Head Wounds

by Michael McGarrity

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “It’s a fact. Let’s keep looking.”

  Clayton inspected the two small bedrooms and the single tiny bathroom. There was nothing on the closet shelves, hidden in the toilet tank, or in the empty medicine cabinet above the sink.

  “There’s water and plumbing,” Wendell noted. “But where’s the hot water heater and the furnace?”

  “The fireplace and cookstove supply the heat for the house. If you wanted a warm bath you boiled a pot of water.”

  “Unbelievable,” Wendell said. “People lived this way?”

  “Some of the elders still do, they prefer it.”

  “I didn’t see a firewood pile outside.”

  “Houzinnie probably told the neighbors to come and take it when she moved her mother out.”

  “Well, at least Houzinnie’s mother had television.”

  Clayton laughed. “If the weather cooperated, maybe she could pull in an over-the-air station for a couple of hours.”

  “That’s insane.” Wendell glanced around the empty front room. “There’s nothing here.”

  “Be patient,” Clayton counseled. “We’re not finished.”

  Clayton inspected the fireplace chimney before moving on to the kitchen stove. With a pocketknife he uncoupled the flue above the stove, dislodging a puff of soot that floated down to the floor, where he spotted fresh, deep gouges. The stove had been recently moved.

  “Help me pull this away from the wall,” he said.

  They jockeyed it out and a satchel stuffed behind the stove dropped to the floor. Clayton zipped it open. Inside were neat bundles of Ben Franklins.

  Wendell’s eyes widened at the sight of so many hundred-dollar bills. “Good god, how much?”

  “From the heft of it, I’d say a million.” Clayton zipped the bag closed and replaced it behind the stove. “Help me push this back.”

  “What?”

  “We were never here. You don’t want to get arrested for breaking-and-entering, do you?”

  Wendell shook his head. “What about the money?”

  “It’s not ours.” Clayton closed the kitchen window, ushered Wendell out the back door, and locked it. “It belongs to the tribe, and it would be better if we didn’t find it.”

  “That’s it?”

  At the car, Clayton tossed him the keys. “Not quite. You drive.”

  On the way back to Isabel’s, Clayton called his cousin Selena. “Sorry to wake you up so early, cuz.”

  Selena yawned into her phone. “This better be an emergency, Clayton.”

  “It is, in a way. You know that campaign you started to raise money for a summer youth drug prevention program? An anonymous donor has left a large contribution behind the cookstove in Betty Yuzos’s old house.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Better go get it before the persons who hid it change their minds. See you soon, and don’t tell anyone.” He disconnected and put his phone away.

  “Why Selena?” Wendell asked.

  “Because I can trust her to do the right thing with the money.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Drugs,” Clayton said. He would love to tell Harjo the money had been recovered. Maybe, soon, he could. “You’re to say nothing about this, understand?”

  Wendell grinned. “That spoils all the fun.”

  Clayton rubbed his son’s shoulder and leaned back. “It was fun, wasn’t it?”

  CHAPTER 20

  The Gulf Coast storm that doused the fire at the hunting ranch stalled over the colonia, bringing much-welcomed rain. Trevino sat with Caballo Galindo in the front room of his house watching the splatter of wind-driven drops against the windowpane. Outside, rivulets of rainwater snaked down to nearby family gardens where soon corn, beans, and squash would be planted. Beyond in the pasture, livestock stood, heads lowered against the storm, enduring the onslaught of stinging rain.

  “Perhaps we’ll have a good harvest this year,” Galindo commented. “We will dance for more rain.”

  “A good thing to do,” Trevino replied.

  “Will those who tried to kill you come for you here?”

  “I don’t think so. It would not be wise, and they know it. I will leave soon after the storm breaks. Perhaps those who travel to town could mention my absence the next time they go. That should divert their attention from the colonia.”

  Galindo nodded. “Where will you go?”

  “Not far.”

  “And the hunting ranch? Who will care for it?”

