Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

A husky corporal with a name tag of Trueblood was familiar with the area and suggested we split into two teams, one approaching the cabin directly, and the other from the Fenton Lake area to foreclose any possible escape route. Trueblood was not happy we had two civilians among us, but he permitted us to ride along, provided we bail out of the patrol car at least half a mile before arriving at the cabin. In fact, he suggested all of us might want to get out at that point. The sound of a car motor carried a great distance at this altitude.

  Carson and the second deputy took off first since their route via the Fenton Lake area was longer than ours. They would let us know when they were in position via radio. Gene cautioned them to talk about missing cattle or some such nonsense, as Haldemain was likely monitoring police calls.

  Gene spent the next hour filling Trueblood in on what a bad guy William Haldemain, Esquire was. The deputy kept quiet and listened except for an occasional grunt of “Damned lawyers.” Trueblood pulled out a blueprint of the 1,500-square-foot cabin the sheriff located in the courthouse that showed only two entrances. One door opened onto the front porch facing the meadow and stream to the south. The other opened to the carport to the west. However, the carport itself opened to the south, the same direction as the front door.

  Finally a report of a “dead cow on the road” came across the ether, and we got underway.

  The roads were dry but badly rutted by the last rain, so the going was as slow as I thought it would be. After a couple of short radio messages about the cow being “winched off the road” and “headed back to the station in Cuba,” both teams were in place. At the bottom of a hill, Trueblood pulled off the road into some brush, and we all got out of the vehicle. In mutters and hand signals, the deputy let Paul and me know to remain there until we were summoned. Then he and Gene, both bearing shotguns, hiked up the long hill and eventually passed from sight over the crest.

  “Wish he’d parked at the top of the hill,” Paul said.

  “Trueblood parked down here so there’s less chance Haldemain hears our motor. But you can hike up and take a look, if you want. Don’t go any farther than the crest, though.”

  “Okay.”

  A confidential investigator must sprinkle himself with patience dust every morning to put up with the long hours of doing nothing when on a stakeout or shuffling through mountains of data to find one small nugget of meaningful info. I parked myself on the fender of the county cruiser and watched my very sexy friend’s unconscious manly grace as he walked up the steep hill.

  Once at the apex, he stood in the middle of the road looking east for a long moment. Then he kicked the dirt a couple of times out of boredom before moving over to the three-strand barbed-wire fence running along the south side of the road. Once there, something apparently claimed his attention. He stood on tiptoes, one hand on a fence post for a moment, before turning to me and waving.

  After I labored up the hill, he thrust a thumb over his shoulder. “That looks like a camera.”

  I swore an oath before grabbing for my cell. Gene answered with an irritated whisper. “What?”

  “Paul found a camera. Haldemain knows you’re coming. You’re walking into an ambush.”

  I heard him call to Trueblood and the sound of men crashing through brush before he closed the call.

  “Bet the deputies will be on the radio coordinating things! I want to hear how it goes,” Paul yelled before taking off down the hill at a run.

  I remained where I was to do some thinking. If I were in that cabin and knew the cops were coming for me, what would I do? A typical hardened criminal might hole up and try to hold off attackers. But if I were a lawyer with lots of money and connections to a foreign criminal cartel, I’d skedaddle before the cops got there. But if I had a camera on one road, I’d have them on the other one too. I’d know both exits were blocked. Then what would I do? I’d likely have some escape route planned and take that. Or….

  I glanced down the hill at the Sandoval County Sheriff’s unit parked on the side of the road. Or I’d go for a target of opportunity. Like a cruiser sitting abandoned at the side of the road… where Paul sat in the front passenger’s seat, doubtless listening for exchanges between the deputies’ shoulder units. The old wound in my right thigh spasmed as I caught movement at the fence line. I started back down the hill at a limping run. I hadn’t taken a dozen steps before a man slipped through the fence. Haldemain? I couldn’t tell. But I wasn’t willing to take chances. I yelled and fired my Ruger three times into the air.

