Fallen

by Ann Simko

  He pushed back from the table and sipped his drink, his dark, black eyes on Dakota. "Okay. What?"

  Dakota got right to the point. "Last night, a nineteen-year-old Marine private by the name of Michael J. Ricco was brought into my emergency room with a gunshot wound to his left shoulder. He was running from something."

  "Presumably from the person who shot him, yes?"

  Dakota ignored the sarcasm. "I called the Marine division in Carson City. They have no record of a Michael J. Ricco."

  Montana shrugged, apparently not impressed. "Is the kid going to live?"

  "Yeah, he's going to be fine."

  "So, why is it your problem?"

  Dakota reached into his hip pocket and closed his hand around the dog tags he had taken from Ricco. "Because things aren't adding up. Something just isn't right. I notified Cal to report the gunshot wound. He sent Tommy Lawson out to Beaver Dam, where the kid was found. Then I get a page from him a few hours ago. Tommy hasn't reported back to him and apparently it's my fault."

  "Tommy Lawson's an idiot."

  "Yeah, I know, but there's more to it than that."

  "What?" Montana leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "What's got your shorts in such a bunch that you're buying me a meal at La Playa?"

  "I'm buying?"

  Montana raised his brows.

  "Okay, I'm buying."

  "Look, Dakota, a Marine private gets shot. So what? Chances are there was either booze or a woman involved—maybe both. I don't get what the big mystery is. So Carson City can't find him. You might find this hard to believe, but the government makes mistakes. That's shocking, I know, but it happens. And Tommy Lawson? Please... The kid is a total fuck up. His father practically bought him the deputy job. Cal uses him as an errand boy, nothing more. You want to know who shot your Marine? Why not ask him? Mystery solved. I'll send you my bill."

  Dakota opened his hand to reveal the dog tags and dropped them on the table between them. "He was wearing these."

  "Wow, now you've got my attention. Imagine, a Marine private with dog tags."

  "Look at them." Dakota pushed the tags closer to Montana.

  Montana picked the tags up and read them in silence. His face scrunched up, and then relaxed. "It's a mistake."

  "Maybe, and maybe I could buy it and let it slide if it was just one thing, but it's everything together. A lone Marine, shot in the middle of the desert, with no drinking buddies around and no alcohol in his blood. Carson City not having any records of him. A missing deputy, even if it is Tommy Lawson. Plus those."

  He pointed to the dog tags in Montana's hand. "Those tags claim the kid was born on April 24th, 1898. According to those, Michael Ricco is one hundred and sixteen years old."

  Montana put the dog tags back on the table. "You've been working too hard, little brother."

  Dakota stared and held his tongue. It was his turn to do the stoic thing.

  "What?" Montana said. "What do you want me to do about it?"

  "I want to hire you."

  Montana laughed loud enough to have the waitress and the bartender look over at them. "You are freaking kidding me." He shook his head. "No. I just finished a case that took me three months of surveillance to get a handle on, and I only got home two hours before you called me. I'm tired. Forget it."

  "I'll pay you."

  "You can't afford me. Ask Cal to look into missing persons. Chances are you'll find your Michael Ricco there."

  "I don't want Cal. Cal scares me. I want the best, and that's you."

  "Ah, the flattery angle."

  "Is it working?"

  Montana sighed and picked up the dog tags again. "I'm a private investigator, not a miracle worker."

  "I used a similar line on Cal just this morning." Dakota knew he had Montana now. "What do you say? Will you help me?"

  Montana kept his eyes on Dakota as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell, and pushed a preprogrammed number. "Yeah, it's me. I need some information faxed to my home office as soon as you get it. Subject, male. Ricco, Michael J. U.S. Marines. Date of birth, 24 April 1898." He paused and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know I said we weren't taking any more cases for a while. It's not a case, just a little nepotism." He ended the call. "Two days. You got me for two days and that's it. After that, you and your Marine private are on your own, got it?"

  Dakota picked up Ricco's tags and tried to suppress a grin. "Two days. I got it."

