"Now you're trying," he said indulgently. The son of a bitch isn't even breathing hard, Kerney marveled. His knee locked up as he circled to the center of the alley. Benton turned with him, relaxed and watchful. He came at Kerney in a textbook move: wheeling, faking a kick, driving the point of the knife at Kerney's exposed torso. Stepping into the thrust, Kerney turned sideways, caught the knife hand, locked the pipe against the wrist, and wrenched it back with all his strength until the bones snapped. Benton yelled in agony as the knife clattered to the ground, and hammered a solid left into Kerney's eye with his good hand.
Kerney held on to the wrist, trying to bend the man to his knees. Refusing to go down, Benton hit Kerney again, flush in the mouth, followed by a solid smash to the stomach. The blow put Kerney on his hands and knees, with a searing pain that exploded in his stomach. His vision blurred, he clawed desperately on the cobblestones, searching for the pipe. He had to get to his feet. He tried to push himself upright. The knee failed, and as he tried again he felt the knife against his throat.
"You son of a bitch," Benton rasped. "You broke my fucking wrist." The man bent over him, his gray eyes locked on Kerney's face, savoring his victory. Get it over with, Kerney's mind screamed. The jagged oil-drum top came out of nowhere, like a discus. The rusty, sharp edge caught Benton in the neck and severed the artery. Blood gushed over Kerney as Benton turned toward his attacker, both hands clutching his neck. He crumpled to the ground, his dying heart pumping blood into a pool that seeped into the porous cobblestones around his head. Kerney clutched his stomach, blinked away the pain, looked at the man walking toward him, and didn't believe what he saw. It was the hunchback from the Little Turtle, only he wasn't a jorobado anymore.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, speaking between the jolts that ripped through his stomach.
"Eddie Tapia. Provost Marshal's Office. Criminal investigations. White Sands." He bent over Kerney.
"Are you all right, Lieutenant?"
"No, I'm not all right." Eddie inspected Kerney again, more closely. He was beat up, but the damage seemed superficial.
"You seem to be in one piece," he said.
"Hardly."
"Are you cut?"
Kerney shook his head.
"Forget it. Just a private joke." He held out a hand.
"Help me up."
"Can you walk?"
"Of course I can." On his feet, Kerney felt light-headed. If he could puke, maybe he would feel better. He swayed, and Eddie grabbed him around the waist to keep him steady.
"Can you make it to Benton's car?" Eddie asked.
"Benton's car?" Kerney repeated vaguely, wondering if Benton was the dead man.
"Yeah. He left the keys in the ignition."
"Let's go." At the car, Eddie checked for any sign of Carlos, hurried Kerney inside the vehicle, and drove to the main drag as quickly as possible. Surrounded by Friday-night traffic and heading toward the bridge, he risked a glance at Kerney. The lieutenant, doubled over with his head between his legs, seemed to be gagging. Kerney sat up and rested his head against the back of the seat.
"I just threw up," he said. "Sorry about that."
"I know how it feels," Eddie said. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, rolled down the window, and turned on the air conditioner.
"Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?" Eddie asked.
***
Enrique De Leon paced on the loading dock waiting for Carlos to return with Eddie. Carlos would have to be punished. His inattentiveness had allowed the jorobado to flee. A beating would improve his attitude. He heard footsteps running down the alley. The warehouse foreman moved to his side protectively, pistol in hand. Carlos arrived winded, and stood looking up at De Leon with a distressed expression. He placed a bundle on the dock at De Leon feet. "The hunchback was a fake, patron," he said. De Leon knelt and inspected the bundle. Inside the arm sling was an elaborate harness and cowhide skin formed into a hump with padding. The cowhide, expertly tanned and supple to the touch, felt remarkably lifelike.
"What else?" De Leon said, rising. Carlos held up a knife.
"Benton is dead, Don Enrique."
De Leon raised an eyebrow.
"Really?" It was unexpected news.
"How?"
