Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

  “Her too. She shot at the guy as he went over the fence. Missed, apparently. Probably shot low to keep from doing damage to the neighbors.”

  Lights on either side of the house came on, and gray-haired residents appeared in various types of night attire. Pedington shooed them back inside.

  Mrs. Wardlow was sitting at her kitchen table with a big wicked-looking handgun lying in front of her. I could tell by the way she was rubbing one blue-veined hand with the other that the recoil had hurt. She sat up straighter when Paul and I came through the door.

  “That bastard tried to come in right through the back door. Can you imagine?”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “No, just a dark figure working like hell to jimmy my locks. But I showed him a thing or two.”

  Jazz stood tousle-headed beside her chair. “You see anything?” I asked him.

  “No. I was asleep before things went boom.”

  I turned back to the widow. “Surprised you missed him.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t trying to hit him. Just send him packing.”

  I glanced at Pedington. He nodded. “Somebody was working on the locks, all right. Scratched the hell out of them. And I found a place he tripped and fell before he got his ass across the rear wall.”

  “Hit?” Paul asked.

  “No sign of blood. Think he was just spooked.”

  “Not a professional?” I asked.

  “Mighty bad one, if it was.”

  “Better call the station. Some of the neighbors probably already have.”

  “I called it in on my shoulder unit,” Pedington said.

  Within minutes the neighborhood was awash in police cars. But whoever tried to get inside Mrs. W.’s house was long gone.

  ON SUNDAY Gene came over to the house with Pedington’s relief, a dark-headed fellow named Young who didn’t like chess but played a mean game of checkers. Uncertain over whether the intruder last night was sent specifically or it was some hood looking for a score, I was all for ending the facade that Jazz was at our house. But Mrs. W. wouldn’t hear of it. She scoffed at the danger to herself and declared if the bozo came again, she’d not miss.

  Gene already knew of last night’s events and our confrontation with the Haldemains at the courthouse the prior Friday. He wasn’t happy about any of it. Nonetheless, the events were sufficient for him to maintain our stakeout.

  The Metz development was new to Gene. After listening to what we’d learned, he decided this was something we might be able to exploit. There wasn’t enough evidence to obtain a search warrant for the builder’s home, so Tim was probably our best chance of determining if the Guess kid was inside. Gene called the stationhouse and discovered there was a poster on a James A. Guess from Ardmore, Oklahoma, but it was two years old. The kid was sixteen at the time of the issue.

  Gene sighed after he shared the information with Paul and me. “He’s eighteen now. Emancipated.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “That’s all right, we can at least stop him and question him. Maybe spook Metz.” Then, Gene being Gene, he got Jazz on the telephone and put a series of hard questions to him. He hung up and expressed satisfaction that Jazz was telling the truth.

  As Gene was about to leave the house and return home, Tim Fuller called. Metz had just pulled out of the gate to his property and driven north on Coors. A youth who appeared to be Jamie Guess was in the front seat with him. I asked Tim to stay on their tail without being discovered, if possible. We waited an anxious twenty minutes before Tim called back to say he was in the Cottonwood Mall parking lot outside Dillard’s department store. Metz and Guess had gone inside, but Tim was parked on their vehicle, so they wouldn’t be leaving without his knowing it. I told him to remain where he was, and we got in gear.

  Gene sent Officer Young scurrying across the street for Jazz without bothering to indulge in subterfuge. Gene and Jazz took off in Gene’s brown Ford, closely trailed by Young in his APD unit. Paul and I followed in the Impala.

  Ten minutes later we located Tim in his car, parked near a black vintage Caddy that shone and sparkled like a classic car with all new parts.

  “They’re still inside,” Tim said as he crawled out of his own vintage vehicle, an Oldsmobile that did not have the look of a carefully restored classic. “You want me to go root them out?”

  “No, for all we know they might be enjoying a movie. Tim Fuller, this is Officer Ken Young.” The two men shook hands. “And this is Jazz Penrod.”

  “The guy we been trying to run to ground?” Tim acknowledged Gene before swallowing Jazz’s hand in his big mitt. “You okay, guy?”

