Buck Duran Mysteries: Buck Duran Mysteries

By Robert Bogan

A collection of the Buck Duran Mysteries series so far. Contains six books in chronological order.

 

The Buck Duran Mysteries:
High Alpha-Q
Odessa on Ice
Bonnell Vespers
Way Tight
Sisterdale Shadows
Millennium Mash

HIGH ALPHA-Q
At the dawn of the digital age, a notorious beauty goes missing from the colorful live music scene in Austin, Texas. Mega-star Bob Tom Cody sends his bodyguard, Buck Duran, to help find her. In his search, Duran faces a variety of bizarre characters in and around the colorful city. The trail leads to a ranch where Duran runs into a drug-smuggling gang that preys upon the burgeoning high tech community in Austin. Violent foreign interests manipulate events and ignite an explosive climax. HIGH ALPHA-Q is a treacherous race through Austin's wild music scene that goes down a dark rat hole of espionage.

 

ODESSA ON ICE
International music star Tom Brodie sends his bodyguard Buck Duran on a mission to Odessa, a city built by and for the production of West Texas crude, a city governed by the reckless rules of the oil field. Just as Duran arrives, an epic ice storm strikes the Permian Basin, transforming the level landscape into a dangerous white puzzle. Refugees from this storm stay warm indoors in a variety of ways, some illegal, some lethal. Always in danger of spinning out of control, Odessa on Ice chases bad dreams and ice queens down dark frozen tunnels.

 

BONNELL VESPERS
During the first Gulf War, an Iraqi scud slaughters an Israeli father and daughter, among many others in a Tel Aviv apartment building. In her despair, the surviving wife and mother seeks the help of an old friend, Buck Duran in Austin, Texas. Her plea propels Duran twenty-five years into the past, where he encounters the horrors of an unknown serial killer. BONNELL VESPERS is a kaleidoscopic, time-warped plunge through Austin and the Hill Country, where bad guys bloom but the good bleed dry.

 

WAY TIGHT
When faceless enemies try to kill Buck Duran with a bomb, they blow away his bride-to-be instead. The trauma nearly kills Duran but family and friends catch his fall. With their help, Duran regains his health along with emotional and psychological balance. Duran learns his enemies will strike again soon, so he teams with two others who are also determined to find and destroy whoever killed his fiancée. In violation of several international laws, the three of them invade Rancho Quetzaltocatl, nest of a treacherous drug cartel.

WAY TIGHT climbs to brilliant heights of health and well-being, then dives into the darkness of a spider hole in Mexico.

 

SISTERDALE SHADOWS
In the morning paper, Buck Duran reads that a friend of his from decades earlier has been the victim of a terrorist attack. He leaves immediately to help, embarking on a quest that awakens his long-dormant passion and fills a void in his life. The search carries him a century and a half into the past, where he is stranded in the dungeon of a dragon. Buck Duran must fight to free himself and others from demons that lurk in SISTERDALE SHADOWS.

 

MILLENNIUM MASH
As clocks tick to midnight on the last day of the Twentieth Century, Buck Duran is far from home, working security for Tom Brodie's band at the end of a long tour. When members of the band turn up murdered, Buck Duran and Detroit Chief of Detective Herman Redding together shield the survivors and search for unknown killers. Duran faces all threats with a hard will, a hard mind and a hard fist, but it is a gentle heart that helps him thread the needle and guide his tribe to safety in the new Millennium.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Idiom Books
• Release date: Jan 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393038627

Book preview

Buck Duran Mysteries

A Complete Collection

Robert Bogan

HIGH ALPHA-Q

Austin, Texas

April 1986

One

An olive uniform streaked past, within inches of Duran’s left shoulder. It darted around his car in a burst of headlight.

Rain blurred the windshield. Wiper sweep showed the officer run towards a white van near the dark intersection. He jerked open the rear door and leaned into the dawn rain, hand on holster. Three stringy brown men in canvas pants and loose cloth coats climbed down into driving rain.

A shape dived from the van and darted lizard-like up the sodden rise to the bogus ruins of the entry to Lost Oak, a housing tract packed with new mansions.

The officer stepped back, thrust out his pistol with both hands. Flash and blast shattered twilight.

Except for the rain, everything stopped for a heart thump. Then the runner tumbled down the muddy slide.

Dad, he shot him! gasped BB, Duran’s teenage daughter. She sat to his right in the passenger seat of the Fiero.

No shit! Duran whispered.

The light changed to green. Traffic sat stunned, headlights ripping through rain sheets. At last a horn blast, tires groped forward.

BB and her dad said nothing else on the rest of the drive to Westbank High School. She switched the radio off. They slowed past rows of rain-clean fender trim lining both sides of the road.

For Duran this meant the end of the day’s best hour. Every chance he had, most days, he picked up BB at her mother’s house and drove her to school. His brave and proper fifteen-year-old passenger balanced books and notebooks on her knee as they pulled into the circular drive.

What was all that about? she asked.

Guy got shot? Probably illegal. Duran mumbled. Shooter was INS.

Immigration? Why did he shoot that man?

I don’t know. He ran.

No reason to just shoot him like that. Can we do anything?

He thought about it. I’ll go back and check. Maybe, more to it than what we saw.

As they slowed, BB held her eyes on a group of students gathered under the sheltered entryway of Westbank High School.

Think about this weekend, she reminded him.

All right. Maybe I’ll drive up and see Rait today, but I’ll call you tonight. How much time we looking at?

We’ll leave Friday morning, come back Sunday afternoon, so that means Friday and Saturday night at the beach. The trash pick-up is on Saturday. Miss Childs said she’d keep in touch with the weather service, in case it stays bad. But we’ve got all week for it to clear up. Duran’s daughter looked at him. Find out what you can about the man that got shot. I’ll talk to you tonight.

When they stopped at the curb, BB opened the door. She smiled, said bye and slipped out.

On morning driveway duty Miss Childs, the biology teacher, glanced at Duran through the rain-streaked windshield. Trim navy blue suit and sharp black pumps gave her a hard edge but her gentle green eyes seemed to say, call me!

He thought about those eyes as he wheeled the Fiero back to the loop and joined outbound traffic. He switched the radio back on. Someone was singing about a blue highway.

Minus several of its temporary crew, the white van sat tilting on the shoulder of the steep ramp into the Lost Oak development. Already five patrol cars and an EMS truck were huddled in a cluster around the van, all two-hundred lights flashing.

Duran drove to the next crossover, spun a one-eighty, and drove back to the intersection. Pulling well off the pavement he parked off-kilter. It was fully daylight now. The rain’s force had diminished but still plenty came down. He reached behind the bucket seats for his maroon windbreaker and hat—a black straw highroller with a faded crazy-weave hatband.