"His neck was cut," Carlos replied.
"Tell Dominguez to remove the body from the alley and send men to look for the gringo and the jorobado."
"Yes, patron." Carlos started to leave.
"Wait," Enrique ordered.
"Bring Francisco Posada to me."
"Yes, patron." De Leon waved him away.
"Go." Carlos scurried off. De Leon decided he would not have Carlos badly beaten. Eddie had fooled them both, along with dozens of customers and employees.
A gifted young man, De Leon thought dryly. He felt a need to know more about Eddie. Francisco might have information, and if not, he could get it. It was also vital to learn more about Kerney, now that Benton was dead. Frustrated, De Leon went back inside the Little Turtle.
Chapter 11.
Seated at the table on the patio of Fred Utiey's house, James Meehan watched the setting sun on the western horizon while Fred stirred the charcoal in the barbeque pit, his back stiff with irritation. Meehan smiled to himself and dropped his gaze to the foothills of the subdivision where Utiey lived. The new single-family homes were gradually creeping up the hills toward Utiey's lot. Fred had thrown up a six-foot wall to protect his privacy from the encroachment. Meehan switched his attention back to Fred and watched as Utiey plunged the poker into the hot coals one last time before walking to the table. He took his glasses off to clean them and peered nearsightedly at Meehan.
"How could Gutierrez lose the last shipment?" Utiey demanded, his tone verging on a whine.
"Eppi got careless," Meehan replied.
"He moved the merchandise to the ranch house before he went to play with his sheep. When he came back for it, it was gone."
"Where is Gutierrez now?"
"Sulking in El Paso with Benton."
"The stupid son of a bitch. What do we do now?" De Leon expects a full shipment." Utiey held his eyeglasses close to his nose, decided they were still dirty, and cleaned them again.
"How do we do that?" he grumbled.
"We get the merchandise back," Meehan said, rising to mix another drink at the wet bar near the patio door. "I know who has our property."
"Who?" Utiey adjusted his eyeglasses on his nose.
"Your girlfriend," Meehan replied.
"Sara?" Fred asked incredulously.
"How did she get it?" Meehan shrugged.
"Luck. The details aren't important. We need our property back." Utiey laughed caustically.
"From Sara? I doubt it."
"She'll cooperate."
"You don't know Sara," Fred rebutted. Meehan sighed and walked back to the table.
"I have all the information I need to encourage her to cooperate."
"Like what?"
"Leave that to me. It won't be difficult." He patted Utiey on the cheek, his hard gaze locked on Fred's face. "I need your help." Utiey shook off Meehan's touch, his eyes fearful.
"I want no part of it." Meehan held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
"We're that close to millions of dollars, Fred. Do you want to see it go down the drain simply because we didn't even try to meet our obligation to De Leon."
Utiey's defenses started to collapse. He wanted the money a lot more than he cared about Sara.
"I can't face her," he said weakly, sinking into a chair.
"You don't have to," Meehan reassured him. He sat down, stretched out his legs, and gave Utiey a friendly smile.
"You won't hurt her?" Meehan chuckled.
"Of course not. I'll have her detained until we're safely out of the country. By the time she's released you'll have a new identity and a passport that will take you anywhere you want to go. With enough money to last a lifetime."
"What do you want me to do?"<
br />
"Call her," Meehan responded.
"Get her to come over here on a pretext. Tell her it's important and you don't want to talk about it on the phone." Meehan stood up and looked at his watch. "She should be home by now."
"What do I say?"
"Keep it simple. A personal crisis. A death in your family." Meehan touched Utiey's arm and walked him to the patio door. Utiey took the cue and followed.
"Something like that would do nicely," Meehan added.
"I don't know if I can do it."
"We have no other option," Meehan said gently, as he slid the door open.
"Come on, let's get it over with. We'll get through this, Fred. It's just a little bump in the road."
