The Devil's Highway by Timothy C. Phillips Read Free Book Online Page B

just wanted to meet this Colonel Cushman face to face, and explain that what we had here was an errant college boy with a very sick father, and I had no interest in the Redemption Army, one way or the other, and could I please take the lad home, now? Thank you very much, and goodbye, good luck with your Apocalypse and all of that.  
    The Mendoza killing was already working on my conscience, however. If the Sheriff’s suspicions were true, there was a lot more going on in Cushman’s desert compound than a bunch of paranoid survivalist types stocking up on beans and bullets and waiting on The Big One.  
    I headed for a little diner, across the street. May’s Place, the placard out front proclaimed. I liked diners, and this place had the kind of ambience that I associated with my favorite eating place, Sally’s Diner, back home in Birmingham. I had just finished my first cup of coffee when a young woman slid into the booth across from me.  
    “You’re Longville,” she said, without preamble.
    I took her in. Hispanic, early thirties, probably some Native American blood, too, judging from her high cheek bones and piercing black eyes. She was strikingly attractive. There was an accent in the background; English was her second language, but she spoke it very well. There was a deadly earnest expression on her face, and a great deal of confidence in her voice. I knew who she was before she told me, from Garrett’s description.  
    “That’s me,” I said, and raised my coffee slightly in greeting.
    “What if I told you that the murder of Fernando Mendoza was tied into your case.”
    “Are you going to tell me that?”
    She smiled, and it was a disarming, honest smile. But it didn’t last long. Back to business. “Fernando Mendoza was a close friend of mine.”
    “I’m sorry.”  
    “He was killed because he talked to this young man you are trying to find. Brad Caldwell.”
    She suddenly had my undivided attention. “Just how did you know that I’m looking for Brad Caldwell, Miss . . . ?”
      “Andrea Herrera. Call me Andrea.”  
    “Roland,” I replied. We shook hands.
      “Mendoza was my partner. He and I have been working on a story about the Redemption Army for almost a year. We were finally getting so close to the truth, and then . . .”
    “So I’m told. Your friend Mendoza got too close?”
    “Yes. The night Fernando died he had gone to meet—without telling me—Brad Caldwell. Since that time, no one in town has seen Brad any more. He is a young man, you know? He used to come into town and watch a movie or get dinner. He was friendly with some of the locals, unlike most of the Redemption Army people.”
    She still hadn’t answered my question about how she knew I was looking for Brad, but I let it slide for the moment. “So how did you and your friend Mendoza meet with Brad Caldwell?”
    Her middle finger described a slow circle on the table top. She looked down, and then her eyes slowly rose to meet mine.  
    “Mendoza called me that night, after he met with Brad, and he told me about their talk. Fernando also said that he had video and audio proof that the RA was involved in some kind of illegal activity to fund its operations. But he wouldn’t tell me any details, and he never made it back to Delgado alive.”
    “And when they found his body, all of the evidence he spoke of was gone.”
    “Of course. It was staged to look like a robbery. Fernandos’ wallet was emptied out in the seat; only the money was missing. Everyone at the compound had an alibi, of course; naturally, they were provided by other Redemption Army members. And there was no evidence at the scene of Fernando’s murder to suggest that it was anything other than a robbery gone wrong. But no one here in Delgado believes that.”
    She sat for a minute more without saying anything. Then she looked at me with a vacant look that was still somehow intense, as though she was deeply considering a matter that took her thoughts