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  “They have a motorcycle shop on Bosque Boulevard,” Maddox said. “Someone owns a plot of land with a couple trailers and outbuildings on it a little out of town. I think a couple of the guys stay out there.”

  A plot of land and trailers sounded like the perfect place for Burr to be hiding out. Yet with the truck he’d been driving already a good way out of town, he could have been there and gone.

  “You want us to sniff around a little?” Maddox asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “But maybe later this afternoon. We found the truck that he had been driving about forty-five minutes east of Waco. We’re on our way to have a look at it now.”

  “That’s what Agent Disick said. He mentioned getting it towed back to our lot.”

  “Right,” I said. “Do you have an address for that? The tow company that you guys go through?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it here.”

  Maddox gave me the information, which I jotted down in my notepad.

  “I’d like to sit down and go over whatever your department can give us on Walters, the club, the bar.”

  “Sure,” he said. “This is about all we’re working over here right now. If you give me a time and a place, we’ll get together.”

  “Okay. Let’s try to meet this afternoon. Say around four o’clock.”

  “Should be fine,” he said.

  “I’ll give you a buzz if we can move up the time.”

  “No problem. I’ll try to get some stuff together in a folder for you. Names of members, priors, addresses.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “All right. See you this afternoon.”

  “Thanks, Maddox.” I ended the call.

  Beth glanced over at me from the driver’s seat as I started punching the number of the tow company into my phone.

  “Maddox was familiar, it sounded like,” she said.

  “Yeah, it sounded like his department was pretty familiar with everything related to this club. Gonna try to get everyone together this afternoon.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” she said. “Even if he has already left town, if he was involved with someone from that club, good chance they know where he was headed.”

  “Getting them to share that with us is going to be the problem.”

  “We’ll just have to find the right way to persuade them,” Beth said.

  I nodded and went about making my call to get the wrecker on the way. The dispatcher said she’d have a truck out to the address in about an hour.

  Beth’s navigation said we were just two miles from our destination and needed to make a right in a half mile. I looked around, and the scenery had been the same for a while—fields with the occasional farm or ranch. Beth slowed and made our right turn off the highway. The road we turned onto looked damn near identical to the one that we’d just left, albeit with a slower speed limit and about four feet less width. We drove for a mile and passed a pair of patrol cars. Beth’s navigation instructed us to take a right up ahead.

  We made the turn onto a dirt road no wider than a single lane. A quarter mile ahead, in the ditch on the right were a couple of patrol cars near what looked like the beginning of a dirt driveway. Beth pulled off the road and parked behind the last car.

  We stepped from the car and walked to the three guys gathered at the nose of the patrol car last in line—all the guys were in uniform. As we neared, I could see a black hulk of what was the truck. The driveway where it had been parked—which appeared to give access to a big field—was blocked by a gate fifty feet off the road. The truck looked to have been backed to the gate and burned beyond recognition. Water and foam soaked the muddy ground all around the truck. The fire department had sprayed the truck down, and while probably necessary, the water would have further destroyed any remaining evidence—though considering how bad the truck was burned, I doubted there was much to get from it.

  The guys locked eyes on Beth and me as we walked up.

  “Are you who we’re waiting on from the bureau?” one of the deputies asked.

  “Probably,” Beth said. “I’m Agent Beth Harper, and this is Agent Hank Rawlings.”

  “Sergeant Brad Schumann,” he said. “Pleasure.”

  Sergeant Schumann’s graying and receding hair put him somewhere in his midforties. He extended his big mitt of a hand toward Beth, and then me, for a handshake.

  “This is Thompson and Landera.” Thompson, bald-headed, looked about the same age as Schumann. Landera looked fresh out of college. Both guys stood with their arms crossed over their chests in typical law enforcement fashion—I used to have the same pose perfected. “They responded to the call of the truck,” Schumann said.

  “When did that come in exactly?” I asked.

