriff said, “Clay, you need anything else? If not, I want to release John and get him out of here.”

  Clay shook his head. “Nah, I got what I need. I’ll push this to Austin as soon as I clean up the paperwork and get the autopsy report from Doc Truesdale. I’m going to send pics of these two to Bucky and see if he can find anything out.”

  Jose turned to the old man. “John, go home. Hart will give you a ride, and he and Garcia will provide a watch team for you tonight.”

  The old man got up slowly, “Thanks.” His glance swept the table. “And thanks to you guys for getting there was quickly as you did.” With that, he left the conference room, collected Yogi from dispatch, and left with Hart.

  Trooper Thompson looked at the closed door. “Damn, that sumbitch has some brass ones! I don’t know that I’d have had the balls to take the fight to them like he did
. A 1911 against a full auto Ingram? Shooting with the wrong hand out of a swerving car and still managed to hit the bike with one shot that we found? Hell, I know I couldn’t do that.”

  Both Clay and the sheriff nodded, and the sheriff said, “Yeah, they don’t make them like John anymore. But I’ve got to figure out what to do now. They hit the ranch, and now they’ve tried for him directly. I think—hell, I know— this was a cartel hit. Even if we can’t prove it now or maybe ever, I gotta figure out what to do with John.” Turning to Clay, he said, “If you don’t need anything else, I’m going to call it a night too.”

  Clay waved, “Y’all can both go. I’ve got all the statements. I just need to put the evidence in your locker for now. I’m going to go home, get a couple of hours sleep and finish up the paperwork in the morning.”

  After a round of handshakes, they parted ways in the parking lot, after Clay promised to provide copies of his report to everyone concerned.

  ***

  Deputy Hart dropped the old man at the front door saying, “Captain, do you park your car facing the road or away from it?”

  The old man said, “I normally park it facing out, if nobody else is here. Usually about where it is right now.”

  Hart said, “Okay, I’ll set up right here. Garcia comes on at two, and I’ll have him set up the same way. Get some sleep, captain. You look like you could use it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll catch a ride in with Garcia in the morning. Tell him I’ll give him breakfast, too.”

  The old man let Yogi do his business and waved to Hart as he stepped into the house. Taking off his gunbelt, he slipped the 1911 from the holster and carried it with him into the bedroom. Slumping on the bed, he felt like he would pass out, and quickly laid the 1911 on the nightstand as Yogi, nudged against his knee and whined. Dammit, adrenalin dumps suck! I’m too old for this shit! Thank you, Lord, for keeping me alive today, I sure didn’t deserve it. I don’t think I’ll tell Jesse about this, she’s got enough on her plate. Ruffing Yogi’s fur, he said, “Bed Yogi.” Yogi padded around to his dog bed as the old man stripped off his boots and clothes then lay down on top of the covers.

  Sleep didn’t come easily, and he snapped awake at every sound. He remembered seeing 3:00AM before he finally dropped off to sleep.

  More Doctors

  Aaron dropped Jesse off at the hospital at eight promising to be back by ten to pick her up. As Jesse tried to manage crutches, her purse and copies of her medical records, she resolved to go buy a damn backpack and just dump all the crap in there. Stumping into the hospital, she found the sign for physical therapy and duly followed it to a small waiting room. She could hear people behind the counter, but no one came to help, so she eased down into a chair and waited. Minutes later, a petite woman in Marine MARPAT[1] stepped up to the window. “Can I help you, ma’am?” she asked.

  Jesse levered herself out of the chair and stumped over to the window, handing the young woman her files and ID, she noticed the insignia on the woman’s lapels were different than the Marines. The woman quickly and professionally flipped through the file, then turned and said “Please, have a seat. I’ll go find the doctor and let him know you’re here.”

  Finally, a wizened little man in khakis came through the office door pushing a wheel chair. Stopping in front of Jesse, he asked kindly, “Get in the chair please, miss.” Jesse pulled herself up and got in the wheelchair as the little man fussed with the extension to prop up her leg. “Comfortable, miss?” he asked.

  Grumpily, Jesse drawled, “Actually, no. My leg itches to beat hell, I hate this damn cast, I need a third hand to do anything when I have these damn crutches, and I’m gaining weight! Other than that, things are just peachy.”

  Pushing Jesse back to an office, the little man laughed delightedly, making Jesse wonder if he was a little crazy. Once she was positioned in front of the desk, rather than leaving, he walked around to the other side and sat down behind it. Belatedly, she realized there were collar devices that didn’t match. One looked like, what did Aaron call them-? A chicken? No, an eagle! The other one looked like some kind of leaf, and he had some kind of insignia over his pocket that looked like wings. He also had some of what Matt and Aaron called fruit salad there too, but only one row.

  Flipping on a pair of reading glasses, he glanced over them at Jesse. “I’m Doc Fischer. And you’re Mrs. Miller, right?”

