They talked some more about the logistics and scheduling, then Hawkes said, “What we need to do now is find out what the hell happened with Max. Why the cops were on him.”
“What I’m thinking is . . . What I’m afraid is . . . Blackburns,” Duran said.
Low said, “How would they make that connection? We didn’t touch a goddamn thing in there. There weren’t any prints, there’s no DNA. We got in and out clean. They didn’t even find them for four or five days.”
Hawkes checked her watch. “I’ll talk to R.J. tonight. You guys ought to get some sleep: it’s gonna be busy tomorrow. I need to clean out the house, box up what I’m taking with me.”
* * *
When the men had gone, Hawkes went to her computer and out to her darknet site. Another man had dropped out, but they still had a hundred and ten people committed.
After working through the incoming mail, she checked her watch again, and called R.J.
“Have you heard about Max?” she asked.
“No. What happened?”
“He was busted, this afternoon. There was some shooting. At his house.”
“If somebody got shot, I’ll hear about it,” R.J. said. He was a cop in Odessa. “Probably get back to you in an hour or so, if you’re still up.”
“I’ll be up.”
* * *
She went out to Netflix, skipped through two episodes of The Queen’s Gambit, one of her favorite streaming programs of all time. She paused it halfway through the finale, where the American girl beat the Russians, when R.J. called back.
“Here’s the deal,” he said. “A Midland investigator named Dan Tanner—good guy, I know him—who is checking out a double murder went to Max’s place, but nobody knows exactly why. Supposedly working the murder. Max’s pit bull attacked him, bit him real bad, put him in the hospital. Dog was shot. Max got arrested for pulling a gun on the cops, but I’m told it’s probably a bad bust. Nobody was in uniform, he came out with a gun after somebody shot the dog in his front yard.”
“Goddamn it . . .”
“Yeah, but like I said, it doesn’t sound like much. One thing, there were three other people there. There was a Monahans investigator named Pugh, I know her, too, she’s okay, and then two federal people. There’s a big guy from the Department of Homeland Security and a woman who’s working with him, like an assistant, or something. Really young, doesn’t seem like much. But the guy is definitely a threat.”
“Homeland Security . . . ah, man,” Hawkes said.
“Yeah. That was my thought. Homeland Security isn’t here to see who’s stealing oil.”
“You gotta stay on top of this, R.J. This is critical.”
“I will. I’ll start checking things out. I’ll try to find where the Homeland Security people are staying. Maybe you could put some guys on them, track them, see what they’re doing.”
“Call me back if you find anything out,” Hawkes said.
She had people coming from all over the country. She had her own people armoring up.
And Homeland Security was poking its nose in.
Not ideal.
* * *
The day had been a long one, and she had a minor, familiar headache: she’d insisted on working on the road building, and the hot weather sucked the water out of her. Low had explained that she had a much higher skin-to-meat ratio than the males did, which meant that she evaporated water faster—something he’d learned as a laborer up in the oil patch.
She drank a final bottle of water with an Aleve and went to bed, lay awake, and thought of what was up ahead of her. She’d be a fugitive, for sure. She had people to pass her along, like the Underground Railroad, but she’d probably be caught in the end.