by Cliff Black
“Okay. We’re only two or three miles ahead of you. Catch up, if you can.”
“I’m working on it.”
Nat’s phone was breaking up. I couldn’t understand what she was saying and then the connection was lost. I checked the signal strength on my phone and saw it was low and going lower.
The road was good, so I pushed my speed up to seventy, seventy-five, eighty. I didn’t dare go any faster. I thought I could catch them, but they must have been flying too.
A sign flashed by and the pavement changed. I zeroed the trip meter. We were in New Mexico. Assuming whoever took Melanie had done so against her will, he was now guilty of a federal offense.
I tried to call Ezzy to tell him where we were. The call didn’t go through, and my phone now showed “No Service.”
About ten minutes after I crossed the border, I saw Nat’s car parked on the shoulder of the road. Natasha, wearing her bright red warm-up suit, was across on the east side of the highway looking down a rough, dirt, two-track road leading toward Navajo Lake. Dust was still hanging in the air, and I assumed that’s where our quarry had gone. I slowed, checked for traffic ahead and behind, then turned across the oncoming lane onto the dirt track and stopped. Nat opened the passenger door and jumped in.
“They went down this road,” Nat said. “I was afraid my car didn’t have enough clearance to follow them. Go, Dad.”
“Not with you in here. It could be a trap. Did Melanie seem like she was okay?”
“I couldn’t even see her after I caught up to them again. I thought she must have slid down in the seat. Now, I’m wondering if she's unconscious.”
I said, “I’d think she’s no longer in the car, except he’s not doing normal things–going normal places. She must still be there, but I wish we could get someone to check the place where they stopped.”
“If we won’t go after them, what can we do?”
“I’m going after them, but I want you to go back to Ignacio. Tell the cops there what’s going on and see if you can get hold of Ezzy Miller. Let me give you his phone number.” I wrote Ezzy’s cell phone number on a blank page from my pocket notebook, tore the page out and handed it to her.
“What should I tell the cops?”
“Tell them where I am. Tell them about the place where they stopped–anything they want to know. They might even want to call in the FBI. Now scoot, so I can get on down this road. Wait for me in Ignacio. You did great.”
Nat ran to her car. I rolled down the passenger window and shouted after her, “Tell them it’s fourteen point seven miles from here to the border.” She waved and jumped into her car. She didn’t open the door; she jumped over it. You can do that with the top down on a convertible–if you’re agile enough. I shifted my pickup into four-wheel-drive and started picking my way through ruts and over rocks and brush.
The road followed a dry stream-bed through scattered juniper trees. It was slow going, but in about a mile and a half the road ended at the lake. The tan sedan was parked where the track came to an end and the land dropped more sharply to the water’s edge.
I was cautiously approaching the seemingly empty vehicle and wondering where the occupants could have gone when I heard a two-stroke engine start up, and a small aluminum boat emerged from behind some rocks and a tree right below me.
A man wearing a windbreaker and a fishing hat with the brim turned down all the way around was sitting in back of the boat with a hand on the tiller. There was a canvas-covered mound in the center of the boat. I assumed that was Melanie. I shouted, but the operator paid no attention. The boat wasn’t fast, but it was soon well out in the water and partly obscured by the blue-white haze emitted by the outboard motor.
I raced back to my pickup and got my binoculars from the bin between the seats. The binoculars helped; I could see the smoky haze better. On the far shore, where the boat would land, another two-track dirt road began at the water’s edge. I watched until the boat reached the shore. The man got up and worked his way to the front, climbed out in shallow water, and tied the boat to a rock. Then he pulled the boat in parallel with the shoreline, lifted the bundle out, and slung it over his shoulder. He handled it easily, but I had no doubt it was an unconscious Melanie Martineau. I watched as the man trudged up the road and disappeared into the trees. I expected he’d have a vehicle stashed somewhere out of sight.