His jeans drank rainwater as he walked toward the flashing lights in no hurry, hands at his side. He didn’t want anyone to see him as a threat, which happened on occasion. He could not count the times he had seen cops ease fist to pistol when he walked up.

And he walked up to cops all the time as security chief for a superstar.

There were a dozen uniforms engaged in the scene, all grim-faced but one, a young deputy who was chewing gum with nonchalant vigor. Duran caught the deputy’s eye and the deputy stepped out to block his path.

You have business here? Deputy popped his chin back.

Beyond him Duran could see the quick-draw INS officer standing near other deputies, attempting to smoke a cigarette. His hands were shaking and he looked like a kid trying to decide whether to cry. There were of course no tears visible.

Name’s Buck Duran. I’m a witness, He said to the deputy, sweeping spread-wide palms. Saw what happened here.

Yeah? What did you see, mister Doran?

INS was pulling workers, out of that white van? One jumps up and runs.

What a stinkin’ mess! Some punk freaks out and gets plugged, gives us all a zit. And there’s not much you can do about it. The deputy shook his head, and spoke under his breath: This town draws ‘em like flies to bull flop.

INS fired one shot, Duran went on. Looked like he was aiming low.

The deputy nodded. Winged him in the hip. He’ll limp but he’ll live. Tell me something. Did the officer yell a warning?

Duran reran the reel in his mind. Didn’t hear a shout, but it was raining hard and I was several cars back.

I see. Tell you what: Why don’t you wait a couple hours, call the Travis County Sheriff. Ask for Sergeant Denny. He may want to talk to you.

Anything I can do now?

We got more units be here any minute. You might ought to return to your vehicle and go on about your business. You have a good day.

The deputy spat his gum dismissively into the ditch and walked back toward the cluster of patrol cars.

Duran returned to his vehicle and went on about his business which meant, check in with the boss. Tossing wet hat and windbreaker in back, he dug out a Killer Bees tape and shoved it into the deck before keying the ignition.

The rain stopped before Duran crossed the Pedernales River. The hood of the black Fiero was almost dry when he angled off the highway at Spicewood and followed the one-lane blacktop that twisted through indigo hills of hickory and oak.

Before long, a weathered stone gate appeared on the left. Wrought iron ropes in the arch spelled out Las Águilas. He slowed and rolled the wheel. Just inside the gate the ranch foreman crabbed down from a battered Willys Jeep. He squinted up at the ragged gray sky as he limped stiffly towards the car.

Liable to start up again directly. Keeps ‘is up, all our cans gonna get full!

Morning, Rink, Duran said.

Boss wants to see you, Buck. Rink Barton rested a rough hand on the coupe’s low sheen.

You know what about? Duran asked.

Said to get on up there, soon as you back from town. One of the boys got him out of bed with something.

Duran slid the Fiero past his cabin, up the slippery trail to the main house at the top of the hill. An oil baron from Kilgore built the house in the 1930s as a retirement get-away for his wife and himself, but for decades the property lay abandoned. So country music star Tom Brodie got a bargain when he purchased the ranch for his own new bride, Lucia. It was Brodie’s third marriage, Lucia’s second. The new Mrs. Brodie rebuilt and refurnished the big house, and crowned it with the bright metal roof that came into view just now as Duran crested the hill. Rising above a stand of ancient live oaks, the limestone manse commanded a broad view of the Colorado River valley.

With seven gold and platinum records, Brodie was riding a wave of new wealth and fame in the mid-80s. As everyone knows, by the end of that decade Brodie lost everything he possessed including Lucia. And Duran lost his job as bodyguard, but we’ll go into that some other time.

Assorted vehicles were scattered under the oaks near the big house. He parked alongside a vintage VW van and entered through French doors that led to the trophy room, remembering not to bump his head on the lintel.

Sonny Ritter was there, sitting near the big limestone hearth where a fire flickered from November to April. Sonny was still a roadie now and then, going on twelve years, since the days when Tom Brodie was touring with Harley Knox’s band. Sonny was another longtime hippie: leather jacket, frayed Levis, three or four years of frazzled hair on his face.

Brodie himself sat relaxed in his cowhide lounge chair, propping a fat cinnamon roll and a mug of coffee on his jeans.

Come on in, Buck. You know Sonny, have a seat. Brodie lifted the mug toward another chair, balancing the Manske roll with patrician ease. His deeply lined face framed a youthful smile. Can I get you something?

Naw thanks, I ate. Duran settled into one of the plush chairs, squeezing groans from a deep spring.

Sonny here’s been telling me about a problem’s come up. Brodie took a slow sip from his steamy mug, settled his eyes on Sonny. Why’nt you start over? Tell Buck what you been telling me.

A lady named Anna Dixon had been missing for a week. Sure, Duran had read about that in the paper. Sonny said the missing lady was his sister. She had driven from Kings Rock to their parents’ house on Inks Lake, Friday afternoon ten days ago. Once a marble-lined bend in the wild Colorado, the azure crescent of Inks Lake lay two hours northwest of Austin, hiding in the fractured landscape of the Llano Uplift. At the end of her visit Anna Dixon left on Sunday afternoon, and had not been seen since. Each day that went by, Sonny’s parents became more anxious and willing to try any means of finding Anna.

Everybody’s heard about Tom Brodie’s top hand, Sonny said sideways into the thatch of his beard, glancing at Duran. So my dad asked me, come and talk it over with you. See if there’s something you can do to help us.

Well, I’m real glad you come to us, Sonny, dropped Brodie. What do you think, Buck?

I don’t know for sure. Tell me about her.

She’s thirty-six last November. Scorpio. Got a old man and a kid. Al Dixon and Tad. Sonny watched Duran with placid camper eyes gazing out through hairy tent flaps. She looks ten years younger.

Nice-looking woman, Brodie agreed. A real lady! Came to one of our picnics, couple years back? You remember, Buck. Some of the boys was tripping on their lips!

Duran nodded. What kind of car was your sister driving?

T-Bird, one of those designer kind. Sonny described the colors as he reached into his leather jacket and pinched out a polaroid snapshot.

Here’s what she looks like. I wrote her address and phone number at the bottom. Like I said, they have a place in Kings Rock.

Anna Dixon’s hair was a few shades darker than the red pomeranian she was holding. Her features were balanced and regular except for a cleft that saved her chin from being sharp. The half smile on her lips and in her eyes made you wonder what was on her mind.

Brodie asked Duran: Think you can do anything?

Can’t tell yet, but I’ll try to come up with something. I can get right to it, ‘less you need me for anything.

Brodie washed down the last bite of roll with a swig of coffee and touched a white napkin to his mouth. As was her custom, Lucia had braided his long, graying hair that morning while he shaved.