  “A little after seven o’clock,” Thompson said. “We were out here about a quarter after. The fire truck within a minute or so after that. The truck was still hot, smoldering.”

  It was information that hadn’t made it through to us.

  “As the fire department dealt with the truck, we talked to the man who called it in. Terry Bridges was the caller. He lives in the next property up on the right. We finished up chatting with him and waited here until the fire department said it was safe to poke around. We went to check for a tag, which was cooked but still legible. When we ran it, we got the alert that it was wanted in connection with a homicide. Call the bureau, it said. So that’s what we did.”

  “This is connected to Charles Burr, right?” Landera asked. “I saw they were looking for this truck on the news.”

  “That’s correct,” I said.

  “Did the fire department mention how long it had been since the truck was lit up?” Beth asked.

  Schumann looked at Landera then Thompson, receiving shrugs from both. “Guess we didn’t think to ask. Still smoldering and not there the night before gives us a pretty good window, though. He said he’d passed around midnight, and there was nothing there on fire.”

  “Right,” I said. “I get that we’re kind of out here a little, but how does no one notice a vehicle on fire?”

  “This road dead-ends up the way there.” Schumann pointed down the dirt road. “Dead-ends into a farm field. The only house on it is the one our caller lives in.”

  “Hell, anyone passing on 632 back there probably just thought it was a bonfire or something,” Landera said.

  “If this road dead-ends, the truck had to have come from the road that we did back there,” Beth said.

  “So 632,” Schumann said.

  “Right. Did we go up and down knocking on doors?” Beth asked. “I think we drove past a couple places on the way in.”

  “It looks like there are six properties north between here and 164. South is just one between here and 2489. I sent a pair of cars up the road toward 164 but haven’t heard anyone say they saw anything yet. Once they get done north, I’ll send them south.”

  “Is the guy who called the truck in still around?” I asked.

  “We left him back at his house about an hour ago,” Landera said. “He hasn’t come past, so he’s probably still at home.”

  “All right. We’ll take a look and probably go have a chat with him,” I said.

  “When that’s all said and done, what are we doing with this?” Schumann asked. “I’m guessing whoever owns this field probably doesn’t want this becoming a permanent fixture.”

  “We already have a truck on the way. Should be here in about forty-five minutes,” I said.

  Schumann nodded.

  “Does the fire department say it’s safe?” I asked.

  “Yeah, still a little warm but not going to explode, was what I was told,” Thompson said.

  Beth and I started toward the truck with the deputies and sergeant following.

  The truck sat on its rims, already sinking into the mud caused by the fire department’s efforts to put the fire completely out.

  “It looks like they sprayed it down pretty good,” Beth said.

  “I think the wat
er was more precautionary than anything,” Thompson said. “But they seemed to think it was necessary. The fire chief said if there was any evidence, the water and foam wasn’t going to do any more damage than what the fire had already done.”

  I was certain that someone from Forensics would have disagreed with him on that.

  I walked to the driver’s side of the truck and squished through the mud toward the door. About a foot away, I could still feel that the thing was warm. The inside of the truck was just metal frames of seats and melted bits of interior mixed with black water. There was no glass left in the truck. The steering wheel was just a thin loop of burned metal, and the dash was a metal skeleton filled with voids from the gauges that must have melted away.

  “Nothing left.” Beth stood at the passenger door.

  “Doesn’t look like it.” I walked to the back of the truck, glancing into the bed as I did. There was nothing in it. While the paint had been burned from the license plate, I could still read the embossed letters. I referred to my notepad to confirm the tag number. It was our truck.

  I glanced down to see my feet sinking farther into the mud, then I felt water coming into my shoe. I took a step back, and with a wet foot, I’d seen enough. The truck wouldn’t give us anything. Maybe the guy who called it in could.

