The Vortex

by Robert R. Dozier

  She put the picture back in place and walked directly to Curt. “Mr. Jenson, I owe you a lot just for taking me seriously.”

  Curt rose and looked directly into Sheila’s eyes.

  “I think…” he started to say - but, almost simultaneously, they fell into each other’s arms. Aunt Elizabeth would have approved of the use of her bedroom that afternoon.

  Curt had difficulty keeping his mind on driving as he headed toward Santa Fe that night. Traffic was not that heavy, but his thoughts were about Sheila. She had had to attend an awards ceremony for one of her co-workers, and, in spite of her willingness to skip it, he had pressed her to go, promising to return to Albuquerque as soon as he completed a task he knew was important. He had delivered the listening device they had found under the buffet to Miller at Investigations, Inc., and made provision for Miller himself, a big, hefty man in his mid-thirties, to watch Sheila’s house. He had two reasons for this. The most important was to have someone guarding her, but he also wanted Miller to consult with Rodriguez to learn how many operatives followed him to Santa Fe, and how many remained on Silver Avenue. Rodriguez would follow him to Santa Fe, of course, but Miller would protect Sheila, if she needed any protection, which Curt doubted. After talking to the man, he felt that he would be able to take care of any situation that might come up.

  Heading north on US 84, Curt began to have a few doubts on whether he’d be able to find Baca’s cave. It was dark and Hawkins’s directions were becoming more and more vague as the miles slipped by. “North to Espanola, west on State 4, South at turnoff to Las Alamos, first exit on paved road to right, follow road along bluffs, take temporary road to barricades, stop when temporary rejoins paved road. Baca’s hill should be last in a chain of bluffs. Approach from south side - can’t miss it.”

  Well, he’ll try it, and if he didn’t get lost in the mountains, he should get there between 9:00 and 9:30, do his thing, and be back in Albuquerque by midnight.

  Looking in his rear view mirror, he saw a vehicle following at a safe distance and knew that some of the operatives, and maybe the Feds and the unknowns, were still tailing him. Inwardly, he smiled at the confusion that their reports would create.

  “What! You mean he just walked out into the fields in pitch darkness?”

  “Well, that’s what he did, boss.”

  Hawkins directions were easier to follow than he had imagined, and luckily, he came to the barricades on the “paved” road. A sign informed the world: “Roadway Blocked.” Backing up, he saw the “temporary road.” It had been made simply by vehicles driving off the paved road down the side of the bluffs, through the fields into a large arroyo, or gully, and into the darkness - two tracks in the sage going God know where. In the distance, about three miles away, he saw a rectangular compound composed of several buildings illuminated by powerful lights and surrounded by a hurricane fence topped by strands of barbed wire. It was on Los Alamos property, north of Baca’s hill. Curt guessed that the paved road had probably been built to that compound and wondered why the U.S. Government had not repaired it.

  Driving down the temporary road, he was glad he was in his VW, although a Jeep would have been better. Sage grew between the tracks so that a high clearance, short wheelbase and sheathed bottom on the car were real advantages. Often his headlights beamed out into the sky as he climbed small knolls on the side of the bluff. Finally, he reached the arroyo, and the road leveled out. After driving about two miles, very slowly, Curt saw that the road swung sharply to the left, passing one last hill, and rejoined the paved road. He drove onto the paved road and stopped. Looking back down its track, he could see that a large landslide had buried the road, blocking passage along it to that final hill. He turned off his lights, took a flashlight out of his glove compartment, and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. He found that the moonlight was startlingly bright and revealed the terrain clearly. He walked back to the hill, not needing his flashlight.

  From the direction he first approached, the hill appeared to be mostly bare and rounded. Sagebrush grew here and there, but it seemed to be no different from all the other hills in the area. As he changed his approach to come in from the south, he saw that it was covered with mesquite trees, small stunted evergreens deprived of water, growing only on the side of the hill which received some moisture from the southerly winds.

  Large boulders, which had blocked the paved road, came to rest against Baca’s hill, some of them forming a small cave, no more than six or seven feet deep, but with space enough to form a shelter out of the wind and dew. Curt knew that this must be where Baca had sat watching his flock, so he made his way up to it, stepping around boulders at first, later, climbing over them.

  As he entered the cave, he knew he had found the right place. A stone just the right height for a seat had been placed on one side of the cave, and, on the other side, there was evidence in the blackened rocks and burned wood of many fires lit there to warm the occupant. Sitting on the stone, with a fire to warm him, a person could see the entire valley and yet be protected from the elements.

  Curt sat down on the stone, aware that the last person to do so had probably been old, confused Alfredo Baca. There was no wind, and the silence soon calmed and relaxed him. He looked out at the star-filled sky and was amazed at the beauty of it all. Montana, his home state, called itself the ‘Big Sky Country,’ and provided some breathtaking views at night. But nothing he had seen compared with this.