  Montana stood, took a few steps, and then turned back and got his brother's attention. "By the way, Dakota..."

  "Yeah?"

  "Welcome home." He slipped on the Ray-Bans and, as he strolled out the door, daylight invaded the dim interior and seemed to swallow him whole.

  Dakota smiled as every woman in the place watched Montana leave. Just once in his life, he wanted to know what it felt like to have that effect on women.

  Chapter 5

  Dakota paid the bill and added a generous tip. Outside Montana was waiting for him in a shiny black Jeep Wrangler. The top was down, and his hair moved with the afternoon breeze. Behind the dark glasses and still exterior, he might appear asleep to anyone else, but Dakota was not just anyone. He had grown up with Montana the boy, and had seen the many tumultuous moods of Montana Lee Thomas the man. He knew how to deal with his brother better than any other person alive. As he approached the Jeep, he decided that was the beauty of families: you knew what it took to make them bleed. The magic was in choosing not to.

  He leaned in and checked out the spotless interior, and then gave Montana a nod. "Nice. Is it new?"

  Montana almost smiled and pointed to the odometer that read only 507 miles. "Get in. I should have some information back at my place by now."

  "Got my own ride." Dakota pointed to the far end of the parking lot where, parked at an irritating angle and taking up three spaces was his baby: a bright red, sixty-six Mustang convertible.

  Montana straightened, slid the Ray-Bans half way down his nose with one finger, and peered over the rim. "That's just obnoxious."

  "Yeah, beautiful, isn't she? Took me almost a year, but I rebuilt the engine myself. She doesn't run, she purrs." Dakota eyed the Mustang with obvious pride, and grinned. "I'll follow you. You still at the same place?"

  Montana pushed his glasses back in place. "Park in front. I'll see you in ten."

  The day was warm, so Dakota put the top down and enjoyed a slow ride through the streets of his hometown. It was like entering a time warp. Caliente never changed. The main street still housed many of the same shops as when he was a kid, slightly updated and renovated, but it was still home. It gave him a comforting feeling, that lack of change. It made him feel that no matter what else happened in his life, he could always come home, and home would always welcome him.

  As he entered Montana's apartment, he was struck, as he always was, by the distinct differences in the ways they chose to live their lives. While all Dakota required was some place to lay his head at day's end and something to fill his belly so he wouldn't starve, Montana was extremely detailed-oriented.

  His apartment was as warm and hospitable as Dakota's was cold and antiseptic. It mattered to Montana what surrounded him. It always had. He was far more sensitive than he was comfortable with. Dakota knew his brother strived for the tough-guy image. The façade worked for almost everyone but Dakota.

  The living room was subdued in soothing shades of blue ranging from light, true blue to deep indigo. The couch was deep and made of butter-soft, burgundy leather. Sumptuous blankets were draped over the back. The furniture was made of a dark, glossy mahogany wood. Original watercolors and ink drawings covered the walls, many of them Montana's own, although Dakota knew he would admit that to no one.

  Montana had spent most of his adult life in the military, in the Army Rangers. He'd planned to make it his career, until a mortar round nearly severed his leg. Dakota had never seen Montana more miserable in his life than when he was recovering, knowing the only things he'd wanted
to do with his life was beyond his reach forever.

  The private investigator thing was a compromise. It was something Montana could do and still feel like he was making the world a better place. He seemed to have struck a balance with the path his life had been forced onto. Hell, all Montana needs now is a cape.

  Dakota heard Montana down the hall in his study and launched himself over the back of the sofa, landing on his back in the soft leather just as Montana entered the room.

  "I hate it when you do that."

  He laughed and propped his shoes on the arm of the sofa. "I know."

  Montana shoved Dakota's shoes off the arm and sat down next to him. Dakota sat up, his feet hovering over the spotless coffee table. He rolled his eyes at Montana's warning look, but let his feet fall to the floor with an exaggerated thud.

  "Here." Montana handed him the papers that, as predicted, had been waiting for him.

