Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

  “You might as well try to nail shit to the outhouse wall. You ain’t gonna make a friend outa Cheese. Forget him. We’re leaving at first light tomorrow.”

  After they finished their meal—lavish by their standards—Jazz drank green tea and forced down some dried beets. Hosteen Pintaro had insisted that beets were rich in something Jazz needed to combat the cocaine. He hated beets.

  He used some of their precious water to brush his teeth and wash away the odious taste the vegetable left in his mouth and prepared to go to bed. A few moments later, Klah lay down beside him on their pallet on the floor of the trailer.

  “Where’s our tack gear?” Jazz asked. He knew, but needed reassurance.

  “On the fence of the pasture. And we hobbled the horses so they’ll be easy to find in the morning.” Klah lay quietly beside him for a moment. “Jazz, are you over it?”

  “Over what?”

  “Whatever that Juan guy put under your skin. I-I need to know. Seems like I’m tearing up my life for you.” Klah rolled over and rose on one elbow, his hand on Jazz’s chest. “Not that I ain’t willing to, but I gotta know you won’t take off with him if we run across the guy one day.”

  Jazz drew a deep breath, feeling Klah’s hand rise as his chest expanded. It was a good feeling. “Why would I do that? He betrayed me. Got me into this mess. I wouldn’t be drinking tea I don’t like and eating icky beets and taking pills up the gazoo if it wasn’t for him. Well, I kinda like the tea now, but you know what I mean.”

  Klah laid his head where his hand had been. “I know, but sometimes you still mumble his name when you sleep. So I wonder if you still love him.”

  “I never loved him. I liked what we did and how he made me feel until…. Well, until he handed me over to the traffickers.” Jazz clutched his lover to his breast tightly. “I can tell you one thing for sure, Klah Hatahle. I never felt about him the way I feel about you.”

  “Say it?”

  Was there fear in Klah’s whisper?

  “I love you. More than anyone on Earth. We’re joined, man. Spiritually. Physically. And mentally too. I know what you’re gonna say before you say it, and you know how I feel before I do.” He ran his hand through Klah’s thick black hair. “I don’t want anybody but you. To do it with anyone but you. You’re part of me now.”

  Klah whispered his love words before attaching his lips to Jazz’s left nipple. Then they surrendered to their need, making love more passionately than ever before. To Jazz, it seemed like their first time, but with the infinite advantage of familiarity.

  JAZZ WOKE when Klah shook his shoulder. “Is it time already?”

  Klah laid his hand over Jazz’s lips and whispered. “Someone’s outside.”

  As Jazz sat up to listen better, there was a thud against the side of the trailer. Moments later, he smelled smoke. “Fire!” he yelped.

  “Grab your things and follow me. Stay clear of the door!”

  They had slept in their clothes and packed their belongings in anticipation of an early departure. Jazz grabbed his boots and the cheap plastic valise he’d bought at the thrift shop and followed Klah to the front of the trailer. The rear, where they were only moments before, was already being eaten away by flames.

  He understood when Klah opened the trapdoor and disappeared below the trailer. He followed immediately and crawled out the hole his lover punched in the siding. Klah was already on his feet, racing through the darkness to their hobbled horses. Jazz followed on his heels. Neither of them looked back until they reached their horses. When Jazz glanced at the distant mobile home, his breath caught. The entire trailer was enveloped in bright orange flames.

  Hoofbeats brought him out of his reverie. He vaulted aboard One Sock as if he’d been doing it all his life and followed the white rump of the pinto, barely visible in the night. They rode hard until reaching high ground a mile or so in the distance. Then they wheeled and looked back the way they came. Flames from the burning trailer were still visible. And now there were signs of other activity. Someone had come to fight the fire.

  Jazz’s blood boiled. His fingernails bit into his palms as he held his pony’s reins. “Silver Wings! Haldemain!” he snarled.

  “No. That was Cheese Apachito. Payback for showing him up in front of the girls. I knew he wouldn’t let it go but didn’t think he would try to kill us.”

