River Run

by J. S. James

  La cucaracha, la cucaracha. I float outside me, up into the gray.

  La cucaracha, la cucaracha. Dark swallows the light.

  * * *

  La cucaracha, la cucaracha.

  “¡Ay, Dios!” Eyes blinking in relief, Delia lunged for the phone.

  La cucara—

  She picked up and held the buglike receiver over the churning water, pushing back the dream-fear. For a moment she thought about hanging up, putting off possible bad news. Instead she pressed its yellow cockroach belly against her ear. “Yeah.”

  “Chavez, are you drowning or something?” It was Annie, the sheriff’s right-hand man—who was all woman.

  Delia sat up. “Nah, I’m in my hot tub. So, what’s the word?” Tight friends now, she and Annie Cox were social opposites who hadn’t gotten along at first. Delia had been raised in Aunt Matilda and Uncle Tino Flores’s strict—Tino not so much—churchgoing household. Annie had been a military brat. She’d gotten around, and still did. Funny how that could fascinate even an Easter Catholic.

  “You’ve got one of those? Have to come out and try it. Clothing optional? Mind if I bring a friend or two?” Annie’s stalling wasn’t a good sign. But then, her calls always started off with a heavy dose of light banter.

  “Not if it’s the Friday-night kind you pick up at MaGoo’s.”

  “Party pooper.”

  Enough chitchat. “So what’s the verdict?”

  Quiet from the other end. Clawed yawned, the hooks on his paws kneading her towel into a rumpled wad. Forget she was neck deep in soothing heat, Delia’s body felt drum tight. Her free hand had gravitated up near her throat.

  “Big shouting match in the sheriff’s office, but I read Grice’s expression on his way to a potty break.”

  “And?” Delia owned one piece of jewelry, a silver crucifix on a chain. At the bottom of that chain, her twirling fingers gave the family keepsake a workout.

  “Not happy. Schenkel followed Grice out, smiling. Signaled three-to-one and flipped me a thumbs-up—shooting justified.”

  She gave her family memento a hard squeeze before letting go. She was the only female officer on the force, the first Latino, and now the only deputy to weather two shooting inquests. Much as it cut across her vegetarian grain, she owed Harvey a prime rib dinner.

  But the vote wasn’t unanimous. Resentment crowded out her sense of relief. “Do I need to guess who the holdout was?”

  “Grice was the dissenter, according to the note he dropped on my desk. Harvey is still negotiating.”

  “Negotiating?” Delia’s yell startled Clawed. Recalling Harvey’s warnings about threads connecting the two shootings—her “temper” for one—she lowered her voice. “What’s to negotiate? Hell, I’ve already seen a psych.”

  “Penance. Sorry, but the sheriff has conditions. Insists you stay in grade and under his thumb for another six months. Says you need more seasoning.”

  Delia huffed. “I get any more seasoned and you can pop me in the oven for Thanksgiving.”

  Annie just sighed. No sense rehashing.

  Delia pulled her French braid around and chewed at the dark tip.

  “I heard Marion County’s hiring. Maybe I’ll jump ship.”

  She felt the sting of Annie’s silence. It was no secret Grice was slow-walking through another election cycle and into retirement—a buck-passer who’d blame the department’s lack of direction and a shrinking deputy roster on anything and anyone except himself. But Annie didn’t need to point out how Delia’s two shooting inquests inside two years, plus a lame recommendation from her superior, would stymie any serious job interview. Especially if he ran an update on her background check.

  Her last had been six years ago. Before the Albuquerque police raided her older brother’s custom car palace–turned–chop shop and shot a hole in Enrique’s hip for resisting. His partner, Big Juan Diego, skipped out and made his way to Oregon. Ran a speed shop and tow service just down the street from the county courthouse. It would be no mental leap for Grice to find out she had an incarcerated brother. Or to figure out that Enrique’s ill-gained money had put her through school. After beating herself up over the discovery, Delia had gotten to where she was okay with crime gains launching a law enforcement career. But would Grice make a big deal out of it? Hell yes, he would.

  “Quitting is not like you, Chavez. Stick in there. Change is in the air.”

