Die Trying by Lee Child

guy about sixty, solid, gray. He looked reliable. Webster waved him

back into his seat and McGrath laid the four glossy mug shots on his

desk in front of him.

“You know these guys?” he asked.

The sheriff slid the photographs nearer and looked at each of them in

turn. He picked them up and shuffled them into a new order. Laid them

back down on the desk like he was dealing a hand of giant playing

cards. Then he nodded and reached down to his desk pedestal. Rolled

open a drawer. Lifted out three buff files. He placed the files

underneath three of the photographs. Laid a stubby finger on the first

face.

“Peter Wayne Bell,” he said. “Mojave kid, but he was down here a lot.

Not a very nice boy, as I believe you know.”

He nodded across to his monitor screen on a computer cart at the end of

the desk. A page from the National Crime Center Database was glowing

green. It was the report from the North Dakota cops about the identity

of the body they had found in a ditch. The identity, and the

history.

The sheriff moved his wrist and laid a finger on the next photograph.

It was the gunman who had pushed Holly Johnson into the back of the

Lexus.

“Steven Stewart,” he said. “Called Stevie, or Little Stevie. Farm

17Q

boy, a couple of bushels short of a wagonload, know what I mean? Jumpy,

jittery sort of a boy.”

“What’s in his file?” Webster asked.

The sheriff shrugged.

“Nothing too serious,” he said. The boy was just too plain dumb for

his own good. Group of kids would go out and mess around, and guess

who’d be the one still stood there when I roll up? Little Stevie,

that’s who. I locked him up a dozen times, I guess, but he never did

much of what you would want to call serious shit.”

McGrath nodded and pointed to the photograph of the gunman who had

gotten into the front seat of the Lexus.

This guy?” he asked.

The sheriff moved his finger and laid it on the guy’s glossy throat.

Tony Loder,” he said. This is a fairly bad guy. Smarter than Stevie,

dumber than you or me. I’ll give you the file. Maybe it won’t keep

you Bureau guys awake nights, but it sure won’t help you sleep any

better than you were going to anyhow.”

“What about the big guy?” Webster asked.

The sheriff jumped his finger along the row and shook his grizzled

head.

“Never saw this guy before,” he said. That’s for damn sure. I’d

remember him if I had.”

“We think maybe he’s a foreigner,” Webster said. “Maybe European.

Maybe had an accent. That ring any bells with you?”

The sheriff just kept on shaking his head.

“Never saw him before,” he said again. “I’d remember.”

“OK,” McGrath said. “Bell, Little Stevie Stewart, Tony Loder and the

mystery man. Where do these Borken guys fit in?”

The sheriff shrugged.

“Old Dutch Borken never fit in nowhere,” he said. That was his

problem. He was in Nam, infantry grunt, moved out here when he got out

of the service. Brought a pretty wife and a little fat ten-year-old

boy with him, started growing citrus, did pretty well for a long while.

He was a strange guy, a loner, never saw much of him. But he was happy

enough, I guess. Then the wife took sick and died, and the boy started

acting weird, the market took a couple of hits, profits were down, the

growers all started getting into the banks for loans, interest went up,

land went down, the ion collateral was disappearing, irrigation water

got expensive, they all started going belly-up one after the other.

Borken took it bad and swallowed his shotgun.”

Webster nodded.

The little fat ten-year-old was Beau Borken?” he asked.

The sheriff nodded.

“Beau Borken,” he said. “Very strange boy. Very smart. But

obsessed.”

“With what?” McGrath asked.

“Mexicans started coming up,” the sheriff said. “Cheap labor. Young

Beau was dead set against it. He started hollering about keeping

Kendall white. Joined the John Birch types.”

“So he was a racist?” McGrath said.