  Jesse replied, “Yes, sir. And I’m sorry about-”

  Fisher laughed again. “Oh, hell, don’t be sorry. Truth is truth. And it tells me you’re a fighter. Now gimme a minute to look at your file and figure out what to do with you.” With that, he buried himself in the file, occasionally making notes, and raising his eyebrows. Reaching over he hit the speaker and dialed a code, then said, “Send Hawthorne down here, please.”

  Finishing the file, he looked back up at Jesse. “Headaches?”

  “Some, but not as often now.”

  “Dizziness, balance problems?”

  Jesse shrugged. “Sometimes, but I don’t know if it’s me or this damn cast.”

  “Eighty-one divided by nine?”

  “Uh- Nine.”

  “Memory problems? Blackouts?”

  Jesse squirmed at that one. “I think so, but I’m not sure sir. I can’t remember the actual shooting, but I get flashes of stuff that I think might be dreams or they might be real.”

  Fischer leaned back. “Okay, shot twice, one head, one shoulder, broken femur, and busted ribs. How were the ribs busted?”

  Jesse answered, “Those were the other three shots apparently. One five-five-six round and two from my three-fifty-seven into the ceramic plate I had on.”

  Fischer frowned. “Um, Mrs. Miller you want to start at the beginning? I’m kinda confused at this point.”

  Jesse proceeded to give a quick recap of the fight as she’d been told it occurred as the doc scribbled notes. She was interrupted by the young corpsman coming in and asking, “You needed to see me, captain?”

  “Yep, Hawthorne, take Mrs. Miller here down to x-ray. Tell them I want leg, chest, shoulder and head. Full set.” Turning to Jesse he asked, “Not pregnant are you?”

  Taken aback, Jesse replied, “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Making a shooing motion, Fischer said, “Go away now. Come back with answers.”

  The young corpsman pulled Jesse’s chair back out into the hall and said, “Hi, I’m Petty Officer Hawthorne, I’m going to take you down to x-ray and get a set to allow the doc to see what he needs to see.”

  Jesse said, “Jesse Cro- Miller. Dammit. Newly married, and confused as hell.”

  “I’m Amber, and confused about what?” the corpsman said as she pushed Jesse down the hall.

  Pointing back at the doc’s office, Jesse said, “Him! I mean I’ve been around doctors more than I want to but-”

  Amber laughed. “Yeah, Doc Fischer takes a bit of getting used to. He’s actually the chief of surgery at Balboa, and does all the heavy orthopedic surgery stuff. But he’s also a flight surgeon and he comes up here three days a week to work the rehab clinic and do flight surgeon duty for the helo pilots.”

  Jesse asked, “Has he ever heard the term bedside manner?”

  Amber chuckled again. “Oh, hell no. He doesn’t have one. You think you got treated badly, wait ‘til you see him with the Marines. But they eat that shit up!”

  Jesse shook her head. “Oh joy.”

  Amber pushed Jesse into the x-ray room and asked, “Do you need any help? I’ll go get you a gown.”

  Jesse said, “A gown would be nice. I can get in and out of these track pants okay. Thank God for snaps!”

  Thirty minutes later, the corpsman came back. “Well, how did it go?”

  Jesse said, “What do y’all do? Put the damn machine in the freezer when it’s not in use? That damn plate was cold! And my butt about froze on that damn table.”

  Amber smiled. “Well, cold kills bacteria, and we’re all about that.” Helping Jesse back in the whee
lchair, she pushed her back to Doc Fischer’s office and positioned her in front of his desk saying, “I’m sure I’ll see you again, and nice to meet you.”

  Jesse replied, “Same here, and thank you.”

  The doctor finally came back with a stack of x-rays in hand, which he stuck up on the light box on the wall. Ignoring Jesse as he reviewed them, he made various noises and wrote more notes. He finally put up the x-rays of the femur and Jesse was startled to see what looked like a metal bar running down her leg. “Is that mine?” she asked.

  Fischer turned to her. “Huh? Yeah, this is yours. They did an intramedullary nailing to stabilize the break and help it heal.”

  Jesse said, “You mean I’ve got a steel rod in my leg? And screws? How did they do that, and how bad a scar will that leave?”

  Annoyed, Fischer replied, “Not steel- titanium and so are the screws. They drive it down the marrow canal through a small incision and make two more for the screws. Since this was an oblique fracture, and healing is looking good and you’re already putting weight on it; I’m going to put you in a different cast.” He looked up and bellowed, “Hawthorne! Get back here.”

  The young corpsman stuck her head around the door. “Yes, captain?”

  “Take Mrs. Miller down to treatment and get this cast off her. Prep her with-” Looking at Jesse he asked, “Height, weight?”

  Jesse replied, “Five-seven, one-twentyish.”

  “A medium removable with side plates and lockable knee.”

  Pulling Jesse out again, Hawthorne replied, “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be down there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Amber pushed the wheelchair Jesse asked, “What is going on?”

  “Well, the doc is going to give you a removable cast. He’ll come down and fit it himself, so I hope you aren’t embarrassed easily,” Amber said.