  Here, over seven thousand feet high, away from distracting lights and pollution, with practically no distorting moisture in the air, the heavens seemed to blaze harshly on the landscape. He tried to imagine the effects of this artistic magnificence upon a person who had lived his life in the open, more or less controlled by nature. Baca had lost nearly all his family in a flash flood, an arbitrary act of nature. He had spent most of his life immersed in all the discomforts and blessing of forces totally out of his control.

  Curt began to realize what Hawkins had meant about the old man’s world view. It would not be unnatural for such a person to animate nature, to give hills and mountains human attributes. To believe that a hill was talking to him was as natural as supposing the spirits of nature could communicate with man. Add to this the complications of surprising changes in his body, changes which Baca had had no experience of in the past and for which he could find no explanation, and the conclusion of a talking hill seemed natural. The forces which had ruled Baca were external, not internal.

  Actually, it was more than that. Curt had spend many happy nights camping out in Montana’s wilderness areas and felt the surge of emotions such nights had always awakened in him. The total insignificance of the individual facing the overwhelming magnificence of nature paradoxically enhanced his importance. His judgments, his decisions were all the more important simply because there were no contradictions, no alternatives. For Baca, once he had arrived at a conclusion, he would have no reason to doubt it. If he thought his hill talked to him, who could say him nay?

  Well, Curt mused, Baca’s disappearance was less mysterious than before. He no longer believed the old man could be found in skid rows, but where would Baca believe Betty could be found? He glanced at his watch and was surprised to find that it was already 9:25. He had been in the cave almost a half hour. If he were to be in Albuquerque that night, he had to leave.

  A faint sound froze Curt to his seat. Holding his breath, he strained to hear. It happened again; almost a tiny squeak, then again, clearer, “etty…etty.” It was definitely a voice! There was a faint rumble of noises, as if voices were jumbled together – then a faint, but clearly discernible, despairing cry, “Betty!” After that, silence.

  Curt released his breath slowly, his hackles rising. Although he strained to hear more, only the thumping of his heart disturbed the silence. He had had many occasions in his life when he had been frightened. Once, a grizzly bear had accident
ally cornered him in a ravine and could have torn him to pieces. It had raged and foamed for two or three minutes before lumbering away. Once, when skiing, he had to race an avalanche, winning by only a few yards as the ice, snow, trees and rocks roared down the mountainside at terrible speeds. He had been shaken, the blood draining away from his head, and a feeling of the fragility of his life overpowered him. But these fears had direction – he had known what he was frightened about. Now, he was frightened with no focus; he could not direct his fight or flight to any specific target. He had never given any credence to the possibility that Baca had heard his hill talking to him, but now, he Curt Jenson, had heard it!

  As his fears subsided, his reason snapped back in control. There had to be a rational explanation. Switching on his flashlight, he searched the cave for wires, for a transmitter, for anything that could have made the sounds. Aside from some small animal bones, a few sticks of wood, and many smaller rocks, the cave was empty. Scrambling out of it, he climbed up on the slabs of rock that formed its roof, searching for any signs of human tampering. He found nothing. After a few minutes he sat down, perspiring freely, even though it was quite cool. A thought flashed through his mind of all the searching he and Sheila had conducted that afternoon in Albuquerque for about the same thing, and he could make no sense of it all. What in the hell is going on, he wondered! He forced himself to think. Those sounds were not made by wind – there wasn’t any – they had been made by masculine, human vocal cords – or taped copies.

  An idea struck him. Instead of going back the way he had come, he climbed over the hill and looked down at the junction of the paved and temporary roads. In the bright moonlight he could see his parked VW and even make out the car tracks he had made in the dust. He looked east back up the temporary road, and saw nothing. But he knew his followers were there – somewhere – and the only explanation of what had happened had to be with them. And it was high time that things were brought out into the open.

  It had been a nuisance to have his every move watched – it was even more annoying to have someone go through his things and plant listening devices in his room. These actions could be tolerated, even laughed at. But it was too much when those people tried to deceive and frighten him by whatever tricks they used to make him believe he had heard a voice calling for “Betty.” That was the straw he thought, and now was the time for some head knocking.

  Crouching low, he ran down the hill and alongside the tracks in the arroyo, looking for footprints in the dust. They had to be behind him, he thought as his anger continued to rise, and they can’t drive fast enough on this road to get away. Suddenly, about one hundred yards ahead, he saw the flash and heard the reports of a pistol firing – three, four, then five times. He stopped running and tried to comprehend what was happening. The shots were not fired at him, but towards his right – toward the bluffs. While trying to assimilate this new, and dangerous trait of his followers, he heard a car door slam, an engine start then saw the headlights of a car as it hastily pulled onto the temporary road and bumped crazily as the driver gunned his engine dangerously. His first impulse was to run after it, and he sprinted quickly down the road, but then, after a hundred yards, the sounds of other cars starting and driving away brought him to a halt. What could he do against armed men? He had never considered the agents following him to be dangerous. In fact, the opposite seemed true. After the bumbling attempts to search his things and plant bugs in his motel room, he had visualized them as Keystone Cops, falling over themselves trying to keep him in sight. Now, even though their competence could still be questioned, he knew they were armed and could be dangerous.