  Jazz nodded. “Yep. Holding my own.”

  “Tim, there’s no question Metz is with the kid in the picture you were given? This James Guess?” Gene asked.

  “Caught a good look at him when they came out of the gates to the Metz estate, Lieutenant. They passed right by me on foot when they went inside after I parked. It’s him, but lots skinnier.” He nodded over my shoulder. “And here they come.”

  Two men emerged from the Dillard’s door loaded down with packages. Even half a parking lot away, Metz’s broad muscular build was recognizable.

  “Jazz, you and Officer Young get in his patrol car and wait for a signal,” Gene said. “Tim, probably be better if he doesn’t get a good look at you.”

  Metz slowed as he spotted Gene, Paul, and me standing by his car. I saw from his look he recognized me, and probably Gene, but Paul was strange to him. He walked up confidently.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “Mr. Metz, I’m Lt. Eugene Enriquez of—”

  “I know who you are, Lieutenant. Hello, BJ. What do you need?”

  Gene turned to the young man at his side. “Need to talk to this man. Son, are you James Guess?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Are you aware there’s a bulletin out on you?”

  “M-me? Why?”

  “Your parents had the Ardmore police put one out when you disappeared from home.”

  “He was a minor then,” Metz said. “He’s eighteen now. If you’ll move aside, we’ll be on our way.”

  Gene held up a hand. “Just a minute. Mr. Guess, are you being held against your will or under any duress?”

  “No! I mean, no.”

  “Very well, I accept that statement, but there are a few things I want to clear up for the Ardmore police. Step over here to my car for a moment.” Gene put a palm on the builder’s chest. “Not you, Mr. Metz, just Mr. Guess.”

  The contractor looked apprehensive as Gene led the young man away. I smiled inwardly. “That means you’re left with me. Oh, this is my companion, Paul Barton. And I’d like to introduce you to someone else, although I believe you’ve already met.” I beckoned toward the police unit. Jazz and Young got out. For one brief moment, I saw fear in Willard Dean Metz’s black eyes, but he held himself together.

  “No, don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said as Jazz walked up to him.

  “Hello, Sam. Bet you didn’t expect to see me again, did you? How did Silver Wings… excuse me, Haldemain… explain my absence? Come to think of it, how did he explain Kim’s disappearance?”

  “Sorry, but I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do, Metz,” I said. “But let’s have Jazz go say hello to Jamie and see his reaction.”

  “Wait a minute!” Metz exclaimed. “Sure, why not. You guys be sure to see that James gets home safely. My wife is waiting on some of these things we picked up.”

  “I think it would be better to come downtown with your friend. He probably needs the support. He doesn’t look very stable to me.”

  “I’m going home.”

  Young stepped up. His black uniform, equipment belt with holstered pistol, and a bright shiny badge pinned to his uniform shirt made him look formidable, even though he was a smaller man than Metz.

  “Sir, we’re just asking you to come downtown to fill in some informat
ion on the kid who’s been missing for the last two years. Might help get him back to his folks.” Young had a cool head on him.

  Metz grew uneasy when Jazz walked away and leaned into the open passenger-side door of Gene’s Ford. He threw his packages, and those abandoned by Guess, into the Caddy and stood watching the car a couple of rows away where three individuals talked about something that might impact his life in a serious way. Eventually, he had enough. He faced Young.

  “Am I under arrest, Officer?”

  Young hesitated but knew the limits of his authority. “No, sir. But I think it would help us to—”

  “Then I’m out of here. You know where to find me, BJ.” He crawled into his vehicle and roared out of the parking lot.

  I watched him go. William Haldemain and Lt. Chester Bolton, and anyone else involved in the ring, would know about our confrontation within minutes. Maybe Young should follow him and arrest him for talking on a cell while driving.

  Chapter 35

  PAUL, YOUNG, and I walked over to Gene’s car in time to hear James Guess go ballistic. Panic clearly etched on his face, his head swiveled to follow Metz’s Caddy out of the parking lot.