No, you help these folks, he said. Just remember our agreement. First priority, make sure things around here are all ‘go’. Also check in with me, ever few hours. Let me know what’s up, case we need you to pull us out the ditch.

The inner door swung open and Tubby walked in with a stack of small plates. Built like a retired offensive lineman, dressed like a homeless vet, Tub was a legend in the business. He worked as Tom Brodie’s sound engineer for several years before Duran joined up.

In fact, it was Tubby Schoer who hired him fifteen years earlier. Duran reported to Tub on his first day as a roadie with Brodie’s touring band. Within a year Pistolero shot to the top of the charts, both singer and song were hailed as country-rock classics, and bucks rolled in by the bushel. Brodie started using Duran as bodyguard and driver, and they were gone from home for weeks at a time. Duran’s wife Gwen kicked him out of the house as soon as she finished her law degree. BB was only two.

Carrying a tray of sliced fruit Lucia Brodie followed Tubby into the trophy room. Her dark hair was combed close for the morning agenda, haloing the delicate oval of her face. His boss’s wife was the most beautiful woman Duran had seen, up close.

Buck, you aren’t leaving! she asserted. Stay and have some fruit.

Hi, Luce! Thanks a lot but I better get going on this.

You mean, help finding Sonny’s sister? Lucia set the platter on the granite counter and handed him a plate from Tubby’s stack. Great! Have some fruit first.

Come on, Buck, eat some of this fresh pineapple. Brodie was sampling a few bright chunks before taking a plate. Delicious, babe. Sonny, try this kiwi.

Buck shared Brodie’s fruit for a few minutes and listened to Tubby crack jokes. Before long he set plate on table, said thanks to his boss and the new wife, and walked. By that time, his jeans had about dried out.

On the way back to the French doors he passed Sonny Ritter who was studying a display of polished metal di,scs walnut-mounted along one knotty pine wall. It was a true trophy room though no plaque bore tusk or claw.

You ever see Jolene Bartozc any more? Duran asked him.

See her all the time, Sonny leveled another filtered gaze at Duran. Her and me got a place over at Bastrop. Eight acres out in the pine.

No kidding? Buck acted surprised. Still baiting each other’s hooks?

Looks that way, don’t it?

S’okay I guess. Tell her I said ‘hi’.

Tubby Schoer shouted as Duran shut the door: Drop by this evening, Buck, let’s bruise a few!

Two

The sun was already burning holes in the fractured cloud cover when Duran fired the Fiero into the wide landscaped expanse of Kings Rock Estates. It made sense to start the search where Anna and Al Dixon made a home for Tad. The smooth distance of Lake Travis flashed with the brisk clarity of what promised to be a fine April day.

Duran glanced at the map open on the seat beside him and steered the car down a side street, pulling to a stop at the foot of an abrupt rise. At intervals overhead the white stone walls of massive houses guarded the plateau like elegant forts.

He parked and pulled himself out of the low car. Feeling a twinge in his left knee, he scanned the ridge. The sun was bright now, the sky was clearing. He unlocked the door again, reached for hat, sunglasses and knee brace. He chose one of the three winding asphalt driveways and started to climb, careful of the knee.

Behind him a boat motor whined, down in the marina. He turned and watched a speedboat plow sleek Vs in the wide active surface of the lake.

You looking for something?

Turning back he saw a man standing at the top of the drive.

What do you need? the man called down. You’re on private property!

He resumed his climb to the ridge.

Name’s Duran, He said. I need to talk to Al Dixon. That you?

He is unable to see anybody right now. Mr. Dixon has had quite a shock. You’re going to have to wait a few days, Mr. Duran.

Duran strolled to within a few feet of the other man who wore a linen suit and a colorful shirt open halfway down his tanned chest. Almost a quarter-pound of expensive metal coiled down from neck and wrists. Underneath, there was a weathered roughness that gold and fine weave could not hide.

Who’re you? Duran asked.

I live next door. Now you’d better get out of here. Check back in a couple of days. Call first.

Mr. Dixon’s brother-in-law asked me to help find Mrs. Dixon. I want to hear what her husband has to say.

You got a badge?

I do, but what I’m doing now, I don’t need one. Just helping a friend look for his sister.

The police are handling all that. They’ve already spent a lot of time talking to Al. It has worried him sick. He’s been living on the edge anyway. This business has shoved him into deep depression. I got him under sedation and he’s finally getting some rest.

You a doctor?

That’s right, the neighbor said. Listen. Anna Dixon’s the kind of woman, all she can give a man’s a load of grief. Wherever she is right now, she’s getting along just fine. You can count on that. Al and Tad are the ones going through hell. The police are doing the best they can do, and they have the resources. It just takes time.

Maybe you can help me then, Duran said. You happen to know the whereabouts of Al Dixon, one week ago yesterday? That would be Sunday evening.

I certainly do! He was with me, six days straight. We flew down to Montclava to shoot quail. Got back late Monday night. Nobody even knew Anna was missing until Al got a call from her folks on Tuesday.

What about her son, Tad? Where was he?

I’m telling you, the kind of woman she is, always gone, never letting anyone know where!

Did Dixon take his son to Montclava?

No. Tad is sixteen years old. Very much the mature and level-headed young man, with a life of his own. Everything he needs is right here in this house, thanks to his father.

And he wasn’t with his mother.

It’s a common practice for Anna Dixon to go away for several days and let Al keep the house going. Be a single parent to Tad. On top of that, hold down a job. Al needed a break, so I took him to shoot some birds in Mexico, a much needed vacation. Meanwhile his wife decides to go to Inks Lake. Leaves the boy alone of course. Anyway, Tad does fine on his own.

Where does Dixon work?

He works big machinery on the MoPac extension over Barton Creek canyon. His job’s on the line over this. The whole thing started when Anna decided to go out and get her own job. She worked only one session at the Senate and everything started to come apart. She got mixed up with some political guy.

Who was it?

I never heard who it was.

How long ago was this? Duran asked.

Maybe about a year since then.

Still going on? The affair with the politician?

Non-stop, far as I can tell. Not just with him, either. We’re talking plenty others.

What others?

I don’t know for sure yet, who they are! The neighbor looked determined to find out.

How does Dixon take all this? Duran asked.

Al’s a good man and a good neighbor. Real solid. He’s earned every penny he’s got. Rotten shame he has to put up with all this. Stands to lose everything. He’s lost so much time on the job, now he’s forced to put his boat on the market.

I sure would like to talk to him. How soon do you think I can?

Far as I’m concerned, not ever. But I say, try again at the end of the week or the first of next week. I have a retreat up near the Llano River where some of my clients go to rest. I’ve decided to let Al use those facilities for a few days.