  Dakota glanced at the report. "What exactly am I looking at?"

  "Your Marine captain was correct. There is no private by the name of Michael J. Ricco, either reported missing or listed on active duty. That, and there are no military bases located in this part of Nevada, let alone out by Beaver Dam. It's a state park, not a military facility."

  "Then what was he doing out there all alone in the middle of the night?"

  Montana stood and started back toward his office. "He wasn't alone. Someone shot him. And Michael Ricco didn't just fall out of the sky. He had to come from somewhere." Montana went to the desk and typed a request on his waiting computer.

  Dakota moved to the overstuffed chair across from the desk, sitting with one long leg dangling over the arm. "Does that mean you think I'm right, and this doesn't add up?"

  Montana sighed and gave him the look. The one when as a kid he'd said something unbelievably stupid. "All it means is that you have a misplaced person, nothing more. But..." he smiled, "That's something I can deal with. People get misplaced all the time. The only mystery is in the why."

  "Ha! I got you." Dakota pointed a victorious finger. "You can't stand a mystery any more than I can, and you can't deny this is a mystery, can you?"

  The printer saved Montana from commenting as it spit out several sheets of paper. Dakota remained quiet while Montana read the information, which seemed to take him longer than it should have. When he was finished, he looked at Dakota. "Well, I found your Michael Ricco."

  Dakota winged a brow up. "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. Only problem is, he's supposed to be dead."

  "Excuse me?" He took the papers. "What's this?"

  "Military roster. If your guy is, or ever was, in any branch of the military, he'd be listed there."

  "And his name is listed?"

  "Sort of."

  "What does 'sort of' mean?"

  "Since he wasn't listed as active, I played a hunch and asked for inactive personnel. His name's on that list."

  "Inactive? As in, retired or discharged? I thought you said he was supposed to be dead." It was obvious Montana wasn't telling him everything.

  "Well, according to that, a nineteen-year-old private by the name of Michael J. Ricco was reported missing in action in July...of 1917. He was presumed dead, and his body was never recovered."

  Dakota did a quick mental calculation. "If he was nineteen years old in 1917, that would mean he was born in 1898." He took the dog tags out of his pocket and tossed them across the desk.

  Montana snagged the tags out of the air and read the birth date embossed in the metal once more. "Okay, Dakota. Now you've got my attention."

  * * * *

  Dakota called and got directions from the ambulance dispatcher. Considering their destination, Montana's Jeep was a better choice than the Mustang. In the twenty minutes it took them to get out of town and into the desert, they passed maybe a half-dozen other motorists. The road stretched out before them like a long, black serpent shimmering in the heat. Quiet for the moment, but always with the promise of danger if pushed too far.

  They saw the bright yellow Thunderbird parked off to the side of the road a half-mile before they reached it. Montana pulled in front of it and parked. "It's Tommy Lawson's."

  They walked back and Montana put his hand on the hood. "It's hot from the sun, but the engine's cool so it's been here for a while." He touched the white handkerchief tied to one of the side-view mirrors, and then pointed to a second set of tire tracks. "Cal's been here and gone again."

  "Where's Tommy, then? If Cal found him, why is his car still here? And if Cal didn't find him, refer back to question number one: where's Tommy?" Dakota glanced at his watch. It was almost five.

  "Why don't we find out?" Montana quickly found the tracks left by the ambulance. "At least we know we're in the right place." He followed the obvious trail into the desert. From there it got easier. They'd only been walking for maybe twenty minutes when Montana stopped.

  "We got blood," Montana said. Dakota looked at the brown discolorations. If he used his imagination, he supposed it could be blood. It took the better part of an hour, but the trail led them to a small stand of pinyon pines. Montana nudged Dakota and pointed. "There's a tent just through the trees, might be the campers who called it in. Let's go check it out."

  Dakota drained the last drop of water from a bottle he had taken with him. "Good, maybe they have more water."

  "You were supposed to ration that."

  "I was thirsty now. It's not like we're lost in the trackless desert..."