  “Why is he leaving?” His voice came out in a squeak. The kid had undoubtedly been attractive, probably even sensual, at some time in the past, but he was now rail thin, and the weight loss made him gaunt in appearance. Hollow cheeks and hollow eyes do not a good picture make. “He can’t just leave me here!”

  “He just did,” Gene said. “That ought to let you know how things stand. You’re on your own, my friend.”

  “H-he won’t do that. He paid $5,000 for me. Cash money. He told me so.”

  Jazz spoke from the back seat. “Silver Wings claims he paid twenty grand for me—you heard him say so. But he still tried to dump me out of an airplane. It’s called protecting your butt, Jamie. They all do it. We’re nothing to them.”

  “Protecting their butt from what?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Jazz said. “What those guys did to us is illegal. You say Sam… uh, Metz bought you? That means you’re a slave. A slave’s property. And they’ll get rid of property when it isn’t carrying its weight.”

  “Listen to him, Mr. Guess,” Gene said. “Every one of those guys who attended Haldemain’s pool parties is going down. And they’ll do everything possible to avoid that.”

  Jamie sobered momentarily but turned skeptical again. “You can’t do that,” he said. “Those other policemen won’t let you.”

  Gene glanced out the window at me before giving the kid his full attention again. “What policemen?”

  “Dean said we’d always be safe because one of us was a bigwig in the Albuquerque Police Department. I always figured that was Tom.” He twisted to look at Jazz. “And that guy you put on his ass. You know, Chip. He had cop written all over him.”

  “Could you identify Chip if you saw him?” Gene asked.

  “Sure.” The kid’s eyes went wide. “Oh no! You’re not gonna get me mixed up in all that.”

  “You are mixed up in it,” I said. “Let’s consider a few things. You’ve been cut loose. Do you have any money?” He shook his head. “I didn’t think so. You can probably find a cardboard box to sleep in tonight and a meal out of a restaurant dumpster. But where are you going to get the coke or whatever Metz has you hooked on?”

  A bead of sweat ran down Jamie’s forehead. “D-Dean’s not abandoned me. I’m important to him. He loves me.”

  “Does Mrs. Metz love you?” Gene asked. “I imagine she’ll take this opportunity to get rid of you. You said Metz claimed you were his nephew, but I’m sure she didn’t fall for that. She’s just been waiting for an opportunity to get rid of you, and this is it. She’ll be in his face the minute she finds out you’re trouble. And remember, if she walks on Metz, she takes half of everything with her. You think you’re more important to him that that? Let’s see if you are. Let’s drive to the house and push the bell on the front gate and see if he lets you in.”

  “There’s a way I can get in. Just let me off—”

  “Oh, no. You’re going in the front door or not at all. Do you want me to drive to the Metz home?”

  “Yes! Please.”

  We drove to Willard Dean Metz’s house in a three-car convoy. Gene wasn’t about to let Young go back to the stationhouse until he knew Jazz was safe, but we released Tim Fuller to go home for some much-needed rest.

  Gene halted before the stately stone gates—securely locked, by the way—and poked a button on a speaker. I got out of my car and walked up so I could hear what was going on. Nothing. No answer from the house. He even held down the call button so Jamie could make his own impassioned plea. “Dean, honey. It’s Jamie. Please let me in.”

  GENE DROVE the devastated young man downtown to police headquarters, once again with a two-car convoy following along behind. Jazz rode with Young in the police unit. The two police vehicles were able to park inside the gates to the side entrance. Paul and I found a parking spot on the street in front of the downtown Bank of America. We climbed the steps to the white police building and walked into a situation. Just past the cop guarding the entryway, we came upon a confrontation. An actual showdown of sorts. Lieutenant Bolton and Detective Zimmerman blocked the way, flanked by two uniformed officers. One of the embarrassed officers was in the awkward process of informing Gene that he was under arrest.

  “On whose orders and for what?” my friend bellowed.

  “For being a part of a sex trafficking ring and possibly for murder,” Bolton said. “On my orders. And cuff the kid as well. He’s likely the shooter in the motel massacre case.”