"I hope so," Utiey replied. Meehan waited for Fred to go first, closed the patio door behind him, and followed him into the living room. He stood close with an encouraging smile and watched Fred dial the number with a shaking hand.
Fred's nervousness should help encourage Sara to agree to come, he thought happily. Utiey used the death-in-the-family ploy. His voice cracked nicely, and he sounded persuasively distraught. He hung up and breathed a sigh of relief.
"She's coming over in half an hour. That was hard for me to do."
"I know it was," Meehan said, patting him on the shoulder. He grabbed Fred's lower jaw with his left hand and yanked down as he jammed a pistol into the now-gaping mouth with his right hand. Utiey didn't have time to scream as the bullet exploded in his brain. Meehan relaxed his grip and Fred collapsed on the floor, the pistol protruding from his mouth. Meehan smiled, bent over the body, wiped the pistol grip clean, wrapped Utiey's fingers around the weapon, and got busy tidying up. The suicide angle might just hold up indefinitely, but it wasn't essential.
It was Friday night and Utiey wouldn't be missed over the weekend. That gave him more than enough time. Meehan checked his watch, his hands sweating inside the latex gloves he wore as he removed all traces of his presence. Sara would arrive soon, and Benton should call shortly after that to report on his meeting with De Leon He hoped Sara wouldn't crack too easily.
***
Sara had half a notion to call Fred back and tell him she wasn't coming over, but the sudden death of his mother had obviously shaken him up. Fred wasn't one to ask for unnecessary attention, and the demands of her job often forced her to neglect the few good friends she had. In spite of Fred's unwelcome romantic interest in her, he was still a friend. With no word from Kerney or Eddie Tapia in the last twenty-four hours, she was more than a little worried about them. She recorded a short message and Fred's phone number on her answering machine for Kerney, and suddenly realized that she missed him. The question was, how long would the feeling last? So far, it felt very authentic. In her Jeep Cherokee, she checked her hair in the visor mirror. Her smile amused her; it was blatantly lascivious. Chalk another one up for Kerney, she said to herself. Fred's car was in the driveway when she arrived, and the drapes to the large picture windows on either side of the front door were closed. She walked up the brick path to the house and rang the bell. When it opened, Jim Meehan stood in front other, a friendly smile on his face.
"Hi, Sara," he said amiably.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I've been waiting for you," he replied, as he raised a sap from behind his back. She saw the blow coming, tried to sidestep it, and drove the palm of her hand at Meehan's nose. He turned his head and the blow caught him on the cheek. She clawed for his eyes with her fingers as he hit her hard with the sap above her ear. She was unconscious before the side of her head bounced against the doorjamb. Meehan grabbed her as she fell and carried her inside. She woke up handcuffed, tied to a straight-backed chair, with her feet bound. Fred Utiey, sprawled on his side, his cheek pressed against the carpet, stared at her with a dead, startled eye. A gun stuck out of his mouth and his lips were seared black with powder burns. Sara felt her stomach turn over. She swallowed, held her breath until the sensation passed, and looked for Meehan. He sat on the couch at the far side of the room with a boyish, pleased smile. The back of her head hurt like hell. She raised her wrists away from the small of her back, and handcuffs bit into the bone.
"Why did you kill Fred?" she asked, concentrating on Meehan to avoid the grotesqueness on the floor.
"He killed himself," Meehan answered casually. "The strain of becoming a rich man was just too much for him. What kind of funeral do you think he'd like?"
"Didn't you ask?"
"I didn't have the time," Meehan said.
"I think something original would suit him. A Tibetan ritual, perhaps. By ancient tradition they put bodies on a mountainside for the vultures to pick clean. Do you think Fred would like that?" Sara shrugged.
"How about you? What kind of funeral would you like?"
"Full military honors," Sara answered.
"Something you'll never get." Meehan laughed. "You're so spunky." He got up from the couch and stood over her, rubbing his hands.
"A spunky, meddlesome cunt in uniform."
"Fuck off, Jim." He slapped her.