  The man, now clearly William Haldemain, lunged the last few steps as Paul scrambled out of the car. The man grabbed my companion around the neck from behind and held him tightly. As I approached, I heard him demand keys to the cruiser.

  Impeded as he was by the arm against his larynx, I could barely make out Paul’s strangled response. “Don’t have ’em. Cop car, for Chris’ sake!”

  Haldemain shifted, putting Paul between me and him. By now I was no more than ten feet away. “That’s close enough, BJ.” He pointed an impressive-looking forty-five at me.

  I gained another two feet in the act of halting. “Give it up, Haldemain. A whole assault team will be here in a matter of minutes.”

  “Minutes are enough. Toss that pistol into the woods, and I’ll be on my way. May even turn on the lights and siren.”

  “And get how far? Cuba?”

  “You’re right. I need to take your lover boy with me. Quite toothsome, I must say. Maybe we can make some magic before we have to part.”

  “You’ll have to kill me first,” Paul muttered.

  “That won’t be a problem. As a matter of fact, it will be payback. BJ’s the one who screwed the pooch in the first place.”

  “That was you buying Jazz.”

  “Ah, yes. The beautiful Jazz. How is he, by the way?”

  Good! Keep him talking. Gene would be here any time. “Recovering from you.”

  “I was good to him.”

  “By hooking him on cocaine?”

  “Oh, he was already hooked by the time I got him. But enough of that. Toss the gun or die.”

  “Can’t do that, Silver Wings.”

  “Too bad—”

  Paul let go of the arm around his throat and slammed his fist into Haldemain’s groin. The man let out a squawk and hunched over. Paul relaxed and dropped straight to the ground.

  “Drop the gun, Halde—”

  His forty-five roared, but he was still unsteady from the blow to his gonads, and the bullet went wide. I took careful aim and fired three shots.

  Epilogue

  SUNDAY MORNING, we gathered in the conference room at my office. I chose the office rather than the den of my house because of the size of the gathering. Hazel and Charlie and Gene joined Paul and me and five others: Jazz and Klah, Gad and Dibe Hatahle, and Jazz’s brother, Henry. At the last minute, I’d thought to include Mrs. Wardlow. After all, she played a role in this little drama too. They all waited patiently as Gene and I took turns explaining the raid on Haldemain’s cabin yesterday morning. Then the questions started.

  “I don’t understand,” Jazz said. “Why didn’t he just surrender? What could the penalty be for what he did to me? It sure would’na been the death penalty.”

  “Don’t fool yourself, fella,” Gene said. “He did that and worse to lots of others, some of them practically babies. Besides, I was going to hang at least eleven murders on him one way or the other.

  “The west-side motel murders?” Charlie asked.

  “And Nesposito’s.”

  “Then there’s Kim,” Jazz said.

  “We’ll never find that guy,” Gene said. “But yeah, him too, if we ever do.”

  “Why was he hanging around in the Jemez Mountains?” Klah asked. “Why didn’t he take off for Mexico or some place?”

  “From what we found in the cabin,” I said, “he was within aces of doing just that. The cartel was getting him ID under another name together with credit cards, passport, and the works. As s
oon as that was ready, they were to pick him up by helicopter and take him someplace he could legally exit the country under another name. It was his bad luck that Betsy Brockmire remembered the cabin in time.”

  “How does his brother fit into all this?” Hazel asked.

  Gene fielded that one. “Roscoe was rocked on his heels when he found out what his brother was up to.”

  “You really believe that?” Jazz asked.

  “Oh yeah. His brother was so good at living a double life, Roscoe had no idea. They both are wealthy, so he didn’t notice a change in lifestyle. As a defense lawyer, he was used to seeing scuzzy people around the office. Roscoe’s so bummed he’s thinking about retiring.”

  “What about that builder—Metz?” Jazz wanted to know.

  “Probably can’t touch him. You can testify he was at Silver Wings’ pool parties, but there’s no law against that. Unless you can testify to rape or false imprisonment. Unfortunately James Guess is the only one who can give us Metz. And he won’t do it. Probably can’t do it. He’s really messed up.