Meanwhile, what happens to Al’s wife?

I’m telling you, she’s run off. She’s out having a high time somewheres.

Do you have personal knowledge of where Anna Dixon is right now? Duran asked.

Look, I don’t know who you are. I got no business talking to you and anyway you got no business being here. In fact, I’m telling you to clear out. I’ll call Kings Rock security if I have to.

Don’t bother. Buck touched a finger to the black rim of his hat. I appreciate your taking a minute. Doctor ... I’m sorry, what is your name?

I am Frank Ormond. But Sergeant Ike Krause at the Llano Sheriff’s office is handling this case. If you need to know something, he’s the one to talk to. I have things I got to do.

Dr. Frank Ormond turned and walked toward the hillside terrace of the Dixon house. He climbed the steps and turned back around. Duran had not moved from the top of the drive.

Do I need to call security? Ormond’s voice almost cracked.

No, sir. Duran touched the hat rim again and started shuffling down the steep grade, feeling the heels of his snakeskin boots gouge the warming asphalt.

This Ormond character was from out of state. By the way he said ‘decide’ and ‘security’, Duran (ever the linguist) put him from somewhere in the Ohio Valley.

Duran heard a door open. He stopped and looked around. A tall gaunt man slomoed across the brick terrace of the Dixon house. Below an unkempt thatch of hair and red eyes round as hubcaps, a dark mouth rasped:

Is that the sheriff?

The doctor stepped onto the terrace. Dixon, get back inside the house!

Duran called out: Hello, Mr. Dixon! Could I talk to you a minute?

Dr. Ormond wheeled in his direction. I’m calling the police, now, if you don’t clear out!

The doctor caught the gaunt man’s passive wrists and guided him back to the door. Duran could see the doctor talking sharply to the disoriented man, but he could not hear what was said.

Three

Instead of leaving the Kings Rock development, Duran eased into low gear, rode freewheel down hill, twisting through live oak and juniper toward the marina. He glided into the parking lot and scanned rows of shiny, multicolored watercraft lining the piers like cattle at feed. Cruisers, jets, cats, party barges big enough for school reunions. Many million bucks of fiberglass and teak, floating idly in Lake Travis backwater.

Coasting past the pier, he began reading some of the boats’ stern tags. A boy in blue trunks and a girl with long dark hair were loading coolers into a ski rig.

The car rolled to a stop between two white lines, next to a beat-up land rover. Duran locked doors and strolled, thumbs in jeans. The two teenagers walked away from the pier and crossed the pavement toward the other end of the parking area.

A lean Latino whose face was sharp enough to chop wood came out of a door under a sign that said Kings Rock Marine Supply. He threw a flinty glance at Duran as he passed and went in through the same door. A tall muscular man with a mane of wild blond hair looked up from behind the counter.

Duran shoved his hat back and switched to Bubba mode: Looks like I’m running low on gas. Reckon I could get some from your pump?

This guy had been working out. His chest was big as Duran’s, quite fit though about a decade older. This hulk batted his yellow hair aside and got a good look before he jacked his chin. Can’s in the corner. Five bucks deposit, five bucks to fill it.

Something strange about the way he said ‘corner’. Duran replayed the word while he took out two bills and laid them on the glass counter. The other just watched Duran who picked up the can and asked: Which of these boats belongs to Al Dixon?

Below the blond mane, the tanned face was deeply lined. A long scar cut across the jaw on the left side.

He frowned at Duran, and raised his voice.

What did you say?

This guy I know, Dixon’s neighbor? I was talking to him and he said to stop by and look at that boat, ever I’s down this way. Buck rolled his shoulders. Told me it was up for sale.

The iron blue eyes behind blond strands held steady. Never heard of him. You ain’t a member. What ‘neighbor’ were you talking to?

His name is Frank but I call him Pancho.

You a cop? he asked.

Duran chuckled again, rolling more shoulder into it, and said no. His instinct told him to use stealth on this one.

You ain’t a member, you ain’t a cop, you come here asking about Al Dixon. You got to be press. The staff is under strict orders to ignore you guys.

What’re you talking about? Buck asked

This community don’t need more bad press. He swung his solid chin toward the window. Those kids out there? They don’t need it and they’d be hurt the worst.

Those kids? Who are they?

The muscular face turned angry. I got work to do. Get your gas and get out. His mane shook and went down again behind the glass counter.

No need to push it for now. Dangling the gas can, Duran walked out of the supply shop, onto the pier and down the first row of pilings. He replayed tape-loops of the voice he had just heard, analyzing it. Heavy South Florida sound to it. And something else. Something familiar but out of place. Overseas duty? Could have been army. Marines, maybe. Looked disciplined like a marine, for sure. Except for that hair.

Keeping an eye on the two kids, Duran used a pay phone to call the personnel office at the Texas Senate, back in Austin. The next step seemed to be, follow Anna Dixon to work. In a few minutes he was talking to Dixon’s former supervisor, who turned the line over to a woman named Gloria Martinez. Gloria agreed to meet him in an hour. He hung up and hoisted the gas can again.

After going through the motions of drawing a gallon of super unleaded from the marina pump and tilting it into the Fiero’s tank, he took back the empty can. The blond hulk looked up when Duran walked in the second time—instant hostility and suspicion. He was talking to a man and a woman standing at the counter, apparently marina regulars.

The man stood tall and confident in an expensive three-piece suit tailored to his lean angles. He took in Duran, but his eyes did not go above knee level. The woman, dressed in brief white tennis attire, was even more tanned than her companion—a remarkable accomplishment for early April—yet she was a good two decades younger. Duran took her in, but eyes went well above the knee.

He set the empty can on the counter, said thanks, and caught a five-dollar bill tossed by the muscular clerk. The three of them waited until Duran went out the door to resume their conversation.

The marina had a peculiar feel to it, so he decided to loiter some.

He watched the two teenagers lower the trunk of a Cutlass and cross back over the pavement to the pier. When he stepped aside to let them pass, Duran made eye contact with the long-haired girl and asked her if she knew whether Al Dixon’s boat was for sale.

The girl held a sunshade salute to her forehead. Her eyes went from Duran to the boy in blue trunks, and back to Duran.

No, I haven’t heard anything about that, she said.

It’s not for sale, the boy spoke up. He turned his head at an angle and raised his eyebrows. That’s my dad. Al Dixon.

You ought to know if the boat’s for sale, then. Guess I heard wrong. Say, aren’t you kids supposed to be in school?

There was something forced about the girl’s careless reply: Nothing important going on today, so we decided to go skiing. It’s already been two weeks since spring break. Her quick laugh was so dry it flaked.

