Panzer
The clock on the wall ticked past 6:00 PM as Panzer watched Harbaugh pace back and forth across the blue-carpeted floor of the Cactus Hollow Sheriff's Office.
Specifically, he kept an eye on Harbaugh's left shoe.
It was the one that had accidentally stepped in horse shit at Old Man Tiller's horse farm the evening before, and even though Harbaugh had scraped it off and tried to clean it—unleashing a steady stream of obscenities while he did so—Panzer could still see a few dried, crusty bits clinging to the edges, and the smell was still awful. He did his best to breathe through his mouth and tried not to consider the unpleasant task of shampooing the carpet once Harbaugh was gone.
Harbaugh had been up all night, and his eyes were bloodshot and baggy. Once he'd confirmed that two horses had been stolen from Tiller, he rode over the desert in a helicopter, expecting to find Billie and the biker dead in the sand with their animals next to them.
When he didn't see them, he went to Caddo Corners and questioned Samantha for almost three hours about whether Billie had been there. Panzer tried to tell him that it wouldn't make any sense for a hostage to lead her captor to her loved ones, but Harbaugh sneered, calling Panzer more names and telling him to “go find a plate of grits to eat while the adults are talking.”
That just left the wooded area nearby to search. But when he ordered agents to do it, Harbaugh came up against the Texas office of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, which claimed that the woods were disputed Taysha territory and refused to permit access. They briefly liaised with the reservation's leaders, who insisted that no outsiders had been seen there in several days.
Needless to say, Harbaugh wasn't happy.
“Injuns,” Harbaugh muttered, shaking his head angrily. “Unbelievable. I chase these bank-robbing cocksuckers across five states, interview dozens of witnesses, spend hours reviewing forensic evidence and get within a few fucking miles of the bastards...only to have all my hard work flushed down the crapper by a bunch of goddamn backwards-ass Injuns.”
“Actually, I'm pretty sure you ain't s'posed to call 'em 'Injuns' no more?” Broyles commented, picking his teeth with a corner of an envelope from the day's mail. “The proper term was, uh, Native American for a while? 'Cept now I think the more politically-correct word is 'indigenous,' though some tribes are still fine with Native Indian? Always seemed weird to me, though, now that we know they was never really from India to start with...”
“Shut your corn-muncher, you useless nimrod,” Harbaugh roared. “I can't even hear myself think.”
Broyles shrugged. “You just stressed, is all. Bad for yer blood pressure an' the like. You oughtta take a minute or two out of the day to relax, maybe watch somethin' that'll make you laugh. Hey, like that video that's been makin' the rounds online, with them two stupid people who tried to rob the gas station earlier today? Had me laughin' fit to spit.”
“Broyles, maybe we should just leave Agent Harbaugh alone,” Panzer suggested. He enjoyed watching Broyles piss off Harbaugh, but he'd already heard enough of the man's insults for the day.
“Naw, he'll get a kick out of it fer sure,” Broyles said, switching on the TV in the office. “It's a real hoot. They said they was gonna have more of it on the news.”
Panzer sighed. If Broyles was so eager to get cussed out again, he reckoned there was nothing he could do about it.
Broyles flipped to the local news as a reporter addressed the audience. “Shortly after two o'clock this afternoon, two people—a man and a woman—entered the Gas-4-U filling station near Odessa and attempted to rob it. But even though they came in wearing masks, the identity of the male robber didn't remain secret for long.”
Panzer watched the screen as a young boy snuck up behind the man in the bandana, yanking it off his face. When Panzer saw the thief's comically surprised expression, he chuckled.
Suddenly, Harbaugh's bony hand clamped down on Panzer's shoulder.
“The woman in the ski mask,” Harbaugh said. “Her height, weight, clothes...they all match our description for Ms. Rosewood.”
Panzer looked at the television again, frowning. “I guess so. Still, could be anybody. Lots of gals are that size, and lots of 'em have that same outfit.”
“Look at the man, though, numbnuts,” Harbaugh insisted. “Study his face carefully, and turn whatever crank it takes to get your brain working. Could that be the biker you saw at the bar, with the long brown hair?”
Panzer looked at the screen more closely and sighed. “Yeah. I reckon it could.”
“She isn't looking much like a hostage these days, is she?” Harbaugh sneered. “Not with the way she's shooting off that gun.”
“That still don't mean she's an accomplice,” Panzer countered. “She could be under duress, or we could be dealin' with brainwashing, some kinda Stockholm Syndrome like that Patty Hearst lady...”
“Save it,” Harbaugh spat, turning to give orders to his other agents. “Get on the phone to the Lubbock PD and the state police barracks. Find out if they have an ID on that man, and get me everything we can dig up on him, especially his known associates. Meanwhile, start circulating his photo in that area along with the woman's, and include variations with different haircuts and styles—if they know they made the news, they've probably already tried to change their appearance.”
He glared up at the TV, which showed a freeze-frame of the unmasked robber.
“I'll have you yet, you slippery son of a bitch,” Harbaugh said.