  “What about Dr. Cole?” I asked Gene. “Have you found him?”

  “Found where he took a plane for Turks and Caicos. He wasn’t willing to face the publicity and notoriety, I guess. He just up and abandoned his practice, taking his money with him.”

  “What’s going to happen to Bolton?” Charlie asked.

  “He’ll lose his pension. Probably get busted for conspiracy but will earn some leniency because of cooperating. Spend some jail time, but probably not much.”

  “How many cops did you find?” Klah asked. “You know, twisted cops.

  “Six, including Bolton and Zimmerman.”

  I slapped the walnut table with my left palm. “That wraps it up, I guess.”

  “Except for this,” Henry said, sliding a piece of paper across the table to me. A cashier’s check. “Probably won’t cover everything, but it’s all Louie could manage to collect. Think the tribe put in some of it.”

  I looked at the figure. Quite adequate, actually. “It’ll do just fine, Henry. I told you it wasn’t necessary. Jazz is a friend.”

  “I know that, but my dad insisted.”

  “Thank Louie for me, will you?”

  “Sure. And this is for you, Dibe. Thanks for you and Gad putting up with Jazz for as long as you did.” He slid a box over to the couple.

  Dibe drew out her grandmother’s squash blossom necklace and hid a smile behind her hand. “Why, thank you! You didn’t need to do that, young man.”

  “And you didn’t have to do what you did either. Anyway, thank you a lot.”

  Mrs. Wardlow, who was silent throughout the discussion, spoke up. “Jazz, you’re going to have to receive some counseling, you know.”

  “I’m handling it all right. Gets better every day.”

  “Until some stress comes along,” I said. “She’s right. And Betsy Brockmire is ready to enroll you in Bishop Gregory’s program.”

  “Aw, do I have to?”

  “You have to,” Klah said with finality.

  Hazel leaned back in her chair and adjusted her glasses. “Well, that clears up everything, I guess. How do you want me to label the file, BJ?”

  I gave it a moment’s thought. “Call it Abaddon’s Locusts.” I saw her face screw up in an uncertain frown. “Think about it. The traffickers take kids and turn them into something they’re not, and then they turn them loose on the world—”

  “Just like Abaddon’s locusts,” she finished for me.

  Exclusive Excerpt

  The Voxlightner Scandal

  A BJ Vinson Mystery

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  Prologue

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  July 2011

  AT EASE in his comfortable home at 4818 Post Oak Drive NW, Pierce brushed his chin with a palm, detecting the rasp of a five-o’clock shadow against his skin. The house was silent, disturbed only by his knocking around in the den and the ticktock of the ornate wind-up clock resting on the mantelpiece. Overhead lights off, a reading lamp cast a soft pool of light, rescuing the room from darkness. He longed for the mellow smell of pipe tobacco, but his doctor had convinced him to give up the vice last winter after a suspected TIA, a transient ischemic something or the other.

  Ensconced in his favorite recliner, he picked up a book from the coffee table and inspected it closely. His latest novel. His third. Just delivered from his publisher in this morning’s mail. In a rare moment of brutal honesty, he admitted the most impressive thing on the cover was his name: John Pierce Belhaven. A good name for an author, it rolled off the tongue and lent gravitas to the banal title, Macabre Desserts. Although too egotistical to admit being a hack, in moments such as this, he silently acknowledged he was no James Lee Burke. Whenever he attempted some of the Louisiana writer’s soaring, poetic passages, they always ended up as muddied puddles of worthless ink that contributed nothing to the plot. What was Elmore Leonard’s rule number ten? Leave out the parts that nobody wanted to read.

  His next book would be a game changer. Just as the others, it would be a mystery, but this time he’d solve a real puzzle. One that had plagued Albuquerque for half a decade. A scandal involving the theft of millions and the death of a respected attorney. A mystery that only he could solve. He’d stumbled on a crucial clue years ago in his capacity as a utility company executive but hadn’t understood its significance until he researched his new book. It was a work that would carry him from humdrum to best seller. And the interview with Wilma Hardesty on KALB-TV that aired this very afternoon put the world on notice he was reopening the moribund Voxlightner case with a terse, hard-hitting tale leading directly to the killer.

