He stared at the number flashing on the screen and glanced at the minimal signal then answered, Howth it goin, you thunuvabitch? Greetings and salutations, you poor bastard, Hatchet responded through the choppy reception. Poole had told him he had knocked out some teeth but it hadn’t prepared him for the comedy in Ricky’s new impediment. You wanna make thith quick and tell me where you are? I'm gonna tell you where I am, Ricky, but I need you to answer a few questions first. I aint anthwerin anything; you juth tell me where you are tho we can get thith over with. Little cold out there, is it? Yer gonna athk me about the weather? theth are the kindth of quethionth you want to athk me? That's what they call a rhetorical question. You makin fun of me, Tomahawk? No, Ricky, I'm making a point that may be lost on you. Well, let me make a point to you; I'm gonna find you and I'm gonna kill you, no wathtin time with banter and joketh, ya hear me? you might not realithe how theriouth yer problems are right now but you will very thoon.
The signal went dead. Ricky glared at the faded-call alert and cursed at the sky but the phone rang again almost instantly. Tell me how serious this is, Hatchet's voice scrambled a bit in the receiver, tell me what kind of deal you made; was the plan to kill me from the start or were you two just gonna steal the egg and leave me to the mercy of other people? Why should we go through thith, Tomahawk? none of thith is gonna matter when yer dead. But I'm not dead, Ricky. You are; you juth don't know it yet. Was I dead before I met you in Fort Worth when my friend trusted you to be straight with me? Timeth are hard, Tomahawk. So I hear. We all gotta take our own beth intereth into account. Yeah, we do. And the phone went dead again and then rang again before the echo of Ricky’s scream disappeared. You killed my brother, Tomahawk, thath all I gotta know and thath why we're here; you are here, aint ya? yer down there in Mexthico, hidin in thum hole, aint ya? thcared for yer life, aint ya? you should be, Tomahawk, you should be very afraid of me, ya bathterd. Your brother and his girl fucked you over, Ricky, they fucked you over and tried to murder me; that's what got them killed; you really want that to happen to you too? Oh yer a tough thunuvabitch now? you think ya got enough lead in yer britcheth to beat me? yer wrong. We'll see. Tell me where and when; there aint nothing between you me but a muddy river. First, you tell me who you made the deal with. The deal? Who were you gonna pass the egg to? Tomahawk—. You don't tell me who and you won't get anything from me. You really think I need yer help? This call is gonna fade and you're gonna lose your chance.
Hatchet waited.
Timothy Teague. Uh-huh. There it is. What's his connection to Calvary Fellowship Church? Fuck you, Tomahawk. Fuck me? Fuck you. Good luck with that, Ricky. Wait. Hatchet could hear his desperation even in that one short word. Wait a thec—. Is Brody Lassiter funneling stolen art through the church to Teague, Ricky? They've done it for yearth. Uh-huh. You just happened to hit the joint when this little jewel wath ready for delivery. And you've been helping him with this for a while too? A while, yeah, paintingth, thculptureth. He's the client you told me about in Fort Worth. Yep, DP delivered you to uth like a pizztha; I wanted to tell you it was a fake and give you the chump change but Teague wouldn't let me. It's a small world, eh, Ricky? And about to get one perthun thmaller. He used me to screw Brody Lassiter out of his share on this one, didn't he? he used Clancey to try and kill me for it, didn't he? I don't know nothin bout a Clanthey, Tomahawk. You don't? I told you everything I know, Tomahawk, you got it all, not that ith gonna do ya any good; ya thee, yer in a pickle, you got nowhere to run; that thing ith unmovable almoth anywhere; you try to move that thing to anyone who knowth anything bout this thorta thing and Tim Teague hath ya by the ballth; he's a connected thunuvabitch, probly the mosth connected mutherfucker alive when it cometh to this shit. Uh-huh.
Hatchet let him stew in the garbled static.