  Delia leaned forward, cocking her head. “Why, what have you heard?”

  “Can’t say yet, but something’s bound to happen.”

  Delia waited for a second, but when Annie buttoned up, she stayed buttoned. “You said ‘several conditions.’ What else?”

  “Night shifts, special patrol assignments. Part of keeping you under his thumb, I guess. Grice plans to throw scut work your way. Expect some crowd control assignments for a while.”

  Delia sat up, sloshing water over the tub’s rim. “What crowds? We live in a backwater rural county, for godsakes.”

  “PETA protesters. Harvey thinks they’re building steam to disrupt this year’s hunting openers.”

  “That’s the Staties. Fish and Wildlife. How do we figure in?” Delia knew from her trooper contacts that People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals’ feeble attempt to break up last year’s game hunting had been all bluster and noise, done mostly for TV exposure.

  “County facilities are likely targets for this year’s waterfowl season. Droves of duck hunters use our boating access ramps and— Uh, the sheriff’s coming back. If he signs your reinstatement tonight, I should see you tomorrow evening.”

  Delia dropped the phone onto its cradle and slumped back into the tub. Her hoped-for jump to Investigations had just gotten sidetracked. She poured another Diablo Rojo and sucked it down, watching Clawed’s tail switch.

  “Whaddaya think, old boy, should I hang tough or job hunt?”

  Meolph.

  “I hear ya. Quit whining and take my lumps.”

  The big Maine Coon rose up and stretched. Then he showed her his fluffy backside and sauntered off into the night.

  4

  Polk County sheriff Augustus L. B. “Gus” Grice picked at the irksome growth alongside his left nostril and eyed the documents on his desk. He’d wasted half the morning combing through Delia Chavez’s service jacket knowing he was going through the motions. It galled him to pull her off administrative leave when he really wanted to knock the pegs out from under that smartass. Her and her uppity criminal justice degree.

  He had to admit, her incident report logs were extensive for six years in grade. His first six as a county-mounty had earned him a look and a disappointing send-back for another three in uniform. Nine goddamn years, just to make detective. Then Harvey Schenkel had shown up, recruited right in over Gus’s head.

  He smiled to himself. Well, his election upset had sure put the kibosh on that seniority-jumper.

  He puffed up his cheeks and blew out. Pen in hand, he paged through Chavez’s portfolio, hoping something he’d missed would pop up on its own. Zip from her shooting write-ups. Background check’s old but clean. No juvie record. The lean family section was no surprise: wetback amnesia, with parents almost sure to be illegals.

  His yellow pad stayed blank. Chavez and Schenkel had pulled off another ass-covering. Cursing under his breath, Gus signed off on the order to reinstate and slapped her portfolio shut. Next time. And there would be one.

  At least Schenkel wouldn’t dare put her up for detective anytime soon, not with her reassigned to back-county night patrol. For once, running short on deputies was a good thing.

  His in-box load was light, a couple of callbacks and a stack of circulars. Gus picked up the first message slip and tensed. The words U.S. Navy flared like a beacon. His scalp prickled, struggling to kill the flashback. Once he’d gotten through the whole message, Gus relaxed. Somewhat. The note was from the president of the Oregon County Sheriffs’ Association. A heads-up that a Commander John Bannock, U.S. Navy, mi
ght contact Gus and other sheriffs whose counties bordered the Willamette River.

  Other sheriffs, not just Gus. Nothing about his time in Colombia.

  A second message was from Perry Barsch, a county politico. No urgency there. He set both notes aside and moved on to the latest crop of wants and warrants.

  The first handful dished up the usual: A pair of pharmacy B&E specialists working their way up the Valley. A scam artist running an investment scheme on the elderly. A ganja transporter who evaded State Police but left a rental truck with bales of Mexican merriment idling on an I-5 exit ramp. Gus shook his head at that one. No doubt the Staties’d crow to the media over their major drug haul.

  Gus came to a federal bulletin and groaned. It was an FBI circle-jerk, cautioning that ALFies—shorthand for Animal Liberation Front extremists—had infiltrated several PETA chapters. He skimmed the notice and found nothing pertinent to his jurisdiction. Local colleges had no primate labs to raid, no monkeys that needed liberating.