  Montana only sighed as he took the lead along the narrow trail into the campsite. His cotton shirt clung to his back. It was nearly six in the evening and the temperature still hovered in the triple digits. Dakota followed close behind, grateful for the shade the pinyons offered from the brutal sun.

  Montana called out as they approached the campsite. "Hello, anyone here?" The only answer came from coyotes out for their evening hunt.

  He put a hand out, stopping Dakota, and pulled out the gun he had tucked into the waist of his jeans.

  "What is it?" Dakota tried to see what concerned him enough to bring the gun into play.

  Montana ignored him and inched forward. The tent's door was unzipped and flapped gently in the early evening breeze. He stepped to the side, flipped the tent flap up with one hand, and flicked the safety off the gun with the other as he entered. After a quick inspection, Montana lowered the gun and cautiously stepped inside.

  Dakota peered over Montana's shoulder and let out a breath on seeing nothing out of order. "See...Nothing. They're probably out hiking."

  "I don't think so." He pointed to a reddish-brown discoloration that speckled the inside of the tent wall. "That's blood."

  "Montana, what the hell's going on?"

  He ignored Dakota's question and exited the tent. He scanned the hard-packed ground around the campsite until he found what appeared to be a hastily concealed trail that led into the desert. "What do you say we find out?"

  Big fat drops of dried blood pulled them forward for about a hundred yards, but then the drops became smaller and more difficult to find in the dense brush. Montana slowed until he came to a complete stop.

  "What?" Dakota said.

  Montana ignored the question and backtracked a few feet until he found the trail again. Forty minutes later, Montana still searched the ground like a bloodhound on a scent. Dakota followed reluctantly. He was hot and still thirsty. All he could think was that every step they took, needed to be repeated on the way back to the Jeep. "Come on, man. Shouldn't we let Cal handle this?"

  "Cal's not here. We are."

  "It's gotta to be a hundred degrees out here. Ever hear of heat stroke?"

  Montana looked up from the ground and turned to face Dakota. Brilliant sunlight reflected off his sunglasses and sweat cut through the dust on his face to drip from his chin. "Tommy's footprints overlay the blood trail we've been following. He came this way"

  "Great, then we know where he went. Let's go tell Cal."

  "Dakota, there is only on
e set of footprints. He never went back."

  "He might have gone another way."

  "If you wanted to get back to the Jeep, how would you get there?"

  Dakota looked over his shoulder at the trail they had made and understood what Montana was telling him. "I'd double back the same way I came."

  Montana lifted a sweaty forearm and wiped an equally sweaty forehead. "Yeah."

  "You think Tommy's in trouble, don't you?"

  Montana turned backed to the trail in front of him without answering. His silence told Dakota a lot.

  Yeah, Tommy's in trouble.

  "We must be getting close. They're trying to cover their tracks."

  "They?"

  Montana pointed to marks in the soft desert dirt. "How many sets of footprints do you see now?"

  Dakota squatted down and looked carefully. Shading his eyes with a hand, he squinted back at Montana. "More than one."

  "A lot more."

  Montana lost the blood trail again at the top of a hidden ravine, but then picked up the path through the crushed vegetation. Dakota sat at the top of the ravine and watched him, having no desire to hike down the steep hillside, knowing he would only have to hike back up again on the way out.

  He looked up at the unrelenting sun and wished for a little cloud cover. The sky mocked him by staying annoyingly clear. He figured they had about an hour and a half of daylight left. He regretted not listening to Montana and rationing his water. He wasn't just complaining now, he was seriously thirsty. A few Turkey Vultures circled lazily high above him, their wings stretched wide and riding the thermals. Not today, boys. As Montana searched the ravine below him, Dakota gazed across the vast expanse of desert all around him. He might be more concerned if he hadn't grown up here.

  When they were kids, the desert was their playground. Dakota didn't fear this place. On the contrary despite the circumstances and his thirst, he felt comfortable here. There were no structures, only the desert. Dried river beds, known to them as washes that filled only when rain came rushing down from the mountains in flash floods.