  This would set them on their ears down at SouthWest Writers, make them sit up and take notice of him… not as a writer, but as an author. He quelled an urge to rush to his office on the other side of the house to rifle through the growing file of research on the case.

  A noise from the garage brought him out of his chair. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Ten thirty-four. Who could that be at this time of night? Melanie? He shook his head. His daughter hadn’t indicated she was driving in from Grants, where she lived with that odious husband of hers. Harrison wouldn’t deign to show up at his door, probably not even to pick up his inheritance, should Pierce decide to leave his estranged son one.

  He smiled and then faltered. It wasn’t sweet Sarah. She was in Arizona visiting her family. His heartbeat quickened. It must be Spencer, although the lad didn’t usually show up on Wednesdays. Before walking to the garage door, he arranged the new book on the coffee table in such a way that Spence could hardly miss it. As he reached for the brass doorknob, he heard the gas-fired lawn mower roar to life.

  What the hell? John Pierce Belhaven opened the door and entered the darkened garage.

  Chapter 1

  IF 2011 was the year of the Arab Spring, this morning’s Albuquerque Journal neglected to mention it. The international lead story—above the fold—reported the bombing of the government quarter in Oslo and the subsequent murder by gunfire of sixty-eight youth activists of the Labour Party by a native Norwegian terrorist.

  The below the fold headline told of the death of a local author in a garage fire mere blocks from my home. What snagged my attention was that the terrorist attack in Norway took place today, July 22. The local tragedy occurred two nights ago. Our paper reported foreign events faster than local ones. I put it down to a time differential. After all, today was practically yesterday over the pond.

  Paul came into the kitchen, where I sat at the table munching an english muffin slathered with cream cheese and dusted with ground black pepper. He brought with him the aroma of his shower and shave. He had changed aftershave lotion… Brut, possibly.

  He stopped at the sight of me. “Whoa, BJ, I was gonna fix omelets.”

  “My stomach wouldn’t wait. By the way, I know why we heard all those sirens Wednesday night. Garage
fire just down the street.”

  “Where?”

  I checked the article. “At 4818.”

  “The Belhaven place?”

  “I’ll admit you’re more social than I am around the neighborhood, but how do you know the Belhaven house four blocks down the street?”

  He plopped a bowl of steel-cut oatmeal on the table, apparently abandoning the idea of an omelet. “I know him from SouthWest Writers.”

  Paul joined New Mexico’s largest professional writing association a year ago, when he got his Master’s in Journalism from UNM and decided a membership would provide him some valuable contacts. He was probably right, although I had never considered journalism as writing until he pointed out that’s exactly what it was.

  “Can I see the article when you’re finished?” he asked.

  I rescued the sports section and handed over the rest. A minute later his voice startled me out of a story about the Lobo baseball team. They were having a pretty good season thus far.

  “This can’t be right.”

  “Uh.” I refused to be distracted.

  “BJ.” He shoved the article in front of me again. “I can’t claim to know the guy intimately, but I do know one thing. He wouldn’t repair his lawn mower at ten thirty at night or any other time of day. He’d have the kid who mowed his lawn do it or else buy a new mower.” He paused. “But the outcome I can believe. He’d likely spill gas all over himself and somehow set it alight if he made the attempt. But he wouldn’t have.”

  “A klutz, huh?”

  “You could say that,” he admitted.

  “I’ll tell you what I can’t believe. This happened two days ago, and Mrs. Wardlow hasn’t broadcast it all over the neighborhood.”

  Gertrude Wardlow, the septuagenarian widow who lived across the street from this house my late father built, was a retired DEA agent and the local neighborhood watch. But I had no gripes coming. She’d saved my bacon a couple of times when suspects tried to bring cases home to me. More importantly, she’d warned me Paul was in trouble when a gang kidnapped him a few years back.