  After PETA’s fizzled attempt to ruffle hunters during last fall’s opener, the group had gone low profile. Maybe the Feds were afraid ALFies would talk PETA into blowing up a processed chicken truck. Inject packaged fryers with vomit-green dye. So what was he supposed to do, talk the county’s grocers into restocking meat counters with Tofurky? Patrolling the opening-day crowds alone at county marine parks was ass-pain aplenty. He pitched the notice into the circular file cabinet beside his desk.

  The warm, scaly growth by his nose was a finger magnet.

  The next item was an alert on a military fugitive thought likely to turn up in his jurisdiction. Perplexed, he skimmed the description beneath the smudged photo. AWOLs didn’t normally make the U.S. marshal’s most-wanted list. When he got to the bottom, Gus let out a low whistle. Before skipping out somewhere on the upper Amazon River, this Robert Bastida character had wrecked a U.S.-Colombian counterdrug-training operation. Gus knew from experience to insert air quotes before and after training with any Colombian riverine unit.

  Time to fortify. Standing, he picked up his cup. The phone buzzed, causing Gus to take a longing glance toward his coffee alcove as he tapped the communications bay light.

  “Hey, Annie.”

  “Aloha, Sheriff.”

  Gus chuckled to himself. Annie Cox had just gotten back from Oahu. He pictured her in a room at the Waikiki Pearl, her teased-out shock of high sorrel gushing across a good-size pillow. His mind’s eye traveled lower, conjuring lighter wisps of red, curling over hip-hugging Victoria’s Secret underwear.

  “Change your mind, darlin’?”

  “Sheriff, you know you’re way too much man for me.”

  He chuckled. Earlier, Gus had sauntered past her com bay, floated his usual offer, and gotten back a wink.

  The afterthought of that mock tease made Gus warm inside. Annie was old school. None of that “Help me, I’m being sexually harassed” garbage. The love exploits of his saucy-mouthed dispatcher were legend, and legend held she wasn’t all that choosy.

  Not that she’d yet chosen him.

  “Well, Annie, you just let ole Gus know when you get tired ’a chasin’ those young hotshots.”

  “Until I do, Sheriff, promise you’ll keep breathing in and out?”

  Gus gave out a lost-cause sigh. “You rang me, darlin’?”

  “Right. The naval officer Tomlin referred to is on line one.”

  “Jeezum, but that was quick.”

  Settling back into his chair, Gus picked up the receiver and punched the flashing button. “Sheriff Grice here.”

  “Former petty officer third class, Augustus L. B. Grice?”

  Gus felt that tingle along his hairline again. This officer had done some homework. Question was, how much? “Ye-es. A long time ago. What can I do for you, Commander Bannock, is it?”

  “Have you received a U.S. Marshals warrant on a military fugitive?”

  Gus’s momma would’ve declared the man so whiskey-voiced you could wring out “hunnert proof.” An offbeat cadence in his speech, too. Something not quite right.

  “I have.”

  “Bastida, R., gunner’s mate second class. The Bastard, for short. We suspect he used an alias.”

  “Who’s this we?”

  From the other end, Gus heard what he took for a stifled groan. The drawer of a metal desk opened, then slammed shut. Then repeated.

  “My special operations detachment and the Colombian riverine unit we were assigned to. Our training and support mission was to deny the Caquetá and its tributaries to drug traffickers sending product downriver. The cartelitos protect smugglers for a cut. In our last operation, we inserted two squads that destroyed their key river island base. The Bastard went rogue, rammed and overturned one of our support boats, then boogied with the other. Fucking stranded us on that snake-infested island.”

  A thumping sound came from the other end, like a fist pounding dead meat. Back in his Navy days in South America, Gus had run across DEA-sponsored tactical units whose job was to inject fire into Colombian counterdrug units. Clearly, this officer’s burner was still set on high.

  “We extracted the hard way, but the damage was done. It goes unsaid, my operators would sooner bite the biscuit in a firefight than lose face.”

  “Commander, I understand your predicament, but this is clearly U.S. Marshals turf. Or NCIS. You should be talking with them.”

  “It has been three goddamn months.” More meaty thuds.