Now for yer part, Ricky told him. My part? Where the fuck are you, Tomahawk? Oh yeah, that part. Yer makin fun of me again. Not really, Ricky. Hatchet gave him another dose of silence. Okay, Ricky, here it is; I'm gonna tell you how to find me but let me make absolutely sure you understand something. Get on with it. You don't stand a chance out here against me. Horthshit. You don't scare me, Ricky, I've killed two people over this thing, some would say even three; and I've had the opportunity to kill others, just over this stupid little piece of jewelry. You think yer a ninja, now? you know who the fuck yer talkin to? yer talkin to a guy who fought hith way outta Coffield, mutherfucker! I'm just giving you a fair chance to change your mind, Ricky, which is more than you gave me; if you come down here, you won't be going home; I just want to make sure you understand that. Fuck you, Tomahawk! you killed my brother, the only thing I had left in this whole fuckin world! I am aware of what I've done and why I've done it. Where the fuck are you, you bathterd? I'm ten miles south of a little place called Boquillas, a little run down ranch with a crooked windmill; you'll know the spot; it's the only thing out here. Better thtart prayin, Tomahawk! I think I’ll grab a nap instead.
Hatchet listened to the disconnection and leaned into the camera set on the tripod among a black-brown gathering of large rocks above the sheer cliff walls of Chilicotal Mountain. Through the ultra-zoom lens, he could make out the Suburban throwing a tail of murky white dust like rocket exhaust along the ribbon of Glenn Springs Road, headed south. Hatchet tracked it as it made reckless time through the treacherous one lane curves. His trace of pity for the fool behind the wheel humored him as it passed his position hundreds of feet up the dark shadow of the mountain. Hatchet adjusted the lens with enough clarity to read and record the plate number with paper and pen. He sat up and warmed his hands before making another call on his sat phone, waited for an answer then asked the individual on the line if he spoke any English. The person made it clear that he knew very little so Hatchet read from the paper a crude translation, including the plate number on the Suburban.
Canallos? the person repeated. Si, Hatchet said. Drogas? the person asked. Si, said Hatchet again, voy a Boquillas. Boquillas? Si. There seemed to be a moment of contemplation on the other end of the line then, Gracias, señor. Da bien. He hung up and dialed Panther Junction Headquarters to thank the young ranger—who he now knew as Ellise Garrison—for informing him of Ricky's arrival and for the number to the Madres del Carmen National Park headquarters in Mexico. She welcomed the news that she could be of assistance but immediately asked if he was in some kind of trouble. Not anymore, he told her.
The signal went dead. Ricky glared at the faded-call alert and cursed at the sky but the phone rang again almost instantly. Tell me how serious this is, Hatchet's voice scrambled a bit in the receiver, tell me what kind of deal you made; was the plan to kill me from the start or were you two just gonna steal the egg and leave me to the mercy of other people? Why should we go through thith, Tomahawk? none of thith is gonna matter when yer dead. But I'm not dead, Ricky. You are; you juth don't know it yet. Was I dead before I met you in Fort Worth when my friend trusted you to be straight with me? Timeth are hard, Tomahawk. So I hear. We all gotta take our own beth intereth into account. Yeah, we do. And the phone went dead again and then rang again before the echo of Ricky’s scream disappeared. You killed my brother, Tomahawk, thath all I gotta know and thath why we're here; you are here, aint ya? yer down there in Mexthico, hidin in thum hole, aint ya? thcared for yer life, aint ya? you should be, Tomahawk, you should be very afraid of me, ya bathterd. Your brother and his girl fucked you over, Ricky, they fucked you over and tried to murder me; that's what got them killed; you really want that to happen to you too? Oh yer a tough thunuvabitch now? you think ya got enough lead in yer britcheth to beat me? yer wrong. We'll see. Tell me where and when; there aint nothing between you me but a muddy river. First, you tell me who you made the deal with. The deal? Who were you gonna pass the egg to? Tomahawk—. You don't tell me who and you won't get anything from me. You really think I need yer help? This call is gonna fade and you're gonna lose your chance.
Hatchet waited.