I ran to the car and yanked the door open to see if there was a clue to the owner. Laying on the dash was a rental agreement from “Rent a Wreck.” The name on the agreement was J. Wilson. I noted a pile of white material on the back seat and a familiar smell. I picked up a piece and recognized stage padding and the too familiar body odor. So that’s how Smith made himself look like porky Wilson, and that’s likely what made him stink. And if he really was Jimmy Smith I didn’t like to think of the possibilities.
I ran back to my truck and found my Indian Country map. There had to be a bridge somewhere that I could use to cross to the other side. There wasn’t one, at least not in New Mexico. The lake backed up by the Navajo Dam was shaped like a huge V with the dam at the bottom of the V and the two legs going up canyons carved respectively by the Los Pinos and Piedra rivers. Although most of the peninsula enclosed by the V was in New Mexico, the only access from where I was to the inner area was back through Colorado. Wilson had judiciously picked this fourteen by twelve mile triangle of land for whatever foul deed he had planned. Jurisdiction would belong to New Mexico’s San Juan County, but their officers would have to drive from Farmington into Colorado and through the Southern Ute Indian Reservation and then back across the border to reach the area–unless they had a boat or a helicopter.
I felt so helpless. An innocent eighteen-year-old girl had been abducted for who knows what purpose. I had watched the perpetrator steer his boat across the reservoir and carry her up the opposite bank. The sun was down, and I could do nothing. I couldn’t follow and I couldn’t communicate with police officers anywhere. I whirled my truck around and headed back to Ignacio.
I broke all the speed laws getting back across the border. As soon as my cell phone showed any possibility of service, I tried to contact Ezzy. I couldn’t get him. I had no idea whether it was because my phone was out of range, or if the problem was on his end. I stopped trying as I approached Ignacio, and then my phone jingled. It was Nat.
“Dad, where are you? I just saw Melanie.”
“Melanie? Where? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I started to follow, but they’ve gone down highway 151. Should I keep after them, or wait for you?”
“Wait. I’ll be there in one minute or less.”
When I got close enough to see the junction where highway 151 took off, I saw Nat’s little red car with her standing by it talking to some kids. Nat was practically jumping up and down. She pulled a bill out of her wallet, handed it to one of the kids, jammed her wallet into her purse, and ran to my truck as I slid to a stop.
“Maybe you should go on home now. Let me take it from here,” I said, as she yanked the door open and jumped inside.
“No way, Dad. I’m coming with you. I can watch and run the phone while you drive.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Are you sure you saw Melanie?” I asked as we took off down the road toward Arboles.
“She’s in a Jeep Cherokee–the same one we saw going to Cuba.”
I was confused. “How can you be sure it was her?”
“I was standing by my car, outside the police station. They drove right by. She looked right at me.”
“Did she wave or anything?”
“She looked like she was in a trance. What happened at the lake?”
“I’m not at all sure now. I found the car. I saw a man and a bundle crossing the lake in a boat. He carried the bundle up the far bank and out of sight. I thought the bundle was Melanie, but I couldn’t follow, and I couldn’t reach anyone by phone. The only thing I can figure is the first guy knew you were following him. Maybe he'd a
lways planned to deliver Melanie to that barn. True or not, I think he deliberately led us off the trail.”
“It would have worked, if you hadn't sent me back to talk to the cops,” Nat said.
I was up to seventy and concentrating on driving when I said, “Speaking of cops, what are they doing?”
“Cop,” Nat said. “There was only one there and he was more interested in hitting on me than anything else. I gave him Ezzy’s phone number and told him what happened and that he needed to get hold of the New Mexico cops. I’m not sure he did any of it.”
“Have you talked to Ezzy? I can’t get him.”
“Neither can I. He must be in a dead spot. Where does this road go?”
“A little wide spot called Arboles and to a park and marina on Navajo Reservoir. How far ahead of us are they?”
“Maybe five minutes. Maybe less.”
Nat fastened her seat belt as my speedometer climbed above seventy. I said, “Was he in a hurry?”