  Jazz allowed Klah to select the route and set the pace. The sun was up, and they were riding side by side down a dusty road with the smell of sunflowers and sage in the air, when Jazz spotted a plume of dust in the distance.

  “Car,” he said.

  “Yeah. Coming fast. Better move over.”

  They reined their horses into the ditch beside the road and kept riding. The racing car took shape as it approached. There was something familiar about it. As it roared past, enveloping them in a thick cloud of dust, Jazz gasped.

  “It’s the cop!” they said in unison.

  No doubt about it. The driver was the husky man who called himself Chip when he tried to rape Jazz at one of the pool parties. The same man who drove an Albuquerque undercover police vehicle and handed out posters claiming Jazz was a fugitive. Zimmerman was his name, if he remembered correctly.

  Chapter 28

  FRIDAY NIGHT, Henry called and said he’d learned that Klah Hatahle didn’t originally come from To’hajiilee like his aunt and uncle. He’d lived with his folks on another little crumb of the Navajo Reservation called Alamo, located down in Socorro County, until his parents were killed in a car wreck. That gave us another place to search.

  Henry agreed to meet Paul and me at Alamo the next day at 11:00 a.m. Our trip was an easy one, west on I-40 and south on Highway 169 for something like a total of eighty-five miles. I wasn’t certain where Henry would start from. He worked at the Peabody Coal mine near Kayenta, but I had no idea where he lived on the reservation. At a minimum, I estimated he faced a five-hour drive.

  Even so, we saw his gunmetal pearl Harley-Davidson Sportster parked outside the chapter house when we arrived exactly on time. Henry was inside, talking to a girl at the receptionist’s desk who was obviously thrilled to be speaking to such a fetching package of machismo. As he spotted Paul and me, he excused himself and walked to meet us. The grin he used on her faded away, replaced by a frown of worry.

  “He was here,” he said as he reached to grip my hand. “As late as last night. Him and Klah were living in Klah’s folks’ abandoned trailer.” He turned to greet Paul before continuing. “And then somebody torched the trailer in the middle of the night.”

  “Was—” I started.

  “No bodies. And their horses are missing from the pasture. Folks around here figure they burnt it down.”

  “Why?” Paul asked.

  Henry shrugged. “No idea. To hide something, maybe. Fingerprints or something like that.”

  “That makes no sense,” I objected. “All anyone has to do is show a photo to get an ID.”

  “And that’s what happened even before the fire died out. Early this morning, some Albuquerque cop showed up with that wanted poster on Jazz.”

  “Zimmerman?” I asked.

  “She described him as a body-builder type. Short blond hair, hazel eyes.”

  “Damn,” I exclaimed. “That bastard could have set the fire.”

  “That’s what I figure, but there’s another possibility. The girl told me a kid nicknamed Cheese got into a fistfight with Jazz last Wednesday outside the minimart. Jazz put him down. She said Cheese ain’t somebody to let that go by. So coulda been him.”

  “What were they doing here?” I asked.

  “Got a day labor job with the school board weeding road shoulders.”

  “School board?” Paul asked.

  “Long story. Worked something short of a week. Collected their pay yesterday after work.”

  “What would they have done then?” I wondered aloud.

  Paul spoke up. “Been me, I’d have headed for the first store for some treats
.”

  “That’d probably be the minimart,” Henry said.

  “Let’s check it out. See if anything happened,” I suggested.

  The girl minding the cash register at the minimart acknowledged seeing Klah and his friend Bicycle yesterday along about sundown. She heard about—but didn’t witness—the fight. It was apparent from her voice that she would have appreciated watching the altercation.

  “But when they left yesterday, they ran right into Cheese as he was coming in. Thought maybe I’d get to see a dustup. But they didn’t even say nothing to one another. Just walked past like the other’n wasn’t even there.”

  By way of thanks, I bought three drinks from the cooler, and we huddled outside. Henry opened our conversation.

  “Sounds to me like Cheese got smoked some more by seeing them. Probably went off and sulked until he worked himself into firebombing the trailer.”

  “Was it firebombed?” I asked.

  “Don’t really know. Girl at the chapter house just said it was arson. Didn’t know no more’n that.”