The boy said: I’m quitting anyway. School sucks.

This was Tad Dixon, the missing woman’s 16-year-old son. He was pulling away so Duran tried to reel him in.

You know something? I’m a friend of your dad’s brother-in-law. He flashed a Bubba grin. My name’s Buck Duran.

You know Uncle Sonny? the boy asked.

Known him twelve years or more.

What’s Uncle Sonny up to?

Worried about your mom, just like everybody else. Sonny asked me to help out.

What do you know about my mother?

I’m trying to find out all I can. When did you see her last?

The boy glanced at his friend. Grandma and Granddad saw her last. That was Sunday afternoon a week ago.

Is your mother gone from home a lot? Duran asked.

What do you mean? She’s never gone that much.

What about your dad? Is he away much of the time?

The girl broke in: What are you asking? Who are you anyway?

Ignoring the girl, Duran leaned a little more, pressing the question: Was your dad home that Sunday night?

Sure. He got in from Mexico about midnight. We were up watching a movie. That was Sunday, I think. He made me go to school Monday morning and I hadn’t done a big history project. The boy’s face struggled to stay expressionless.

Looking crossly at Duran, the girl came to her friend’s rescue. That wasn’t Sunday night, it was Monday. You remember. We stayed up and had that talk with my father?

The boy seemed confused and looked at Duran with pleading eyes. Mister, do you know what’s going on?

The girl turned angrily away from them, dark hair masking her face.

Duran shook his head and looked across the brightening lake. A flawless blue sky was ramming the dark cloudbank farther to the southeast. Two sails approached each other in the distance.

No, I don’t know much! Duran said. What’s your name, son?

Tad. Tad Dixon, the boy said defensively.

Good to meet you, Tad. Call me Buck. Miss?

The girl kept her back to them.

That’s Sheila, Tad informed.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Sheila? Buck touched his hat and grinned big.

Have you seen Uncle Sonny recently? Tad asked him.

Saw him this morning, about an hour ago. He told me to find out everything I can about where your mother is. You have any idea where she could be?

All I know’s the sheriff’s looking and the DPS. Tad squinted at the two distant sails as they met and passed.

Well, if you think of any way you can help us, call Uncle Sonny, okay? Duran’s eyes aligned with the boy’s in the distance.

Sure, Tad said.

Buck asked as casually as he could: You say your dad came back from Mexico on Sunday?

It was Monday! Sheila interrupted with such emphasis, they both looked at her.

Just ask my father. The girl shook long black hair from her tanned shoulders. Ask Dr. Frank Ormond, she said. That’s our house right up there.

Duran thanked the kids and turned away to let them continue their escapade.

On his way back through the Kings Rock marina parking lot, he walked towards a shiny plum-colored Cadillac with fat whitewalls and an acre of chrome. On the passenger side he saw the young woman in scant tennis togs hunker over a small mirror being steadied by the hand of the handsome exec Duran had seen a few moments ago—the one with top-dollar tailoring.

Between a pert freckled nose and the mirror’s surface she was holding what could have been half a soda straw. About the time Duran got even with her door—he did not slow his pace much—she sat up straight and they both caught sight of him at the same moment. Her eyes had a look of dazed paranoia but her glossy red lips broke open in compulsive laughter. The man glared at him with arrogant defiance as he sauntered by. Duran did not look back.

The Fiero lifted him rapidly up and out of the valley. He turned left onto the highway on his way to Austin.

Four

At Bee Cave, Duran left the highway and turned onto a narrow ranch road that rolls along the spine of the Balcones hills. On the highest ridge he could see ten miles in all directions, just about. Today the distant lake coiled along the northern horizon like a blue dragon. In the opposite direction, the horizon was still crowded with storm clouds sweeping towards Houston. Everywhere specks of color emerged from green for the sun’s heat.

He shot the two-lane slot across the dam, climbed the shoulder of Comanche Peak and zipped past the road to Hippie Hollow. East of Volente the narrow, twisting road was the most stunning drive of many, likewise the deadliest. The pavement plunged down the side of Jollyville Plateau, then it writhed along and over the Balcones Fault, past steep indigo slopes and clusters of memorial crosses.

Pressing the gas as the Fiero leapt across Bull Creek, Duran accelerated to climb the face of Cat Mountain. Lake Austin splashed with sunlight flooding down from the deep blue. He caught a glimpse of the new bridge spanning the lake like an iron rainbow. Shimmering juniper yielded reluctantly to brick drive and metal roof along Cat Mountain’s tail.

Then the car made a black serpentine dash up the flank of Mount Barker.

At the top of the ridge he could see the city stretch into the arc made by the river where it emerges from steep hills. Crowding the downtown skyline, distant building cranes bent at their work like a swarm of alien insects. In less than a minute he was speeding south on the expressway. He eased into the city’s center, found a parking place on 14th Street, and thumbed three quarters into the meter. Now building cranes were straight overhead.

One block to the north, three erector-set colossuses were dragging yet another bank tower into the sky. The crane closest to Duran had a cross beam that reached half a block. He could see a man in a yellow hard hat in the control cab, way up there. The cross beam gyrated slowly clockwise with an air of metallic dignity, trollying a hod bucket big as a beer truck.

Checking the car doors again, he walked three humid blocks to the Capitol building. No matter what kind of weather or what time of year, the rosy granite mass makes eyes go up. The lofty lady with the gold star at the very top always sends you something. It’s the kind of building that makes you think men could be wise and good and capable of greatness.

As he walked through the Capitol grounds Duran looked around for the albino squirrel that hides in the woods there. It’s not just a legend. He saw one himself back in the sixties and again about fifteen years ago. The capitol squirrel population has an albino gene running through it. Of course no white squirrel this morning.

The eyes go up again inside the Capitol bastion, all the way up for a glance at the star in the inside center of the dome, 200 feet above. On his way through the rotunda to the stairs, Duran passed a cluster of tourists listening to a tour guide. Some were leaning back, tilting chins, others were looking down at the terrazzo design in the floor’s center that reflects the lone star high above.

The vastness of the rotunda compounded the sensation of closeness as he went downstairs to the basement. The only people who venture down there are Capitol staff, except for the occasional tourist or townsman seeking relief in the august marble restrooms at the foot of the stairs.

In a hole on one side of the public area sleeps a cramped, unappetizing food service that workers called the Linoleum Club. Duran assumed that name came from the worn, drab floor covering. Then one day he tasted the breakfast taco. Actually the name was a bit of dry satire on the exclusive Petroleum Club in San Antonio, watering hole for the oil and cattle rich.

Only one woman was sitting alone among staffers on break. Duran saw nice brown calves casually draped in cool green rayon. Wide brown eyes looked up sideways as she snuffed a cigarette.