  “I see no reason to rebuild the cabin right away. A summerhouse would be adequate for now. A volunteer might stay there until I return.”

  “More than one volunteer I think,” Galindo replied. The rain had intensified. He rose to look out the window. “Having a few of the younger families living there would give protection to the land. They could plant crops to attract waterfowl, patrol to keep poachers away, remove the debris from the fire, clean some of the streambeds. There are several younger couples interested in such endeavors. I will ask Eagle Pass to pay their stipends.”

  “That would be ideal.”

  Galindo turned away from the window. “Good. Will you return?”

  Trevino hesitated. Galindo was politely asking if he would survive. “There are people who are not good of heart. You know what I must do.”

  Galindo smiled. “We will have a feast upon your return. The storm will soon pass. Join me now for a meal, and we will talk of more pleasant matters.”

  Trevino stood, his earlier rage calmed by Galindo’s unspoken affection and concern. “It would be my pleasure.”

  After a hearty meal and an enjoyable conversation about the hunting ranch and its rich potential, Galindo conducted a private departure ceremony for Trevino. He called on Kitzihiat, god of the Kickapoos, to look after him on his journey, and puffed tobacco smoke in each of the four directions so that Trevino might be protected wherever he might go.

  Outside, with the sun breaking through a thick cloud bank, Trevino gathered up a small handful of saturated soil, wrapped it in a bandanna, and put it in his pocket. It would help bring him home.

  He started out on foot for Piedras Negras. It would take him several days to complete the journey, traveling cross-country, avoiding all towns and settlements. He needed to arrive unannounced and unexpected if he had any chance of success against Juan Garza and Luis Lorenz.

  For the first time in many years, he contemplated a different future. He wanted to survive to see it.

  Deputy Alex Pruitt worked one Sunday a month to make up for the time he took off during his regular duty schedule to attend graduate seminars at the university. In a year he’d be ABD—all but dissertation—and freed from coursework evermore.

  The SO headquarters was unusually quiet, which meant there were no major crimes, traffic crashes, or public safety emergencies happening in Doña Ana County. At least not yet. Today he was at his desk ready to take a first serious stab at finding Bear, the suspect’s nickname in Detective Istee’s double homicide case. He reviewed the profile parameters supplied by Istee for his baseline search. They included the subject’s ethnicity, approximate age, length of service in the U.S. Army, calendar years of his active service, and the likely units he’d served in.

  Pruitt had never served in the military and wondered if Istee’s focus on two major conflicts involving U.S. Army units was too restrictive. He accessed a comprehensive list of all armed services combat engagements or military advisory operations between 1983 and 1993. There were boots-on-the-ground conflicts in Grenada, Panama, Iraq, and Somalia, and a smaller number of special ops actions in Bolivia, Honduras, Colombia, Bolivia, and Peru. That might be a sufficiently large enough parameter to sample.

  He spent time reviewing general information on the outfits where the military killer elites dwell. Delta Forces, SEAL teams, Special Forces, Ranger Regiments, and U.S. Air Force and Marine Corps rapid response and engagement units. No need to broaden the
base, but to make sure he didn’t miss anything he went to the Department of Defense website and clicked on a link that provided an eye-popping alphabetized list of sites for every imaginable armed forces organization, corps, and command. Simply sorting through them to rule out all irrelevancies would take many hours. Best to stick with the special ops units.

  Pruitt paused. Federal government websites had excellent firewall protection, especially for those relating to national security. Hacking one wouldn’t be easy or simple. Additionally, it would be a federal crime under the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act. If he got caught it could cost him his job, his pending Ph.D., and any chance for a successful career out of law enforcement later on.

  How far could he get with the word “bear”? According to an online blog, the origin of the word had nothing to do with the animal, but was a surname likely derived from an old Anglo-Saxon word for a grove or a swine pasture. In addition, the spelling could be fluid. Beara, Bere, and Beere were common variations. Interesting but hardly helpful. Entering the word alone in a search engine would be useless.