"Pissing me off isn't smart." He smiled and walked behind the chair. Sara froze when she felt his fingers on her shoulders. Gently, he rubbed her neck.
"You're all tensed up."
"Take your hands off me." He tightened his fingers around her neck.
"I want the coins and letters."
"I don't have them."
Meehan laughed. "That's what Kerney said before he died in Juarez." He felt her stiffen. He twisted her face upward, forcing her to look at him.
"You must be bad luck, Sara. Both of the men you were fucking are dead." He could feel Sara's jaw tighten as she clamped her mouth shut. He released her face and patted her cheek.
"We'll keep Fred company for a while," he informed her cheerfully.
"It will give you time to think about your options." Humming to himself, he turned out the lights and returned to the couch.
***
Eddie stopped the car in a parking lot on the El Paso side of the bridge. The stink from Kerney's vomit had dissipated enough to make breathing bearable. He could hardly believe all the stuff the lieutenant had told him about a secret cave with hidden treasure. It sounded like something out of the movies. "Your turn," Kerney prompted.
Eddie told him what he knew about Benton and De Leon.
The main problem, Kerney mused, was putting the final pieces together before they ran out of time. "Did Benton mention any names when he was talking with De Leon he asked.
"No."
"We need to find out more about him," Kerney proposed as he opened the car door.
"I'll backtrack on Benton," Eddie volunteered.
"Maybe I can find out where he was staying, where he hung out--that sort of stuff."
"You need to get that arm looked after," Kerney countered.
"I will. You're not in great shape yourself," Eddie reminded him.
"I'll survive," Kerney said.
"Okay, see what you can dig up. I'll let Sara know what you're doing."
Kerney pulled himself out of the car, his hand gripping the door to keep his balance.
"Thanks."
Kerney shut the door and looked at Eddie through the open window. "Don't thank me. I owe you a lot. I'm too old to be brawling in dark alleys with guys like Benton. Leave a message with Sara Brannon if you find anything." Eddie nodded. "You're heading back to the base?"
"Yeah. Be careful, Eddie."
"You got it, Lieutenant," Eddie said, shifting the car into gear. He watched Kerney hobble to his truck. The vehicle lurched and stalled as Kerney tried to drive away. He cranked the truck engine again, eased the clutch out, and rolled slowly through the parking lot.
Kerney was some piece of work, Eddie decided. With the odds totally against him, Kerney had stood his ground and done a lot of damage before Benton had him down. Eddie wondered if he could do as well under the same circumstances.
***
The living room wa
s dark except for the weak light that spilled into the room from the kitchen and illuminated Fred's body. Meehan was behind her, and all Sara could hear was the sound of his breathing. The handcuffs were killing her, and she had lost most of the sensation in her fingers. She tried moving her hands to restore the circulation and bit her lip to keep from gasping with pain. She heard the rustling of clothing as Meehan paced behind her chair. Was Kerney really dead? She didn't want to believe it, but the possibility plagued her. She needed to stop dwelling on it and stay focused on Meehan--stay angry. He planned to kill her, she was sure of it, but he was waiting for something to happen first. It gave her time. She made another attempt to force her finger into the back pocket of her jeans. She'd stopped for gas in town and out of habit had stuck the charge slip in her pocket. She brought her hands as high as she could and wiggled a finger into the pocket. Meehan heard the sound.
"Are the handcuffs too tight?" She froze.
"Yes. Please loosen them."
"I don't think so," he said after a long pause. He started pacing again, and she dug her finger back into the pocket. The receipt was crumpled and wedged in a corner. She inched it slowly along the seam and checked her movement when Meehan stopped pacing. In the mirror above Fred's body she could see his silhouette. His back to her, he gazed out the patio door. Slowly she wiggled the receipt free, and it fell out. She probed for it on the chair cushion but couldn't find it, so she shifted her fanny to the back of the chair, hoping to conceal it.
Tularosa - Michael McGarrity Page 19