Are you Gloria Martinez? Duran took off his highroller.

Mr. Duran? The dark amber eyes hesitated.

Buck Duran, Miz Martinez. I’m a friend of Anna Dixon’s brother.

Sit down, please, she said.

He lowered himself carefully into a plastic chair (he had broken many) then he asked: You and Anna are close friends?

Closer than sisters. She is a wonderful person. She changed my life.

You have any idea where she’s gone to?

I know she went to her parents a week ago, and she said she would come back Sunday night. She always did what she said. I know something terrible has happened to her.

What makes you think so?

It is totally unlike Anna to drop out of sight like this and not contact the people she cares about, you know, her parents or her son, or even me.

Have you known Anna for long?

Of course. Almost two years. That may not sound like a long time, but we are very close.

You get to know each other here at the Capitol?

We were both legislative aides. I still am.

Gloria Martinez’s long black lashes blinked at the stairs when this stranger spoke.

I understand Anna had some problems with men. Duran tripped into the awkward abyss created by those words, but the legislative aide held him with her warm sideways glance.

She said: Men always go for a woman like Anna. It was fun going places with her because there’d always be men. No hassles or anything, everybody just having a good time. It’s hard to describe.

She ever get serious about anybody?

Anna never gets serious about anything. Except like her family, her dad. Serious stuff.

I’ve heard there was one guy, a politician?

Yeah, I know who you’re talking about—Ben Tomlinson. He’s a lobbyist, not a politician. His office is over in the Westgate. She just indulges him, and he tries everything. No, if Anna was romantically interested in anybody, it would be Osito.

Who’s that?

That’s who he is, what she called him. Osito means ‘little bear.’ He’s a political liaison for Hi-Tex, and he teaches computers at UT. They met during the session two years ago and got to be friends. He’s married though.

So is she! What is Osito’s real name?

I don’t remember. Carson or Barnes, something like that. Anna always called him Osito to throw her husband off track. Listen, I have to go back to work. I’m not sure what you’re up to but, whatever it is, don’t let Anna get hurt. She doesn’t deserve it.

Gloria Martinez arose from her chair, but Duran wasn’t ready for her to go yet.

Gloria, if you by any chance hear from Anna, would you please give me a call? He wrote his name and number on the back of one of Tom Brodie’s cards, and handed it to her.

I sure will, the dark gems of her eyes winked as she smiled. She turned and walked to the stairs.

See you soon! he called after her.

He watched the swaying green rayon ascend out of sight, and had to sit there a minute before attempting to push his way out of the flimsy chair.

At the top of the stairs a gaggle of tour guides was roosting garrulously in their coop. Their chitter followed Duran as he crossed through the rotunda again. At the end of the west wing hall there were two twelve-foot doors leading to the outside. He squeezed one of the brass knobs, the size and shape of a Harlingen orange, pulled heavily and he stepped outside.

Late morning sun mottled the bronze of a Rough Rider who stood sentinel on one of the war memorials at the southwest corner of the grounds. He held his carbine at such a careless angle, it would shatter plate-glass in the atrium of the Supreme Court, should it discharge. Duran looked for the albino squirrel again as he walked down the sidewalk that curved toward the pigeon-proof pink brick of the Westgate building. No sign of that elusive rodent.

Duran crossed the street, entered the second set of doors and quickly passed the security desk. The directory on the wall opposite the elevators listed Tomlinson, J. B., Attorney, as an occupant of Suite 2317. Within seconds the elevator doors closed behind him. He was on his way to the top.

Once there, Duran pushed through an imposing mahogany doorway into Suite 2317 and was transfixed by the chilling gaze of a chaparral. She glared at Duran over the top of half-lens reading glasses secured to her lean person with a necklace of gold beads. He left his hat on.

You must be from the troopers’ association, she decided.

Good enough: I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop in.

Mr. Tomlinson has been expecting you. She depressed a console key on her busy desk and spoke into it. The box buzzed back.

Mr. Tomlinson will see you now, right through that door. The beak may have smiled.

Duran opened another mahogany door and the man behind the desk looked up, but continued talking on a phone. His glass-covered desk, big as a dinner table, held a number of polished brass gadgets but no paper of any kind. There were a dozen framed documents on the wall, one of which was a diploma from The University of Texas School of Law. The window behind him brought into the room a serene prospect of the hills west of town.

Tomlinson placed the phone in its cradle and creased his brow. I don’t think we’ve met before. Did Bradburn send you?

No, I don’t think we have met. I’m Buck Duran.

They shook hands. The lawyer opened a drawer, took out a thick envelope, and shuttled it across the glass toward Duran.

Well, there it is, the whole ticket. Tell Bradburn the distribution list is inside.

Tomlinson had lived in Austin for a while, but Duran could tell by the way he said those last words Tomlinson grew up in East Texas.

Duran scooted the envelope back to Tomlinson, putting a spin on it. I don’t know Bradburn. I’m here about something else.

You say you’re Dick Morgan?

Buck Duran.

The cracks in Tomlinson’s tanned brow deepened beneath close-cropped gray. He looked Duran over.

What are you doing here?

I’m looking for Anna Dixon.

Tomlinson held his eyes on Duran, but the cracks faded. He gave a little snort. It could have been a laugh.

Well, she isn’t here, is she? What did the little slut do? Take your savings and go for a walk?

Miz Dixon has been missing for a week. I’m sure you know that. It’s been in the paper. Haven’t the police been to talk to you yet?

Tomlinson swiveled back in his chair and looked along his nose at Duran. Hell, no. This is the first I’ve heard about it. Bitch must of teased the wrong cock. Finally got herself locked in the trunk of that beat-up T-bird. I coulda seen that coming.

What do you mean? Duran asked.

She comes on like a horny bitch. A man invests his time, his cash, puts his marriage on the line, you know what I mean? Pretty soon she’s hooked herself some other crappie and zip, she’s gone!

What direction you think she went last week? Duran asked, pushing the highroller to the back of his head.

You know what they say. Follow the money. And I can tell you where to pick up the trail. Tomlinson leaned forward, angling the sleeves of his nine hundred-dollar suit across polished glass. There’s some little professor type over at UT. He’s involved somehow with Hi-Tex.

Do you know his name?

She never told me his real name. She used some sort of phony Mexican code name. Very suspicious, like something to hide. That bastard got some sort of hold on her.

What sorta hold?

Hell if I know, much less care! Now, I’m going to ask you to run along. All this is doing is wasting my time and making me mad.

We appreciate your help, Mr. Tomlinson.

Don’t mention it, Tomlinson growled. Adios!

If you happen to hear from Miz Dixon ... Duran attempted.