  Istee had already done a very comprehensive Internet search for Estavio Trevino, supposedly El Jefe’s real name, which was uncovered by DEA Special Agent Harjo during the interrogation of Juan Garza. Pruitt dug a little deeper, searching through Mexican websites and Spanish-language social media platforms. There were Mexican Kickapoos with the same surname, which added credence to the information, but no Estavio Trevino who fit the working profile. He replicated Istee’s search just to make sure nothing had been overlooked. It had been thoroughly done with no missteps.

  He created an online identity to use to query potential targets. He’d be a civilian relative searching for a lost uncle called “Bear” who’d disappeared after his discharge from active duty. He’d fill in the blanks as to his uncle’s name, service branch, and dates of service once he had a list of targets to query. If he had any.

  He searched social media sites for any current armed service members surnamed Bear. More than a dozen popped up. As expected, none fit Istee’s working profile.

  Pruitt was having fun. The assignment was different from anything handed to him in the past. He was trolling for a secretive assassin instead of child predators, swindlers, porno freaks, fraudsters, sex traffickers, credit card thieves, and website hackers.

  Istee had probably been smart to narrow his focus, but Pruitt wasn’t quite ready to concede the point. He downloaded a Department of Veterans Affairs directory of service organizations and began visiting websites.

  Three hours passed with nothing meaningful to show for the effort. He went for a workout in the department’s weight room and fitness center, took a fast shower, ate lunch at his desk, and pondered what to do next. Were there any organizations or associations of former service members of the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment and Tenth Mountain Division? He found one of each and began a careful review of their websites.

  The Seventy-Fifth had a guest page where visitors could post comments, reminisce, and search for former comrades. There were no postings by Estavio Trevino or someone nicknamed Bear, but a year-old entry galvanized Pruitt’s attention:

  I’ve written a book about my experiences serving with the 1st Marine Expeditionary Force in Somalia, Confessions of a Marine Sniper. You can order a copy by writing to me at the address below. Send $12.95 which includes postage. I’m also looking for an Army Ranger nicknamed Bear, who saved my life in a roadside firefight with Aideed forces that went bad in Bardera. He was a SFC and Native American I think, but that’s all I know about him, except he was Airborne with the 75th, and was one hell of a warrior. I wrote about what he did in the book and would love to send him a copy. Please contact me if you know where I can find him. Thank you.

  Smitty Winters

  In addition to an address, Smitty had included his phone number. Pruitt called, told him he was writing a dissertation on the Somalia 1990s United Nations multinational relief operation, and asked to have a copy of the book sent by next-day air.

  “I’ve got a publisher lined up and will give you full credit for anything I use from the book,” he added. “I’ll pay by credit card or check.”

  “Hell, I’ll give you a copy and pay the shipping myself,” Smitty replied. “Got twelve unopened boxes of them gathering dust in the garage.”

  “No, I’ll pay,” Pruitt said. “Let me give you my credit card information and mailing address.”

  “Shoot.”

  Pruitt rattled off the information. “Did you ever hear from that soldier who saved your life?”

  “No, but a buddy he served with in the Seventy-Fifth called me,” Smitty replied. “Said he heard Bear was doing fine and living in Mexico. Had dual citizenship or something like that.”

  “Did this buddy give you Bear’s name?”

  “He said he couldn’t do that. Something about black ops and national security. Wouldn’t give me his own name, either.”

  “When did you get that call?” Pruitt asked.

  “Two weeks ago. That’s why I got excited when you called. Thought maybe it was Bear.”

  “Do you have the number stored on your phone?”

  “Yeah, I kept it.” Smitty read off the number.

  Pruitt wrote it down. “Thanks. Did he say anything else that would be helpful finding Bear?”

  “Nope, but I sure hope he gets in touch with me. Saved my life. You’ll read about it in my book.”

  “I look forward to reading it.” Pruitt thanked Smitty again, hung up, and googled the telephone number. The call had been made from Piedras Negras, Mexico. Had the caller been Bear? Wouldn’t that beat all?