  Chapter 25

  Chuck woke up for the second time that morning. The red LED numbers of the clock on the dresser said a quarter after ten. He glanced over his shoulder to see that he was alone in bed. Jerry had gotten up. Chuck sat up and put his feet on the floor. His head pounded less than it did a couple of hours prior. The door of the room was open, and he heard clanking coming from somewhere—a kitchen, maybe. He stood from the bed and looked down to where his clothes had been—there was nothing but carpet. His clothes were gone.

  In his T-shirt and boxer shorts, Chuck stumbled from the room into a hallway. The first door to his right led to the bathroom, and Chuck opted to use it before exploring further.

  The flushing of the toilet spurred Jerry’s voice. “I’m in the kitchen.”

  “Yeah,” Chuck called back. He turned on the bathroom faucet, splashed a little water on his face, then left the bathroom before walking to the end of the wood-paneled hallway. He found Jerry standing at the kitchen sink to his right. She was washing dishes.

  “Just us here?” Chuck asked.

  “Yeah, your clothes are in the dryer. They should be just about done. They stank like smoke and fuel. Sit.” She poked her chin at the table in the small open dining room area that separated the kitchen from the living room at his back.

  Chuck took a seat and noticed she had some food going on the stove. “What the hell happened last night?”

  “We drank too much. Had too much fun. I’ve got some eggs and sausage, onions, and peppers going in a little scramble over here. Should be done in a minute or two. I was just going to come and wake you up. I’m going to have to run in a minute, but I wanted to lay down a couple ground rules.”

  “All right,” Chuck said. He’d been shut down when he tried getting fresh with her a couple of hours earlier, and the cold tone of her voice told him she either had something on her mind, or she’d had enough of Chuck’s company. Regardless of whatever did or didn’t happen the night before, after he’d sobered up, she’d seemed pretty cold. Chuck winced. The pounding headache he’d hoped to be rid of with the extra sleep seemed to be making a reappearance now that he was up and walking around. “Coffee?”

  “In the pot. Cups are in the cabinet there.” She pointed.

  Chuck fetched a cup.

  Jerry plated up the food that had been going in the pan and set a plate before Chuck just as he retook his seat. Chuck scooped up some eggs with his fork. “Seriously, though, what did we do?”

  Jerry had gone back to the kitchen to get her plate. “What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked as she walked to the table.

  “We were at the clubhouse at the bike shop, partying, I guess. Then I remember something on fire. A truck.”

  “Yeah. I think you’ve got your timeline a little backward.” Jerry sat across from him. “First was the truck and the fire, then the clubhouse.”

  Chuck tried searching for the memory but found nothing.

  “We left the bar and went to the shop. Jake was bitching about the truck. That it was too hot. That it shouldn’t be anywhere near the business, the clubhouse, which he had a point. You said you’d go dump it outside of town and come back. You’d been drinking. Enough to the point where you couldn’t navigate the damn truck out of the parking lot, let alone actually get the thing out of town without crashing or getting pulled over. So, Lenny and Jake drove it, and you and I followed him in my car. We took it almost an hour out of town and parked it in the country. Jake had brought a couple of gas cans. He didn’t want to deal with trying to wipe it down in the dark and figured fire was a bit easier. Well, you decide that it’s your duty to light the thing up, and of course, you light your damn arm on fire in the process. I don’t know what about it was so damn funny, but I don’t think I’d ever seen Jake laughing so hard. Anyway, we got back on the road and pretty much drank until sunrise back at the clubhouse. You and I got to talking, and well, here you are.”

  Chuck nodded. The story brought back some additional flashes of memory, but it was still foggy at best—more like gone from his memory banks entirely.

  “Should I get myself back over to the shop or what?” Chuck asked.

  “You’re staying here,” Jerry said. “I’ve actually got someone stopping by a little later who wants to meet you. He’s a business associate of mine—was one of Leland’s as well. About a week or so ago, he mentioned that he was looking for someone bilingual to work for him. That was the reason for my question about speaking Spanish. I reached out to him this morning. Said I had someone that spoke Espanol and was looking to get out of the area. If it all works out, he can get you out of the country.”