“He wasn’t speeding, but he wasn’t wasting any time either.”
When there was no on-coming traffic, I said, “I’m concerned about you. This guy might be dangerous.”
“No more for me than for you. Have you got a gun?” Nat asked.
“Nope.”
I wanted to avoid carrying a gun if I could. I think it was partly because I didn’t like to think investigating was dangerous, and it was partly knowing that whenever both the bad guys and the good guys have guns there’s likely to be some hot head that will pull a trigger. People get killed doing that. I didn’t want to kill again.
Nat said. “You need to get a carry permit, if you’re going to keep doing this.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I answered and changed the subject. “Do you think your car will be all right parked there with the top down?”
“I gave the oldest of those kids five bucks to watch it. I told him I’d give him another five when I came back.”
“Maybe that will work–at least until their mom calls them home.” I handed Nat my phone. “Try Ezzy again. Just hit the redial. Tell him we’re going east out of Ignacio on 151. Tell him we’re following a Jeep Cherokee that came this way with Melanie in it. Tell him what happened in New Mexico, and that it must have been a deliberate diversion. You might also ask him if someone can get hold of Mrs. Martineau and let her know what’s going on. I hate to alarm her, but maybe she’ll know something that will help."
Nat tried the phone, waited a few minutes and tried again. She got Ezzy the second time. When she finished talking, Nat said, “Ezzy said he’ll try to get hold of the New Mexico authorities, and he’s already trying to shake up the Utes.”
The road we were on was paved. It was only two lanes, but the pavement and shoulders were in good shape. I drove as fast as I dared and maybe a little faster. Fortunately, there little traffic. After three or four miles, the road turned to the southeast. Two more miles and it turned straight south. I came over a hill with a long swale ahead. I thought I could see a vehicle with no lights going up the other side.
“Nat, grab my binoculars out of the bin.”
She pulled them out and tried to focus on the road ahead. The car wasn’t always in sight due to undulations in the land the road was following. Moreover the road surface wasn’t that smooth, and any movement was magnified seven times.
After looking for nearly a mile, during which we gained a little, Nat said, “I don’t think it’s him, but we’re gaining. We’ll soon know.”
“I can't figure out where they're going,” I said. “There's nothing out here.” I was slightly familiar with the route we were following. I had driven this way a couple of times with the Model-A club. I knew the paved road would soon turn back to the east, and then we’d come to Arboles and the eastern arm of Navajo Lake. If I’d been an ardent fisherman, I would have known the road better.
We made the turn and continued to gain on the vehicle ahead. We were maybe half a mile behind when I saw brake lights, and the car turned off. By then we were close enough to see it wasn’t a Jeep.
Another mile and Nat shouted, “Look! There he is.”
There was a small service station ahead on the right. As I watched a vehicle that could be a Jeep Cherokee pulled onto the road, turned back toward us briefly, then turned to the south and disappeared. When we got to that location, we could see a light dust plume going south on a narrow road.
I hit the brakes, turned off, and followed. “Get hold of Ezzy again,” I said to Nat. “Tell him we’re heading south toward New Mexico, on a seal-coated road that takes off about two or three miles west of Arboles. There’s an old garage-service station-junkyard past the turn-off.”
Nat relayed the message and then said into the phone, “I just saw a sign that said ‘330 Road.’ Does that help?” She listened for a minute then put the phone down. “I lost him,” she said. “I think we’ve hit a dead spot.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “I should get a three watt phone and hook it to an outside antenna. These dang little half-watt pocket phones don’t cut it around the Four Corners.”
“And get a carry permit and a decent gun while you’re at it,” Nat added.
We tore south on the rough surface for about two miles through farm fields with scattered houses and outbuildings. I turned the headlights on. Then we came to a ‘T.’ The surfacing ended and gravel roads went east and west. We could not see a vehicle either way, but the dust the Jeep had raised was still hanging in the air to the west. We went west a mile–probably right along the New Mexico border–then the road curved to the south. To our left was a hillside covered with pinion and juniper. To the right a level hay field. There were no signs, but I figured we were in New Mexico and had been since the gravel surface began.