If I hear from her? I’ll put a peace bond on her, no pun intended. Now get out!

Duran got out.

Five

Duran hiked back to the Fiero, took the yellow parking ticket off the windshield and filed it with the others in the glove box. Then he followed traffic ten blocks north to the university and found another space along a curb.

The walk to campus gave a chance to take in the grackles rasping and puffing under a greening canopy of wisteria. Their bizarre antics highlighted the portrait of Anna Dixon forming in Duran’s mind. She was no longer just a two-dimensional enigma. Though still puzzling, the image was taking on substance and contrast.

Crossing the thoroughfare, he walked onto the campus with hundreds of others coming and going. Duran entered the student union and borrowed a faculty directory from an attendant on the second floor.

There were three ‘Barnes’ entries in the directory, but none of those individuals taught anything related to computers. He checked the Computer Science catalogue. It listed an Associate Professor Henry Karnes as university liaison with HITX, the computer consortium mentioned by both Gloria Martinez and Ben Tomlinson.

Duran left the Union and walked back onto West Mall. Most of the hundred or so students that were lounging around, reading and talking, had removed at least one article of clothing, ostensibly to catch some of the first hot sun in months. He drifted toward the tower with the stream of pedestrians, amazed at innocent beauty—just like the old days. The tower’s ancient Otis rocked him slowly up to the twelfth floor where he found Karnes’s office door open.

Behind the desk inside sat a man about Duran’s age, hunkered over a stack of computer print-outs. One of his hands reached to a keyboard and jigged a code. He glanced up at the intruder. Duran pulled the highroller down in front and lowered his gaze.

Office hours were ten to twelve. I’m on my way to lunch. What do you need?

Mr. Karnes? I’m Buck Duran, a friend of Sonny Ritter. He didn’t blink. That’s Anna Dixon’s brother.

Karnes’ deep-set brown eyes focused on Duran for the first time. He stood up. Duran looked down at a trace of gray lining the part in his thick brown hair.

Anna’s brother? Karnes tossed his pencil onto the desk. Where has she been?

Mrs. Dixon is still missing. Her family asked me to help find her. Have the police been out to talk to you?

Karnes seemed to diagram each sentence before he spoke it.

What do you mean? What could I tell them?

You might have special knowledge of the lady’s personal life recently. I understand you and Anna Dixon are pretty close.

Who told you that?

Gloria Martinez says Anna calls you Osito. Duran folded his arms and nodded at Osito, from under the highroller rim.

Karnes glanced at the doorway and ran a hand through his hair. Yeah, Anna and I are friends.

How close friends are you, Osito?

Karnes raised his eyes and looked directly at Duran. We’re close friends is all.

Anna has a husband, Al Dixon. I understand you’re married too. But I don’t see a ring.

My marriage has been in trouble for years. This time Karnes raked both hands through his hair. I’ve just about given up hope for that.

Just about?

Karnes’s eyes darted again to the open door. The hallway was filling with people. Look, no one is more interested in finding Anna than I am. I will cooperate with you one hundred percent. Let’s just talk about it someplace else, okay?

You got any place in mind? Duran asked.

All right. How about Lake Austin Café? Do you know where that is? Around six.

How ‘bout right now? Duran asked.

I’d like to, but I just can’t. I’m having lunch with the chairman of the grants committee, and no way can I miss that.

After lunch?

I’m scheduled to meet with graduate students all afternoon.

Where will you be?

Look, you’ve just got to trust me. There’s no reason for me to avoid you. I will be right here. Let me give you my phone number.

Duran watched the short chunky professor fumble for his wallet. He drew out a business card and handed it over. Duran angled the card toward the light and closed one eye.

The card was embossed with the HITX logo and banner: Hemispheric Industrial Technology Exchange. There were three places listed where one might find Henry W. Karnes, PhD: this same university office, his office at consortium headquarters, and his Kings Rock residence.

How do you like living at Kings Rock? Duran asked.

Most consortium people live out there. We have our own community, you might say.

That means Anna Dixon is your neighbor.

She is, but we met professionally. I mean, we have never socialized at Kings Rock.

Okay, where have you socialized?

Karnes palmed his hair again. I can’t talk right now. We’ll have to get together later. You can reach me almost any time at one of the places on that card.

Duran slipped Karnes’s card into his wallet. You’re going to be at the Lake Austin Cafe at six this evening?

If I can get away from those graduate students.

You don’t show up, I’m coming after you.

Karnes looked helplessly at the door. I will be there.

By the time the sluggish Otis had lowered Duran to the ground floor, his adrenaline stopped pumping. He walked back down the West Mall to the student union, stood in line for two tacos and waited at the bar for a Shiner Bock before cornering a table in the noisy tavern.

Almost everything has changed at the Commons since Duran started as an undergraduate during the mid-sixties. He often ate lunch in this same spot, but there were no tacos then—in the days before the Fran Kerwin era—no beer, no tavern, just foul coffee, mess hall food and dyspeptic German conversation at the Stammtisch.

When the Sixties loosened up, Duran started taking meals in the Chuckwagon at the other end of the Union building. The food there was worse than bland, but the talk far more appetizing—freedom, revolution, Viet Nam. Duran met a serious, intense pre-law major who took him to Student Peace Coalition meetings where her equally focused comrades debated issues and tactics with more passion than reason. Not long after becoming a dues-paying activist with the SPC, Duran moved in with Gwen and went on scholastic probation.

He happened to be guarding a coffee cup with both elbows, listening to the jukebox beat out Get Back, on that autumn afternoon in 1969 when state troopers stormed the Chuckwagon. Some of the freaks started a shoving match and pushed out a wall of glass, shattering every pane. One dagger of it skidded over and nicked Duran’s shin.

After dabbling in several majors he went back to linguistics and finished the BA with a mediocre GPA. A year earlier Gwen had started law school, so Duran took the LSAT and scored high enough to join her.

Into the competitive lecture arenas of the UT law school, Gwen carried the same furious intensity that galvanized the bedroom of their apartment in Harris Park. She was one of the elite few who were combating for the top academic positions. After her first semester in Townes Hall, everyone knew she was destined for the Law Review.

Duran wasn’t sure, but maybe in an effort to maintain his own identity by becoming Gwen’s opposite, he gradually drifted away from academic discipline, finding more appeal in various distractions, such as loud guitars in smoky bars and contraband at the mild end of the spectrum. Instead of bending over a law book at the library, it was beer at a music club.

Gwen was hoping to rope him in, fence his range and plot a future for both of them when she went against her own radical nature, bought a couple of rings and hauled Duran to a justice of the peace.

A few months after BB was born, Duran dropped out of law school and got a job as a roadie with one of the local bands attracting national attention. For weeks at a time away from home, he watched the countryside slide past a bus window, and indulged as many fantasies as he could afford.