  “What is this?” Chuck asked. “Like a job or something?”

  “What all did Leland tell you about what he was doing before he went in?” Jerry asked. She took a sip of her coffee.

  “Just that he was running meth in gas tanks. I never really bothered to ask the finer details. Drugs were never really my thing.”

  “Well, they may be your thing if you want a free pass out of the US,” she said.

  Chuck shook his head. “I appreciate that and all, but I don’t think I’d be interested in whatever this guy is pitching.”

  Jerry set her fork down on the table beside her plate. She cracked her knuckles and leaned back in her chair. “You don’t have a problem killing people but have some kind of moral dilemma when it comes to drugs?”

  “No. Not at all,” Chuck said. “I just don’t want to work for anyone. I have zero interest in someone telling me what to do. The last couple years, I’ve had people telling me when to eat, sleep, shit, and otherwise. I think I’m good with taking orders for a while.”

  “Gotcha,” she said. “So, what are you going to do? For money, for a roof over your head, for anything? How are you going to get someplace safe?”

  “I don’t know, but I guess I’ll have to figure it out. I just need the heat to die down a little.” Chuck sipped his coffee. Jerry stared at him as if she was put off that he wasn’t interested in the help. He didn’t have anything further for her on the topic, and her attitude left a little to be desired.

  “This is us helping you,” Jerry said. “Setting you up with David is the only option. Meaning if you would rather not go that route, well, I guess you should probably just be on your way so you can take care of things in whatever way you choose for yourself.”

  Chuck pulled in a big breath. He hadn’t expected an ultimatum, and with his head pounding, he didn’t want to get out on the road where he would need his wits about him. To get anywhere fast, he’d need a car. And to get a car, he’d have to take it from someone. That would require him to be sharp, and with all the drinking and par
tying the night before, he was anything but. “You want me to go if I don’t want to meet with this guy? Is that what you’re saying?”

  She shrugged. “I mean, we had a good time and all last night, but if you don’t want our help, you moving along would probably be for the best.”

  Chuck was silent.

  “If you’re headed out, I’m about to leave. I can drop you somewhere,” she said.

  Chuck figured he would backpedal and go through the motions with the guy when he arrived. It would at least buy him time to sober up before going out on his own if that was what it came down to. “If it’s talking to your guy or being out on my ass, I guess it won’t hurt to see what he has to say.”

  “Good. He’ll be here this evening.”

  “All right,” Chuck said.

  Jerry finished her food, lifted her coffee cup, and stood from the table. “I better get going. “Stay inside. Don’t answer the door. Don’t answer the phone. And don’t go through my shit.”

  “Were those the ground rules you were talking about?” he asked.

  “They were.” Jerry walked to the kitchen, rinsed her plate, and set it in the dishwasher. She returned to Chuck at the table. “I’ve got cameras in here, so I’ll be randomly checking on you.”

  “Just like prison. I’ll feel right at home.”

  The crossed arms over her chest and the scowl on her face said she wasn’t happy with his comment.

  “It was a joke,” he said. “I appreciate the hospitality.”

  “Uh-huh. Just watch TV. Relax. Take a shower. There are towels in the closet at the end of the hall. Food in the fridge. I should be back around two or three.”

  Chapter 26

  After interviewing the guy who called the truck in, talking with the deputies who had found nothing while out door knocking, and supervising a tow truck driver—one who used every profanity imaginable as he climbed around in the mud to hook the winch strap to the hulk of burned truck—we grabbed lunch and made our way back to Waco. We’d set up a meeting with the entire Waco agency—Agent Disick, Supervisory Special Agent Jordan Sajak, Assistant Supervisory Agent in Charge John Arquette, and Field Agents Carroll and Comley. Agent LaFleur was still keeping eyes on the bar, Disick said. File folders littered the conference table where we sat. We had just brought everyone up to speed on the investigation.