  I leaned against the south wall of the minimart. “Okay, let’s accept your view of things. This guy Cheese sets the trailer on fire. Zimmerman, probably following the same trail we did, learns Klah originally came from Alamo. So early Saturday morning, he drives down here looking for Jazz. And he finds him. At least, he learns Jazz was here. The fire would have called attention to Klah and his friend, Bicycle.”

  “Why Bicycle?” Paul asked.

  “Somebody was looking for a guy named Jazz, so couldn’t call him that,” Henry replied. “Probably tagged him with something from the first time he set eyes on Jazz. Bicycle.”

  Paul nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “If their mounts are missing, they’re horseback. Any clue to where they might be heading?” I asked.

  “Maybe back to the Hatahles at To’hajiilee,” Henry said. “Be hard to ride a horse around Albuquerque.”

  “What makes you think they’d head for Albuquerque?” Paul asked.

  “Everybody I know’s got kin or friends in Albuquerque. A town with lots of people is a good place to hide.”

  I dry-washed my face. “Albuquerque’s where the people who took him are. Of course, he’d stay clear of the west side where he was held, but that’s still taking a risk. That said, Jazz is bound to realize the pimps have contacts on the reservation.”

  “Sure he does,” Paul said. “They already chased him away from To’hajiilee.”

  “Him and Klah are on horses,” Henry said. “They’d stand out like a gold brick on a coal pile in Albuquerque.”

  “Don’t forget the state fair,” Paul came back at him. “It has a rodeo. Be lots of people on horseback. Maybe not riding on the streets so much, but there’ll be some.”

  “They say the pony Klah is riding is his rodeo horse, so it could be,” Henry said.

  I sought to introduce some reality. “They could have ridden anywhere, even headed to Mexico. Henry, why don’t you call your dad and have him start looking for the Hatahles on the big rez. Then head for Albuquerque and check the state fair. Even if you don’t find them, maybe you can find someone who knows if Klah has relatives of friends there. Nobody’ll talk to us, but maybe they will to you.”

  “And you’re going to…?”

  “Head for the Hatahle camp. If they’re back, we’ll see what we can learn. If they won’t talk to us, we’ll call you on the cell—if we can get bars—so you can speak some Navajo to them.”

  “What if Zimmerman caught up with Jazz and Klah?” Paul asked.

  “Don’t even want to think about that possibility. I’ll call Gene and have him ask around the department. If we need to communicate with one another but can’t reach the other party, call Hazel and give her the message.”

  WE WATCHED the ditches and kept our eyes out for vultures all the way to To’hajiilee in case Zimmerman caught up with Jazz and Klah. We bumped down the washboard track—it didn’t qualify as a real road—to the Hatahle camp to find it occupied. I learned my Navajo courtesy from New Mexico’s most famous author, Tony Hillerman, and remained in the car until a squat man with gray-black hair clasped behind his head in a man bun came out of the hogan and waved to us.

  We got out of the Impala and introduced ourselves. The man, who answered to Gad Hatahle, did a double take at Paul’s name but turned to me as the elder. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m trying to locate your nephew Klah and the man with him, Jazz Penrod. Are they here?”

  Gad’s face gave nothing away, but something happened to his eyes, making me aware he had just gone on alert.

  “Mr. Hatahle, let me explain.”

  “Maybe you better come in and do it.” He led us to a small firepit before the hogan and settled in the dust. A middle-aged woman with an independent look about her came through the opening and sat down beside Gad.

  “My wife,” he said simply. “Dibe.”

  “I’m—” I started.

  “I know who you are.” She turned to my companion. “And you’re Paul. You the one looking for him when you got in touch with that Juan fellow, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s all right, Gad.” She touched her husband’s arm as she switched her look to me. “And you’re that private investigator fellow from Albuquerque.”

  “That’s right, ma’am.”