Gwen changed the locks and filed for divorce.

Duran made enough money with Tom Brodie, he never missed a child-support payment. His only regret was he had forfeited those early years with his daughter. He did not realize how much he was missing until after many wasted years he slowed down enough to pick up BB when she was nine years old. They finally got to know each other.

Six

Before Duran left the student union he decided it was time to connect with the cops. He phoned the Austin police and asked for Sergeant Cruz. They told him to check the Y. Twenty minutes later he parked under a hackberry tree off First Street and walked up the slope past the totem pole in front of the YMCA.

Behind the attendant’s counter Red Jackson, the masseur, flexed his ex-prizefighter shoulders and produced Duran’s basket and towel.

Have you seen Sergeant Cruz? He asked Red.

Downstairs, he answered economically, the same way he moved. Came in ‘bout a half hour ago.

Duran thanked him and got buzzed into the men’s locker room. He quickly changed into shorts, t-shirt, trail shoes, and strapped on the knee brace. He took stairs to the bottom level. A dozen or so men were flexing, pumping, and otherwise posing among the well-oiled armory of gun-metal weights in the Steroid Room. Two or three women were also there, mingling their fragrance with the cacophony of masculine odors, attracted perhaps by no more than the weighty clunk of iron against iron.

He crossed through the Steroid Room and found Sergeant Cruz stretching glutes and watching a mirror in the aerobics arena.

Duran wondered if Cruz’s choice of workout attire had anything to do with the daily attrition of vice squad duties. Brief nylon shorts, made from a Texas flag, clung to the curve of firm lean buttocks. A red sports bra showed muscles ripple across her sheeny brown back.

Que pasó? said Duran when Sergeant Ester Cruz looked up and saw him in the mirror.

Hey, Buck! she breathed. You wanna go run?

I don’t know. What’s the plan?

Masters and I are doing the maxi-loop. Why don’t you come along?

Sure. Duran always welcomed a chance to talk to the old pros.

You’d better warm up. We’re leaving right now. Ester lowered her trim torso to a long left leg and touched the knee with her forehead.

Duran only had time to limber knees, hams and calves before Ester told him to follow her upstairs and outside to the totem pole. Up the grim stairwell into the light, he was inspired by the flag’s sinewy undulation.

Cruz’s superior officer was standing there, hands on hips, frowning at the sun. Although several inches shorter than Duran, and at least twelve years older, Captain Masters was a powerfully huge man. With the grace and ease of a black bull, he freighted more than 250 pounds of sculpted flesh, all muscle.

Captain, Buck here’s gonna jog along with us. Is that okay? Sergeant Cruz had the reputation of being able to cajole the old man into just about anything.

Masters gave Buck the once-over with deep calculating eyes, as if sizing up his next bust. He squinted at the lake and the frequent cars on First Street, leaned in that direction, and pulled massive thighs into motion.

Let’s go, he threw back at Ester, Buck falling in behind, letting them set the pace.

Masters led them under First Street to the edge of Town Lake where they joined the traffic of walkers, runners and bikers circuiting the bright water. They did not say much for the first mile or so, just an occasional exchange between captain and sergeant in a jargon Duran pretended not to hear. Masters bunched his shoulders and gazed steadily at the trail ahead, giving the impression that he could maintain this pace for days, perhaps weeks. Duran was beginning to feel the effects of the beer he had for lunch.

They had crossed the MoPac pedestrian bridge and were skirting cypresses on the far riverbank, approaching Barton Creek, when Sergeant Cruz gave Duran an opening.

What you been up to, Buck? she asked easily.

Working on miss person. He tried not to sound winded. Anna Dixon. Heard that one?

She seemed to think about it a moment. Duran saw the captain glance at her.

That case is up in the hills some place, isn’t it? she asked.

She lives out Kings Rock, Duran managed.

Cruz let another minute pass before she spoke again casually.

You come up with something?

So far, not much. Doesn’t seem right. He gulped air. Talked two guys. This morning? Knew her real well. Nobody checked them out. Been a week.

Two guys? Ester watched the sweat bead and roll down Buck’s face. Who are they?

Witnesses. Primary. Lawyer and a UT prof. Close friends, Anna Dixon. Real close. Nobody even phoned. Duran let it sink in. What about that?

Nothing more was said for several minutes. They turned up Barton Creek where a pack of school children was giving bread crumbs and grief to some resident ducks. The Zilker Park Eagle tooted and chugged along the flowering bank above them.

About a hundred yards before they reached the Barton Creek Bridge, Captain Masters pulled up abruptly and faced Duran.

The word is this: stay away from that one. While the captain was breathing normally, Duran’s own chest jumped like a jackrabbit. DPS has a Ranger on it. He says keep out. The Feds back him up. Do you understand?

The captain’s right, Buck, added Ester. Apparently there’s more going on than a lady’s missing. Besides, it’s out of APD jurisdiction.

So what’s going on? Duran asked.

Captain Masters’ eyes retreated beneath the ledge of his dark powerful brow like a brace of hostile serpents. DEA tells us, hands off and watch, less there’s a red flag. INS, too. You stay completely out of it, mister! Understand? He gave Duran another once-over. Now, let’s move.

Sergeant Cruz and Duran followed Masters’ thundering stride over the narrow walkway on the crowded bridge, down the path above the creek, back to the lake. None of them said anything until they reached a fork in the path. Duran’s knee was starting to ache so he turned onto the path that angled up to the bridge.

Guess I’ll head on back, he said, biting a wheeze. Ester mouthed bye with a smile and a wink. Buck watched the Lone Star banner wag away down the trail, and mentally he saluted.

A half dozen steps up the crushed granite path, Duran jogged to a stop and limped all the way back to the Y, pausing midway across the Lamar bridge to lean against the metal rail and study slow brown water. He considered himself hard enough, but not nearly as hard as the trunk of a walnut, like Masters.

When he got back to the Y, he went downstairs and chipped away at the weight machines as a faint edge against mortality. After showering, he sat in a trance in the whirlpool, showered again, and climbed back into jeans. Behind the attendant’s counter, Red Jackson received his basket and shelved it with as few muscle-bound moves as possible. The man was a scientist.

Seven

It was almost four o’clock, two hours to go before Duran met Henry W. Karnes, PhD, at the Lake Austin Cafe. He wanted to see Gloria Martinez again because she seemed to be Anna Dixon’s truest friend. He drove up Congress Avenue, found a space three blocks away, shoved in quarters, and walked again to the Capitol.

The Linoleum Club was closed, so he dropped a can of grapefruit juice out of a machine, wedged himself into a plastic chair, set his