  The chief of police, an impressive man named Lamar Huddleston, walked up behind Bolton. “Belay that order,” he said in a subdued roar. The chief was an ex-Navy man. “Nobody’s arresting anybody. Now let’s go to my office and straighten this all out.” He turned to Jazz. “You and this other young man stay here with Officer Young until we finish. Hello, BJ. You hang around too. We shouldn’t be long.”

  As we found seats in a waiting area, I reviewed what I would have done in Gene’s place. He was bringing two witnesses against Bolton and Zimmerman to the police station after Metz undoubtedly alerted them to what was happening. I’d have called my rabbi and let him know what was up. That explained why the chief happened to be in the stationhouse on a Saturday afternoon.

  About thirty minutes later, one of the officers reappeared and took Jazz with him. An hour later, he came back and traded Jazz for James Guess. I didn’t particularly want to query Jazz there in the station, but Paul’s newspaper instincts got the better of him, and he started in on the who, what, when, where, and why.

  After a few abortive questions, Jazz shrugged. “They just asked me to repeat my story. So I did.”

  “Were you in an interview room?”

  Jazz shook his head. “Nope, in this big office. There was an extra man there, somebody Lieutenant Enriquez called Deputy.”

  “One of the deputy chiefs,” Paul guessed. “Did they ask you about the pool parties?”

  “Oh yeah. And I told them right out loud that Tom was at every one of them. Not only that, but he came back to the bungalow with me once or twice. He denied it, but when I described the mark on his left hip, he kinda toned it down.”

  “Mark?” I asked.

  “Yeah. A pinkish thing on his left hip below the waistline. Birthmark, they called it. And I told them about dumping that detective, what was his name?”

  “Zimmerman,” Paul said.

  “Yeah, Zimmerman on his ass.”

  “Maybe James Guess will corroborate everything for you,” Paul said.

  Jazz frowned. “I dunno. He’s beginning to look pretty strung out to me. My guess is he’s missed his afternoon feeding.”

  “Feeding?” Paul asked. “Oh, you mean the drug. You know what he’s on?”

  Jazz shook his head. “No idea. But he’s gonna need some help pretty soon.” He turned to me. “Wil
l they help him?”

  “They’ll get him medical help.”

  Another hour passed before Gene entered the room. “Come on, guys. Let’s go home. BJ, I’ll take you and Paul to your car. Young, you’re returned to regular duty. Officer Pedington will take Jazz back.”

  With a slight nod of his head, Jazz acknowledged the officer who’d watched over him yesterday.

  Since our car was just across the street to the east, I assumed Gene wanted to talk to me. As soon as we pulled out of the police lot, he headed west, presumably to give us some time for discussion.

  “Everything’s on hold right now,” he started. “The chief ordered everyone to step back and take a deep breath.”

  “Do you have a problem?” I asked.

  “Not as big a problem as Bolton does after Jazz got through verbally stripping him naked. We’ve all showered in the exercise room, so everybody in that room was aware that Jazz knew what he was talking about. Then he did the same for Zimmerman. The Guess kid wasn’t as forthright or forceful as Jazz, but he backed up everything your boy said. The Doc at the pool parties turns out to be a dentist named David Cole.”

  “Bolton gave him up?”

  “Naw. Guess described him, and the deputy chief in the room piped up and said that was his dentist. And the chief recognized the description of William Haldemain’s house. He’s been to a few parties there, although of a different sort. Remembers the bungalow at the back. Commented to Haldemain about it after it was built.”

  “What happens now?” Paul asked.

  “Bolton and Zimmerman are on paid suspension while Internal Affairs takes a look.”

  “Why aren’t they under arrest?”

  “Don’t get ants in your pants. This will take some time.”

  “Does that mean the danger to Jazz is past?” Paul again.

  “Not at all. Haldemain’s out there, and if we’re right, he’s killed before. Won’t hesitate to do it again if it’ll save his skin. And Jazz’s and Guess’s testimony is the only difference between Bolton being suspended and me surrendering my badge. If they aren’t around, a big part of Bolton’s problem goes away.”