  As he watched the last of the cars drive out of sight, he heard a crashing noise to his right, up one of the foothills to the bluff. As he looked more closely, he saw a man get up, stumble a few steps, then fall heavily into the sagebrush. Running quickly up the hill, he arrived just as the man had struggled to his knees and managed to catch him before he fell again.

  “Damned…amateurs…” the man gasped as he went limp in Curt’s arms. He dragged the man around so that his head pointed uphill and saw immediately that the left front of his shirt was black with blood. Ripping the wounded man’s shirt off, and turning on his flashlight, he saw a bullet wound in his lower left rib case covered with frothy blood. The man was panting heavily, his chest heaving with his efforts to breathe. Without thinking, he placed his palm down on the wound to cover it, and with his other hand found the exit wound on the man’s back. Air, he knew, was filling the man’s lung cavity and collapsing his left lung. While he tried to think of what to do next, he noticed that the man’s struggle to breathe lessened and while he still panted rapidly, his panic was subsiding.

  It was a difficult situation. Curt knew that he would have to think of something fast. Then he remembered reading about the experiences of British soldiers in World War I who had devised rough and ready means of trying to survive on the battlefield. Chest wounds, if the heart or major blood vessels were not hit, caused slow suffocation because the effort to breathe would draw air into the chest cavity, squeezing the lung smaller and smaller. The remedy was to cover the wounds while the patient inhaled and open the wounds when he exhaled. If two people were attending the victim, the second could hold his hand over the wounded person’s mouth during exhaling. This way, breathing would force air out of the lung cavity instead of sucking it in.

  “Listen,” he said to the wounded man. “You’ve got a bad wound that could kill you if you don’t do what I say. You’ve got to calm down and stop panting. Try taking a few deep breaths.”

  “Williams…FBI… ” the man gasped, his eyes opened wide.

  “OK, Williams, NOW!” Curt felt his chest expand and held the wounds tightly. As Williams exhaled, Curt removed his hands and saw bloody bubbles appear on his chest. Repeating this procedure several times, Williams visibly relaxed. His collapsed left lung was inflating. But what now? Williams needed medical help fast, but as long as Curt had to hold his wounds closed, they could go nowhere.

  “We need something airproof,” he said as much to himself as to the agent. An ordinary bandage wouldn’t do. He had an idea.

  “Give me your credit cards,” he told Williams.

  Williams painfully took out his wallet and fumbled with for a moment, finally extracting two credit cards. Waiting until the agent exhaled, Curt snatched one of the cards and covered the back wound. Repeating the procedure, he did the same for the front wound.

  “Now give me your tie,” he ordered and Williams, with great difficulty, tore off his tie. Ignoring his sounds of distress, Curt bound the tie around the agent’s chest, securing the cards in place. He knew that there were probably rib fragments puncturing more tissue as he tightened the impromptu bandage, but it was more important to keep air out of the man’s chest than anything else. Williams, while still breathing rapidly, seemed to be somewhat better. But now he had to get him to a doctor or a hospital quickly.

  “If I help you, do you think you could walk?”

  “Don’t know… give it a try,” the agent gasped.

  With difficulty, Curt helped the man to his feet, supporting him as best he could. After only a few steps, the increased panting and coughing of the wounded man made Curt realize they would not be able to make it to the road that way. There was no alternative; he would have to carry him.

  “Hold on to me,” he said, “we’ll have to try something different.”

  Williams grunted assent. It was a difficult task. The agent weighed as much as Curt, and in spite of his willingness to help, could do little make Curt’s effort easier. Carrying Williams in his arms like a baby, he descended the hill in a slow, halting manner, trying to avoid tripping over the scattered sagebrush. When he reached the road, he lowered the agent to the ground as gently as he could.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he gasped, and set off at a trot towards his car. Must be the alt
itude, he thought, as his breathing became more difficult, or maybe I’m getting out of shape. He returned quickly with the VW, and soon they were headed toward Santa Fe. As soon as they reached the paved road, he accelerated the little car to the fastest speed it could handle.

  “Who shot you?” he asked Williams, who seemed to have recovered somewhat.

  “Burke… or Orlov…Friggin’ amateurs - saw you running back - panicked… saw me and just…”

  Curt allowed Williams to catch his breath. Even this small exertion seemed to tax the man’s strength. But he had to ask the man another question.

  “Why are you following me?”

  “Not you…Burke, KGB mole…Aikens machine…”

  “Aikens? Elizabeth?”

  “Not Elizabeth – Ronald. Burke and others…trying… .”

  The agent lapsed into a panting silence. Realizing that Williams was more desperately wounded than he had thought at first, he asked no more questions.

  Curt drove directly to Hawkins’ home office, and, helping the nearly unconscious agent out of the car, rang the doorbell several times before the lights came on. The doctor, in his housecoat, opened the door. Understanding immediately what was needed, Hawkins helped him with his burden and guided them to an examination table.

  “Gunshot wound – left lung.”

  As Hawkins untied the tie and assumed care of the sounded man, Curt stepped back, relieved that his responsibility was over.