  For all his mucking around mired in the web of the military Internet jungle, progress had finally been made. Pruitt typed a quick update, sent it to Istee’s SO email address, and shut down his computer. He reread Smitty’s post. Did “SFC” mean sergeant first class? He didn’t think it meant System File Checker.

  He considered dialing the Piedras Negras phone number and decided against it. That was Istee’s call to make. Pruitt stood, stretched, and turned off his desk lamp. It was time to go home.

  Early Sunday supper concluded with Clayton and Wendell at the sink on KP duty while Isabel, Grace, and Hannah chatted at the kitchen table. Isabel rose to answer a knock at the front door and found a stern-looking Selena Kazhe clutching a black satchel.

  Startled by Selena’s serious demeanor, Isabel asked, “Is something wrong?”

  Selena forced a smile. “No, I mean yes. Is Clayton here?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  She followed Isabel, dropped the satchel on the table, and glared at Clayton. “Why did you do this to me, cousin?” she demanded. “I couldn’t sleep all last night. I can’t keep this.”

  “What is it?” Grace asked.

  “A million dollars,” Wendell said gleefully as he dried the last pot.

  Clayton shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”

  “He told me where to find it yesterday morning,” Selena explained. “Told me to use it to fund the youth drug prevention program.”

  “Generosity is one of the four Apache laws,” Clayton noted gravely, hoping to get off easy.

  Hannah unzipped the satchel and squealed in disbelief at the sight of the money. “Where did you find it?”

  “At an undisclosed location,” Clayton interjected before Selena could answer.

  Isabel sat, peered at the bundles of hundred-dollar bills, and scowled. “What did you do, Clayton?”

  Clayton dried his hands and joined the women. “Good police work,” he replied casually. “Deductive reasoning.”

  His mother crossed her arms and sighed.

  “How come Wendell knows about this?” Grace inquired.

  “He was my able assistant.”

  Wendell lowered his head to avoid his mother’s gaze and slid into the empty chair next to Clayton.

  Hannah fingered a bundle of hundreds. “What do we do with it?”

  �
�Turn it in and it will be sucked up by the bureaucracy,” Clayton warned. “It will sit in a special account for years drawing interest until the government declares it unclaimed and transfers it to the public till.”

  He looked at Selena. “It’s drug money stolen from a narco-trafficker, a man who peddles death and kills without remorse. I thought of you because it should be used for something good here at Mescalero.”

  “We just can’t keep a million dollars,” Grace proposed.

  “Why not?” Isabel countered.

  Her response caught Clayton by surprise. “Yeah, why not?” he echoed. “No serious law has been broken. I have no police powers here. This is purely a family matter.”

  “How would you use it?” Isabel asked Selena.

  “For our youth. Drug abuse prevention, college scholarships, counseling services, promoting our Apache language and culture. Whatever our young people need to retain their tribal identity and succeed.”

  “What if an anonymous donor gave the money to me with the stipulation that it be used for just those purposes?” Isabel queried.

  “Gave it to who?” Grace asked incredulously.

  “Me,” Isabel repeated. “I can make regular deposits into a special account. I doubt tribal administrators or council members will question my word. In fact, we’ll say nothing about it publicly unless we’re asked.”

  “Brilliant!” Hannah said, her smile lighting up the room. “If anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”

  Isabel looked at everyone. “Are we agreed?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “In order to work, this conversation has to stay in this room and never be mentioned again,” Clayton cautioned. “Understood?”

  Nods made it unanimous.

  “Finally, we get something back from the White Eyes,” Wendell noted.

  “The drug lord is a Mexican,” Clayton corrected.

  Wendell shrugged. “Gringo or Mexican, it doesn’t matter.”

  Clayton laughed. “You’re right. Now all we have to figure out is where to safely keep the money.”

  Selena zipped the satchel shut and smiled at Isabel. “In a large bank safe-deposit box, of course. Isabel and I will go to town tomorrow morning.”