The field on our right ended, and the road entered a draw that snaked back and forth as we climbed. I drove too fast for the crooked, hilly road we were traversing. We topped out, and came to some rolling, cleared fields that may once have been cultivated. Any remaining fences were mostly broken down. I nearly ran over a car coming toward us. I slowed down a bit.
About a mile and a half into New Mexico, we came to an intersection with a dirt road crossing from east to west. A pickup came from the west and turned north past us as we arrived. I slammed on the brakes, skidded to a stop, and jumped out. I looked for fresh tracks and tried to tell where there was fresh dust. That had worked once when I was riding a motorcycle, but now after the pickup's passing, plus our own dust, there seemed to be dust everywhere.
I went back to the truck and took the phone from Nat. I walked away from the truck and got a signal. It was weak, but after trying for fifteen minutes, I managed to get through to Ezzy. I told him the situation.
“You’re in New Mexico now?”
“I’m quite sure we are. Is that a problem?”
“Yeah, but for the time being I’m gonna ignore it. Oh, there you are. I’m your eye in the sky.” A helicopter came over and went on south. Ezzy said, “I can only see one vehicle ahead. He’s about five miles away. Come on south. We’ll get high above and behind him, and try not to tip our hand.”
“Great!” I said. “I’ll be right behind you, but my phone will probably quit.” I jumped in the truck, handed the phone to Nat, and said, “Ezzy’s in that helicopter. Try to keep contact.”
We traveled south about two more miles through some open fields, and some pinion-juniper forests. Our phone went dead. We passed a ranch house set well back from the road and also a construction site. I couldn’t tell what was being built. Then the gravel surfacing ended and the ruts began. There was no mud now, but there had been mud, and the hard, dry ruts were about six to eight inches deep. It was difficult to keep our wheels out of them.
“Is this the right way, Dad?” There was a note of desperation in Nat's voice.
I said, “Your guess is as good as mine, Missy. I wish we could talk to Ezzy.”
“Dad, we have to find her. It’s getting dark. He’ll rap
e her or kill her or something worse.”
“Listen to yourself, Nat. What could be worse? Can you see that chopper?”
I wasn’t worried about rape or murder at the moment. It seemed too improbable to believe, but I was convinced Melanie Martineau was in fact the Cherish McLaughlin I had been trying to find. It seemed much more likely she was being kidnapped for ransom than her abductor had bodily harm in mind. That would only be a danger after the ransom was paid. What I couldn’t figure out was why the abductor had chosen to trap himself on this peninsula.
Nat wasn’t thinking along the same lines. She said, “The point is, we don’t have time to waste. We need to find her, before he hurts her.”
“I understand your fears, Missy, but what can I do that I’m not doing?”
A side road flashed by on the right, then one on the left. Each one looked as good or as bad as the one we were on. They all had deep ruts from some idiot driving over them while they were wet. It was impossible to drive more than twenty miles an hour. I didn’t turn off on either side road, only because I had no reason to think the Jeep had turned off, and it was easier to go straight ahead.
We descended into a shallow canyon. There were scattered cottonwood trees in the bottom--indicating the presence of some water, though none showed on the surface.
We climbed back out of the canyon and came to a fork. I took the left-hand road, and Nat said, “How do you know they didn’t go the other way?”
“I don’t,” I said. “Can you see the chopper anywhere?”
Natasha usually had a cool head, but she was getting frantic now. She had no better ideas, and yet she questioned every thing I did. I tried to keep my cool. One of us needed to think logically.
“We can’t afford to guess, Dad.”
“Watch for that helicopter. Ezzy will come back for us if we don’t show up.”
Nat scanned the sky ahead as she asked, “Can they fly at night?”