Timothy Teague. Uh-huh. There it is. What's his connection to Calvary Fellowship Church? Fuck you, Tomahawk. Fuck me? Fuck you. Good luck with that, Ricky. Wait. Hatchet could hear his desperation even in that one short word. Wait a thec—. Is Brody Lassiter funneling stolen art through the church to Teague, Ricky? They've done it for yearth. Uh-huh. You just happened to hit the joint when this little jewel wath ready for delivery. And you've been helping him with this for a while too? A while, yeah, paintingth, thculptureth. He's the client you told me about in Fort Worth. Yep, DP delivered you to uth like a pizztha; I wanted to tell you it was a fake and give you the chump change but Teague wouldn't let me. It's a small world, eh, Ricky? And about to get one perthun thmaller. He used me to screw Brody Lassiter out of his share on this one, didn't he? he used Clancey to try and kill me for it, didn't he? I don't know nothin bout a Clanthey, Tomahawk. You don't? I told you everything I know, Tomahawk, you got it all, not that ith gonna do ya any good; ya thee, yer in a pickle, you got nowhere to run; that thing ith unmovable almoth anywhere; you try to move that thing to anyone who knowth anything bout this thorta thing and Tim Teague hath ya by the ballth; he's a connected thunuvabitch, probly the mosth connected mutherfucker alive when it cometh to this shit. Uh-huh.
Hatchet let him stew in the garbled static.
Now for yer part, Ricky told him. My part? Where the fuck are you, Tomahawk? Oh yeah, that part. Yer makin fun of me again. Not really, Ricky. Hatchet gave him another dose of silence. Okay, Ricky, here it is; I'm gonna tell you how to find me but let me make absolutely sure you understand something. Get on with it. You don't stand a chance out here against me. Horthshit. You don't scare me, Ricky, I've killed two people over this thing, some would say even three; and I've had the opportunity to kill others, just over this stupid little piece of jewelry. You think yer a ninja, now? you know who the fuck yer talkin to? yer talkin to a guy who fought hith way outta Coffield, mutherfucker! I'm just giving you a fair chance to change your mind, Ricky, which is more than you gave me; if you come down here, you won't be going home; I just want to make sure you understand that. Fuck you, Tomahawk! you killed my brother, the only thing I had left in this whole fuckin world! I am aware of what I've done and why I've done it. Where the fuck are you, you bathterd? I'm ten miles south of a little place called Boquillas, a little run down ranch with a crooked windmill; you'll know the spot; it's the only thing out here. Better thtart prayin, Tomahawk! I think I’ll grab a nap instead.
Hatchet listened to the disconnection and leaned into the camera set on the tripod among a black-brown gathering of large rocks above the sheer cliff walls of Chilicotal Mountain. Through the ultra-zoom lens, he could make out the Suburban throwing a tail of murky white dust like rocket exhaust along the ribbon of Glenn Springs Road, headed south. Hatchet tracked it as it made reckless time through the treacherous one lane curves. His trace of pity for the fool behind the wheel humored him as it passed his position hundreds of feet up the dark shadow of the mountain. Hatchet adjusted the lens with enough clarity to read and record the plate number with paper and pen. He sat up and warmed his hands before making another call on his sat phone, waited for an answer then asked the individual on the line if he spoke any English. The person made it clear that he knew very little so Hatchet read from the paper a crude translation, including the plate number on the Suburban.
Canallos? the person repeated. Si, Hatchet said. Drogas? the person asked. Si, said Hatchet again, voy a Boquillas. Boquillas? Si. There seemed to be a moment of contemplation on the other end of the line then, Gracias, señor. Da bien. He hung up and dialed Panther Junction Headquarters to thank the young ranger—who he now knew as Ellise Garrison—for informing him of Ricky's arrival and for the number to the Madres del Carmen National Park headquarters in Mexico. She welcomed the news that she could be of assistance but immediately asked if he was in some kind of trouble. Not anymore, he told her.
Edit 12.12.2018