  “Cut out that ‘ma’am’ stuff. I’m Dibe, and he’s Gad. We done some nosing around up on the big rez and found out a little about our dogie. And that’s what Jazz was like, a poor orphaned calf, when we first seen him.” She looked at her husband. “Ain’t that right?” Without waiting for confirmation, she continued. “Well, he ain’t here. Him and Klah both took off after we got the warning that old warlock had his claws out for him.” Apparently she didn’t want to call Nesposito by name.

  “We know. They went to Alamo.”

  Dibe nodded. “That’s right. Guess you are a detective, after all. But not like that other one that come nosing around this morning.”

  “Detective Zimmerman was here?”

  “That he was,” Gad said. “And he acted like he had power here. Went through our whole camp.” He nodded to himself and smiled. “And we let him. Wanted him to see there wasn’t nobody else here.” He motioned over his shoulder to the wooden shack. “Thought he was gonna tear it down before he got it in his head the place was empty and didn’t have no hidey-holes.” Both he and Dibe cackled.

  She took up the tale. “He’d been down at Alamo and said there was a fire, so he come up here to look. Truth to tell, we’re a little worried. You know about a fire?”

  “We and Jazz’s brother, Henry, were just there. Klah’s trailer was torched, probably by a local that Jazz got into a fight with, and burned right down to the wheels. But they didn’t find any bodies in the trailer. And their horses were missing. They managed to get out and take off. Jazz’s brother headed to Albuquerque to see if they went there. We came here to talk to you.”

  “How come he went to Albuquerque?”

  “State fair’s opening,” Paul said. “Where there’s a fair, there’s a rodeo. Thought Klah might be trying to make some money working there.”

  “Fair assumption,” Gad said. “Klah’s got a cousin up there name of Pete Toadlena. Don’t know where he lives, but he hangs out in a place called the Blue Spruce.”

  “Then Henry can find him. That’s his hangout when he’s in Albuquerque.”

  “He oughta know that Pete’s a rodeo hand too.”

  I walked out from under the canopy of trees sheltering the camp and managed to raise Henry. He was still on the way, but I conveyed Gad’s information just as the signal faded.

  Before returning to the others, I opened the trunk of my car and retrieved one of the cheap throwaway cell phones I keep for informants and other contacts and plugged a charger into the vehicle’s lighter. While the instrument charged up, I returned to the fire. “Got him. He doesn’t know a Pete Toadlen
a, but no doubt he’ll find him. Mr. Hatahle… Gad, if your nephew and Jazz are horseback, how long will it take them to get here? Provided they’re returning, that is.”

  “Two, three days. Lotsa cloud cover lately. If it keeps up, they can push the horses a little harder. Two days.”

  “If they left sometime last night, they wouldn’t have had time to get here. I’m charging up a cell phone I want to give you. I’ll have my office manager activate it. It’s preprogrammed with my phone numbers… home, office, and cell. Cell’s the best. If they show up, will you please have Jazz contact me?”

  Gad studied the flames a moment before answering. “Jazz is all messed up in his head. He remembers some things, but he don’t others. Things he oughta know.”

  “There was a cut on his head the night Gad brought him home,” Dibe explained. “Didn’t even know his own name right then. He finally managed to come up with Jazz, but he hooked it up with Jasper. Didn’t know it was really Penrod till that Albuquerque cop showed up asking about him.”

  “Jasper’s his actual first name,” I said. “But he started answering to Jazz when he was a kid. But you recognized Paul’s name, so obviously Jazz remembers him. If he won’t call me, have him call Paul.”

  My companion handed over a card he’d printed to let the world know he was a freelance investigative journalist.

  “Dibe, I understand you sold a family heirloom to buy Jazz a horse. Can I help you get it back?”

  “Hosteen Abbo ain’t gonna part with it. And if he does, he’ll hold you up same as a masked man with a gun. ’Sides, it done more for us than just buy a horse.”

  “Point me at him, and let me have at it.”

  “That’ll wait until our two strays are safe and sound.”

  Gad stirred the dying coals with a stick. “What’s that Albuquerque policeman all about? Jazz a criminal?”

  “No, he’s not a wanted criminal. That poster Zimmerman showed you is a phony. Has Jazz told you anything about what’s happened to him?” I asked.