An American Outlaw by John Stonehouse Read Free Book Online Page B

directory.
    A Marine lieutenant. Recently promoted captain. Then invalided out of the service, severely wounded in combat. In Iraq. 
    The record shows initial treatment at Ibn Sina, then critical care in Landstuhl, Germany. Followed by repatriation to National Naval Medical Center, Bethesda, MD. 
    Whicher writes fast in the notepad. Where's the guy now?
    The entry closes with a list of different centers; private clinics, therapy units. An injured man—likely still a patient somewhere, there'd be a wall of silence.
    The Office of the US Marshal's Service enforced the law. In the end. No matter what. Brick by brick, you had to take down each wall.
     
     
     
    Whicher dials the fifth number written on his notepad. He rolls a pencil on the desk. Staring at Lieutenant Rodger's elk-skin pen holder. 
    The phone rings three times. It picks up.  
    “Brooke AMC.” A female voice.
    Whicher pins the phone against his neck. 
    “Is that Brooke Army Medical Center? San Antonio?”
    “Yes, sir. How may I help?”
    “Ma'am, my name is John Whicher—US Deputy Marshal; Western Division.” 
    He reaches for a second sheet of paper, full of hand-written notes.
    “I'm trying to trace the whereabouts of an injured serviceman. I've been making inquiries at several of the main treatment centers for returning US service personnel.”
    “Well, we're certainly one of the main treatment centers, Marshal. But we're not at liberty to discuss individual cases...”
    “I know that, ma'am.”
    “Especially not on the telephone.”
    “I understand,” says Whicher. “Ma'am, is there somebody I could speak with about this? It's in relation to a serious crime investigation.”
    “Involving a wounded man?”
    Whicher catches the tone in the woman's voice. 
    “Indirectly.” He lifts the notepad off the desk. “If I ran a name at you, do you think you might at least be able to confirm if the person is at your facility? Receiving treatment?”
    A pause on the line. “I'd have to ask my superior on that.”
    “Well. I tell you what. How about I give you the name? And then, I'm on give you a number where you can reach me—at the police department, here in Alpine.”
    Another pause. 
    “Well. Alright, sir. I suppose I can ask...”
    “Okay. You got a pen? Okay. It's a captain in the US Marine Corps...”
    “Oh. Well, Marshal, they're mainly Army here.”
    “You don't have any Marines?”
    “We do. But that'd be Doctor Zemetti. He handles the inter-service cases. I can speak with him.”
    “Ma'am, I'd appreciate that. I'd be obliged.”
    “What's the name of this captain?”
    “Heywood Black.”
    “Alright, sir. I'll be sure and speak with Doctor Zemetti.”
    “I appreciate your help, ma'am.” 
    Whicher hangs up. And reaches for another sheet of paper.
     
     
     

CHAPTER 9
     
    Black Mesa, Terlingua.
     
    The door of the barn blew loose in the hot wind. The timber prop toppling in the dirt. I grabbed my back pack, swung it over my shoulder. Turned to climb the ridge, get back up to the house.
    I stepped around the side of the barn. 
    Tennille's standing, watching me. Stock still. The green hunter's jacket over her print dress. 
    Staring straight down the barrel of her twelve-gauge.
    She jerked the shotgun. 
    “Put your hands in the air.”
    “What the hell are you doing?” 
    I took a step back, saw the look in her eye. Cold fury. 
    I raised my hands above my shoulders.
    “I'll tell you what,” she says, “Mister Gilman Francis James—out of Lafayette, Louisiana. You're wanted for armed robbery. It just came on my radio....”
    I blew my cheeks out. Stared at her.
    She swung the shotgun to one side. Fired into the air. The noise echoing out across the scorched ground.
     “I'm not afraid to use this...”
    “I see that.”
    “Start walking. Up to the house.”
    She leveled the twelve-gauge. My mind raced to think of something. Anything. 
    She circled wide and dropped behind me. 
    I walked slow up the dirt