  “How’s that?”

  “Apparently, you have to kill somebody to earn the attention of NCIS or the Marshals Service. The Bastard’s been low priority with both. Now it’s on me and my detachment to get this bastard—and I’m convinced you’re the one to help.”

  “Me?” The inflammation beside Gus’s nose started to itch like chigger bites. “Hold on there. I surely am sympathetic, but—”

  “Exactly what I thought once I looked into your service tours. Your picket ship practically straddled that cocaine sluice box at Barranquilla. In fact, I’m betting you’re more than sympathetic.”

  Gus sat back in his chair, giving up, picking at the itch. Think, Gus. Everything Bannock had said so far could be pulled from military separation papers. Likely, that was all he knew. It was time to exit this conversation.

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. Now—oh geez.” Gus made his chair squeak as he stood. “Here I am, late for a deputy debriefing. How about you leave your information with my dispatch center, Commander? And if my crew runs across anything pertinent to your fugitive, we’ll be sure to include you in the loop. Best of luck on—”

  “According to the Sheriffs’ Association, you’re up for reelection.”

  Bannock’s sudden topic switch left Gus short for words, his ear tight against the receiver.

  “Being a fellow Navy man and a former noncommissioned officer, I’m sending something you’ll find interesting. Nostalgic, even. Look for a packet labeled Amigos de Colombia.”

  The connection went dead.

  * * *

  Delia lingered near the com desk, tingling with visceral curiosity. Impatient for the string of dispatch calls to end. Grice still had to make her reinstatement official, so she’d shown up in street clothes—just in time to hear Annie relay something about a naval officer and a fugitive over her intercom link with Grice. Words rarely heard in a rural county sheriff’s office were bound to set Delia’s detecting antennae humming.

  Annie lowered the headset mic and swung her way. “You know you’re jumping the gun.”

  “Yeah,” Delia said, rubbing at her arms. “Couldn’t bang around the walls at home any longer. Hey, what was that I heard about the Navy and an AWOL?”

  “Way more than a military skip-out. U. S. Marshals got a federal warrant on him.”

  “What about the officer?”

  “From some base on the East Coast. Little Creek, Virginia, I think. Why?”

  “I don’t know. A feeling.
Mostly curious.” Delia sauntered off toward her locker room. “Let me know if you hear more, ’kay?”

  “Remember what killed the cat.”

  “Yeah, and what brought her back.”

  5

  TWO WEEKS BEFORE WATERFOWL SEASON

  Delia had one foot on a locker bench in the women’s restroom, tying up her Danner high-tops, when the door swung open behind her and a fruity juniper fragrance announced Annie’s presence.

  “Got a minute?”

  “A minute.” Delia yanked the second bow tight and straightened up. “Still have to check out my gear for the shift. What d’you need?”

  “Grice got a package labeled Amigos de Colombia. Just means ‘Friends of Colombia,’ right?”

  “Yeah, or ‘from Colombia,’” Delia said, reaching for her tactical windbreaker. “A tourist packet, maybe?”

  Annie moved to the wash counter and started primping. “That’s what I’d thought when he said as much. Grabbed it out of my hands and scooted into his office.” She patted a loose coil into place. “Stormed back out ten minutes later, asking whether I had that naval officer’s number. Cussed when I said I didn’t. It took me a minute to remember that packet had a Little Creek, Virginia, postal stamp.” She faced Delia with a coy smile. “Spooky, huh?”

  “What?”

  “How you and your little hunches get me so fired up.”

  Delia held her hands out with her palms up, the coat hanging off three fingers. “Hey, what can I say?”

  She’d gotten an arm inside a sleeve and then paused, giving Annie the eye. “Don’t get ideas, Cox. Could be a reason why Grice hasn’t brought up this military contact or the fugitive during our briefings.”

  “Yeah, but what’s to stop us from staying curious? Hunting up a little satisfaction on the DL?”

  Delia shrugged, slipping the coat on. “Oh … loyalty? He is the sheriff of this county. The office commands respect.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease. The guy’s lost half his staff and is close to running the place into the ground. He pipedreams of getting reelected. You know, I could easily—”