A doctor appears. Tall, with a JFK haircut and hooded eyes. ‘He says he doesn’t want a lawyer. You can go in.’

Hector is sitting up on his hospital bed with a handcuff around one wrist. His other arm is bandaged up and hanging from a sling. He looks up at us fearfully when we walk in, but seems almost relieved when he recognises us. Makes me wonder who he was expecting.

‘Hector Gomez?’ Thistle says. ‘I’m Agent Reese Thistle, and this is—’

‘You have to go to my house,’ he says. ‘Please.’ His Mexican accent has faded into the background. I’d say he’s been in Texas at least ten years.

‘First let’s talk about why you ran,’ Thistle says.

‘There’s no time,’ he says. ‘They will kill my boys. I can’t protect them from here.’

‘Who threatened your kids?’ I ask.

Groaning with frustration, Gomez pulls at his cuffs. ‘I will tell you everything, okay? I swear it. But you have to send someone to my home, right now. My family is in danger.’

Thistle looks at me, eyebrows raised in a question.

I nod slightly. I’m pretty sure he’s telling the truth.

‘Okay,’ Thistle says. She pulls out her phone and calls Vasquez. ‘Hi again. You got Gomez’s address there? Great. I need you to send a patrol car to his house … Right. No, not at this stage. Sounds like a potential retribution thing … Sure. Let me know.’

She hangs up. ‘The police are on their way to your house. You want to tell me what they’ll find?’

Gomez relaxes. ‘Hopefully nothing. They are probably not even home.’

‘Tell us who threatened you,’ Thistle says.

Gomez takes a breath. ‘Okay.’

•

She was pretty, for a white lady. A tall blonde, thirties, with clear skin and full lips. He thought she had a great figure, too, under her narrow grey skirt and that silk blouse. But he didn’t look directly at her. He didn’t want to be rude. And anyway, he had been married for nine years.

Here at the dump, she looked incredibly out of place. Like a flight attendant who had walked out of a crashed aircraft, unscathed. Hector was headed back to his pick-up—it was sunset—when she waved to him.

‘Hector Gomez?’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Miss. You have me confused with someone else.’ His name at work was Greg Post.

She smiled, showing perfect teeth. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m not a cop. I have a job offer for you.’

‘Thank you, but I already have a job,’ he said. ‘Excuse me.’

He tried to keep walking towards his truck, but she stepped out in front of him. ‘A former employee of mine, Judah Price, he said you could use some extra money.’